A Japanese-language edition of the opening act of Making Cat Sense.

日本語で「猫」に会ってみる。

INTRODUCTION

I’m curious.

After finishing this novella, the Cat’s curiosity keeps pointing me toward Japan.

What would Izaakisan’s Cat sound like in Japanese? Would it work?

I am flying blind on this, since I do not speak the language — not yet, anyway.

So, as an experiment, Act One has been translated and edited with AI assistance, prompted to preserve the rhythm, humour and laconic voice of my original English - rather than translating it literally.

It has not yet been reviewed by a professional Japanese literary translator.

A test, then.

To seek feedback.

And see where the Cat goes next.

After all...

Maps have limits. Wonder is boundless.

はじめに

好奇心がある。

この物語を書き終えてからも、猫の好奇心は、なぜか私を日本へと向かわせる。

イザキサンの猫は、日本語ではどんな声で語るのだろう？
果たして、うまくいくだろうか？

私は日本語を話せないので、まったく手探りの試みだ――まだ、今のところは。

そこで実験として、第一幕をAIの支援を受けて翻訳・編集してみた。逐語的に訳すのではなく、英語原文のリズム、ユーモア、そして簡潔で飄々とした語り口をできるだけ残すよう指示している。

現時点では、プロの日本語文学翻訳者による校閲は受けていない。

だから、これはひとつのテスト。

感想を聞いてみたい。

そして、猫が次にどこへ行くのか、見てみたい。

なにしろ……

地図には限界がある。
驚異には果てがない。

第一幕

CALL THE CAT

猫を呼べ

地図にないもののアトラス — 記録17

場所は二度消える。
一度は、大地から。
もう一度は、記憶から。
二度目の消失こそ、本当の消失だ。

……

見よ。

ソンブレロのような太陽の下、レドンド・フラッツが地図にピン留めされている。

一本きりの目抜き通りは陽炎の中で揺れ、どこでもない場所へ逃げ出したがっているように見える。

まあ、だいたいそんな町だ。

通りは一本。馬も一頭いれば事足りる。

焼けつく暑さ。

一段高くなった歩道の下には濃い影が潜み、その向こうに二階建ての煉瓦と木造の店が並んでいる。

古き良き時代、そのまま。

もっとも、その「古き良き時代」とやらも、そろそろ姿を変えつつある。

レドンド・フラッツは今、どこでもない場所から、どこかへなろうとしている。

新しくできたケーキ・サージェリー・カフェ。

キャンディ・ストライプの日除けの下に、イザキサンの猫が座っている。

縞模様の毛皮と、椅子の隙間から伸びる尻尾さえ無視すれば、どこにでもいそうな中年の私立探偵だ。

リネンのスーツ。

パナマ帽。

面倒事に出会うには申し分のない格好。

もっとも、イザキサンの猫を無視するのは、本人がそう望まない限り、かなり難しい。

琥珀色のサングラス越しに通りを見る。

髭が動く。

向かいには、ガラスと鉄でできた新参者。

古いカウンティ・バンクが、現代風に生まれ変わっている。

銀行は営業中。

だが、生き物の気配がない。

IDターンスタイルの前に、一台のビジー・ボーイが三本脚の車輪で立っている。

黒く光り、無表情な重要人物を気取っている。

そいつの視線が、猫から通りの先へ移った。

猫も見る。

来た。

マリーゴールド。

歩道を踊るように、こちらへやって来る。

鼻がひくつく。

一年以上嗅いでいなかった匂いを探している。

最後に彼女が言った言葉が、意識に浮かんだ。

「あなたを手放すことはない。でも、ここにはいられない」

そして彼女は消えた。

瞬きをした、その隙にでも。

それっきりだった。

今日ここで会いたい。

今すぐ。

そんなメッセージが届くまでは。

歩くたび、巻き毛が揺れる。

縞模様のオーバーオールが身体の周りを泳ぎ、しなやかな色気を隠すどころか、猫の目にはかえって際立たせていた。

彼女は「グラニー」を引いている。

ハートのステッカーだらけの、車輪付きショッピングバッグ。

彼女らしい。

年を取れば、絶えず注目される人生からようやく解放される――そう言って、その日を楽しみにしていた。

マリーゴールドは向かいの椅子へ、ぽんと腰を落とした。

匂いは一年前とまったく同じ。

どうやら時間というやつは、ひとつふたつ、秘密を抱えていたらしい。

「来てくれてありがとう、キャット」

「会えてよかった」

「ほんとに？」

「これから分かる。何飲む？」

「何も。今日は断食」

「そうか」

猫はエスプレッソを啜る。

マリーゴールドが、顔をくしゃっとさせて笑う。

「まだ液体金属を飲んでるんだ」

「コーヒーだけは最後まで意見が合わなかったな」

彼女はオーバーオールの胸ポケットから一枚の葉書を取り出し、伏せたままテーブルに置く。

子供のような角張った字で書かれていた。

CALL THE CAT!

猫を呼べ！

「君が送った？」

「ううん」

「裏を見て」

爪が一瞬伸びる。

猫は葉書をひょいと返した。

昔のレドンド・フラッツを写したセピア色の写真。

賑わう歩道。

乾いた土の道。

馬。馬車。

そして真ん中に――

イザキサンの猫。

カメラに向かって笑い、モデルTのボンネットに片手を置いている。

腰には六連発。

「妙だな」

猫は写真を見る。

「撮られた覚えがない」

「まだある。その次の日、弁護士から手紙が来たの。遺産相続について。荷物をUSPSで送るって」

「誰が死んだ？」

「そこなの」

「何が？」

「誰も死んでない。少なくとも、私の知ってる人は」

「弁護士には？」

「電話した。出ない」

「手紙は？」

「写真がある。送るね」

スマートフォンを取り出す。

器用な親指が飛ぶ。

猫のポケットが震えた。

「荷物は？」

「来た」

彼女の声が少し変わる。

「怖くなった。それであなたに連絡したの。本当に助けてほしいって思った。あの葉書の言う通りだった」

「中身は？」

「グラニーの中。見せる」

マリーゴールドはバッグを引き寄せ、蓋を開けた。

茶色い紙。

紐。

厳重に包まれた何か。

猫は一瞥する。

「ここじゃない」

彼女を見る。

「他人の目がないところへ行こう。今どこに住んでる？」

マリーゴールドは蓋を閉じる。

「町外れのヒーリング・センター。リトリートが終わったばかり。そこならいい」

二人は立ち上がった。

向かいの銀行で、ビジー・ボーイがじっと見ていた。

TRIPPING

トリッピング

地図にないもののアトラス — 記録1

すべての答えが揃ったあとに残るもの。
それが謎だ。

ハーヴィーズ・ハードウェアの前に停めた猫のコンバーチブルまで歩く。

二人は乗り込んだ。

グラニーは後部座席へ。

町外れまで走り、マリーゴールドのピックアップを見つける。

そこからは彼女が先導した。

砂漠へ。

曲がりくねった未舗装路を抜けていく。

やがて、白く輝く巨大なジオデシック・ドームが姿を現した。

近づくにつれ、その周囲を同じ形の小さなドームが取り囲んでいるのが見える。

星座のようだった。

二台を並べて停める。

マリーゴールドはグラニーを引っ張り出した。

大きなドームへ猫を案内する。

ステンドグラスを抜けた陽光が、柔らかな家具と絨毯に満たされたモダニズム空間へ流れ込んでいる。

中央には、大きな青銅の仏像。

マリーゴールドは広い空間を横切り、オープンキッチンへ。

冷蔵庫からレモネードのピッチャーを取り出し、二つのグラスに注ぐ。

猫が一口。

「たいした場所だな。ここに住んでる？」

彼女は両腕を大きく広げる。

笑いながら猫のそばまで跳ねてきて、頬にキスした。

「私は衛星のひとつ。あとで見せてあげる。ここがグループワークをするメインセンター。それからヘンリーが住んでる」

猫は一歩退く。

「ヘンリー？」

マリーゴールドは踊るように離れ、仏像の前にあぐらをかいた。

「そう。ヘンリーがブフォを吸ったあとに設計したの。知ってるでしょ？　ソノラ砂漠のヒキガエルの毒。ヴィジョン・クエストで見たものを、そのまま形にしたの」

猫は周囲を見回す。

「建築に詳しいヒキガエルだったんだな」

「女神が哀れな人間にくれた贈り物のひとつよ。今終わったリトリートでは別のものを使った。アヤワスカの儀式。ヘンリーは才能のあるシャーマンで、スピリチュアル・ガイドなの」

イザキサンの猫はドームの巨大な内部を見上げる。

曲面に沿って上階のギャラリーへ続く階段。

その奥にちらりと見える扉。

精緻な彫刻を施した木枠には、巨大な真鍮の銅鑼。

「シャーマン教会の運営を手伝ってるのか、マリーゴールド？　給料がいいことを祈るよ」

彼女は笑った。

「相変わらず皮肉屋ね」

猫はぶらぶら歩きながら、クッションの間に並ぶ水晶のシンギングボウル、その一番大きなものに爪を滑らせる。

低く深い音が生まれる。

倍音がドームを巡り、ここにいるのが二人だけだという事実を妙に際立たせた。

「違う。俺はただ、猫なんだよ。ヘンリーは？」

マリーゴールドは肩を上げ、大げさに落とす。

「ラスベガス。奥さんと子供たちに会いに行ってる。今ここには誰もいない」

猫を見る。

「あなたと私だけ」

猫は彼女の近くへ。

心配そうに見下ろす。

「女ひとりでいるには、ちょっと辺鄙すぎないか？　こんな砂漠のカルト牧場で」

まただ。

自分の中で、昔からの本能が起き上がる。

彼女を守ろうとする本能。

もっとも、彼女を守りたがる奴はいつだって他にもいる。

マリーゴールドが笑う目で見上げる。

「大丈夫。エスカレノ兄弟が警備してる。向こうのトレーラーに住んでるの。ヘンリーは二人を信頼してる」

「ふうん」

彼女は立ち上がり、猫の前脚を軽く握る。

それからグラニーを取りに戻り、猫のところまで転がしてくる。

包みを出す。

小さなテーブルに置く。

膝をつき、紐をほどき始めた。

「もう開けたんだろ？」

手が止まる。

猫を見上げる。

あの目。

額に皺が寄り、そばかすが踊る。

「ちょっとだけ覗いた。怖くなった。目があるの」

「目？」

「見れば分かる」

猫の耳が立つ。

背中の毛が逆立った。

振り向く。

開け放したままの、重いスペイン風の両開き扉。

「グラニーに戻せ。早く。誰か来る」

入口を男が塞いだ。

Tシャツの中に冷蔵庫を何台も積み上げたような身体。

明らかに鉄を持ち上げるのが趣味。

だが腹も巨大。

堂々たる三百ポンド。

砂漠用コンバットブーツ。

チノパン。

薄汚れたTシャツ。

撫でつけた髪。

そして、ポンプ式ショットガン。

銃口はまっすぐ猫を向いている。

マリーゴールドが二人の間へ飛び込んだ。

「大丈夫よ、ラミレス。昔からの友達なの」

ラミレスが金歯を見せる。

ショットガンは下ろさない。

「ボスは、こいつが来てるって知ってんのか？」

「知らない。町で偶然会っただけ」

「レドンド・フラッツへ行ったのか？」

「ええ。行きたければ行っていいってヘンリーが言ったから」

「そうかよ？」

もう一人が入ってきた。

こちらは背が高い。

細身。

鍛え上げられている。

猫は兄だと感じた。

表情も滑らか。

Tシャツも清潔。

たぶん、こっちが一家の頭脳だ。

ショットガンはない。

代わりに腰のチノパンからオートマチックを抜く。

「外のコンバーチブル、お前のか、アミーゴ？」

猫は真珠色の牙を見せる。

だがマリーゴールドが先に口を開いた。

「ラモーン、今説明してたところ。キャットは友達なの。レドンドで偶然会って、寺院に興味があるかもしれないと思って連れてきたの」

ラモーンは笑わない。

「だったらボスがいるときに出直せ。そろそろバモスだ、アミーゴ。その年代物に乗って帰って、アポでも取るんだな」

猫は二人を穏やかに見る。

「もちろん。ただその前に、マリーゴールドとの話と、このレモネードを終わらせたい」

グラスを持ち上げる。

氷が鳴った。

兄弟は目を細める。

ラモーンが拳銃で合図する。

「いいだろう。一時間だ。見張ってる」

二人が背を向ける。

太ったほうが肩越しに叫んだ。

「あと、ヤるなよ！」

猫はマリーゴールドを見る。

「何なんだよ。ここで囚われてるのか？」

「馬鹿言わないで」

「どう見ても、ろくな状況じゃない」

「兄弟があなたを気に入らなかっただけ。そういうこと、昔からあったじゃない」

「荷物はどうする？　そのために俺をここまで呼んだんだろ？」

「持っていって。お願い、キャット」

「一緒に来い」

マリーゴールドは両腕を広げる。

ドームそのものを抱くように。

「無理。ここを任されてるから。でもヘンリーが戻ったら、母のところへ行くつもり。来週。母もいつも言ってたでしょう。あなたなら私を守ってくれるって。覚えてる？」

一拍。

「向こうに電話して。まだ番号持ってる？」

「もちろん」

マリーゴールドは猫を強く抱きしめ、約束させた。

猫はグラニーを車まで引いていく。

荷物を取り出し、慎重にトランクへ。

そしてハイウェイへ向かった。

「好奇心は猫を殺す」という。

あれを聞くと、いつも笑ってしまう。

ドームが見えなくなったところで路肩に寄せる。

トランクを開ける。

包みを持ち上げる。

重い。

紐を外す。

茶色い包装紙。

その下には、何重もの気泡緩衝材。

さらに剥がす。

汚れた麻布の包帯に巻かれた何かが現れた。

猫の感覚が一斉に立ち上がる。

古い。

途方もなく古い匂い。

その奥に、もっと名づけ難いもの。

曖昧な――知っている、という感覚。

包帯を解いていく。

最初に現れたのは、ぴんと立った黒い耳だった。

認識が走る。

爪が出る。

残った布を一気に引き裂く。

猫は、シャーッと息を吐いた。

「……ったく。ふざけんなよ」

滑らかな黒い石で作られた、猫の像。

座っている。

警戒している。

スフィンクスを思わせる姿。

首には、どういう方法なのか石そのものへ埋め込まれた重い黄金の首飾り。

中央にはスカラベ。

猫の胸元。

暗い黄色の石から彫り出され、妙に鮮烈な光を宿している。

そして、確かに――

目がある。

緑の宝石。

彫刻家の技なのか。

それとも別の何かなのか。

不穏なほど、生きている。

猫は像を見る。

考える。

いや――感じている。

もう一度布で包み、長い帰路で転がらないようトランクに固定した。

コンバーチブルは再びハイウェイへ。

マリーナの船まで四時間。

猫は今日一日を頭の中で転がし続ける。

日が沈む。

ヘッドライトが夜を切り裂く。

そのとき、頭の中に声がした。

記憶のような声。

だが、自分の記憶ではない。

誰か別のものの。

「地図を完成させるな。」

MOONLIGHT MARINA

月光のマリーナ

地図にないもののアトラス — 記録23

あらゆるものは、多様で不可思議な方法で繋がっている。
何かが何かを思い起こさせるたび、そこから兆しが手招きする。
別の何かを指し示さないものなど、この世にはない。

マリーナ。

家まであと少しというところで、猫はスプリット・ココナッツへ車を入れた。

トランクの中身から、髭一本ぶんも注意を逸らしたくない。

妙な責任感が芽生えている。

駐車場には降ったばかりの雨の匂い。

濡れた舗装に、ネオンと月光。

ドアを抜け、ボヘミアンな熱気の中へ。

予想どおり混んでいた。

バーに一席ねじ込み、店内を見渡す。

使えそうな誰かはいないか。

「何飲む、デュード？」

声のほうを見る。

バーテンダーがニヤニヤしている。

痩せた亡霊。

赤く縁取られた目。

剃り上げた頭。

立派な髭。

バティックのベストから、びっしり刺青された腕が伸びている。

錦鯉。

前に一度、ソウルにいる日本人の名人に彫ってもらったと言っていた。

「よう、スリム。ホワイト・ルシアン。クリーム多め」

「了解。猫はゴロゴロ言わなきゃな」

スリムはグラスを氷の入ったシンクへ叩き込み、ウォッカを二ショット。

ティア・マリアを一杯。

最後にスプーンの背を使い、濃厚なダブルクリームを静かに流し込んで層を作る。

猫は冷たいグラスを受け取る。

一口。

「ありがと。これが必要だった」

「大変な一日？」

「面白かった、と言っておこう」

もう一口。

「頼みがある。ゴミ袋を一枚くれ」

「は？」

スリムが眉を上げる。

「まあ、いいけど」

カウンターの下へ消え、折り畳んだ黒いビニール袋を握って戻ってきた。

「ほんと変な猫だよな、あんた」

「必要なら仕方ない、スリム。理由を問うな」

ゆっくり飲みながら、猫はスプリット・ココナッツを見回す。

小さなテーブルを埋める洒落た客たち。

天井からは、拾い物や記念品が好き勝手にぶら下がっている。

プラスチックのココナッツ型ランプの間に、一組のボンゴ。

カルロスを思い出した。

天才的なパーカッショニスト。

平和と愛について即興詩を朗読し、その場でリズムを刻んでいた。

ある夜、その朗読のあと、駐車場で射殺された。

犯人を見つけるまで、猫には六か月かかった。

コカインを売っていたベルギー人のファシスト二人組。

だが、すべてが終わるまでに本当の動機を突き止めることはできなかった。

記憶が、今の事件へ猫を引き戻す。

スリムを呼ぶ。

「なあ。エスメレルダがいないな。最近来た？」

「ここ数日は見てない。探してたって言っとく？」

「頼む。じゃあな」

車へ戻る。

マリーナへ。

制限速度を守りながら、ゆっくり流す。

こういうとき、古いコンバーチブルは悪くない。

昔は腕と観察力のあるドライバーなら、この街を馬鹿みたいな速度で走っても切符を切られずに済んだ。

今は目が多すぎる。

妙な時代だ。

車を停める。

自分の桟橋まではまだかなり歩く。

トランクを開け、布の包みを慎重に黒いゴミ袋へ滑り込ませる。

口を縛る。

船へ向かう。

水上に浮かぶ巨大な富の群れを通り過ぎる。

大陸的なデザインを誇る、正気とは思えない豪華ヨット。

ところどころには、あり得ないことにヘリコプターまで載っている。

見るたび猫は顔をしかめる。

さらに先へ。

ベイスンAの外れ。

バローナ・クリークの工業地帯側。

大富豪たちの船を抜けても、まだそれなりに裕福な区域が続く。

真っ白なグラスファイバーの船体。

磨き上げられたステンレス。

その中に、ジョーイとビリーのカタマランが停泊している。

二人はデッキチェアに寝そべり、カクテルを飲みながら月光浴。

少し酔ったビリーが叫ぶ。

「よう、キャット！　何持ってんだ？」

猫は二人を見る。

お揃いのピンクのショートパンツ。

花柄シャツ。

光る目。

歯を見せる。

ジョーイも口を挟む。

「ゴミ入れりゃ、ゴミが出るってな」

猫の頭の中を罵詈雑言が滝のように流れる。

表向きは愛想よく手を振る。

「俺のぶんまで飲んどけ、坊やたち」

二人はグラスを合わせて笑った。

猫は歩き続ける。

港の水が変わっていく。

きれいな水から、油膜を浮かべた黒っぽい水へ。

漏れたディーゼルが虹色の膜を作り、プラスチックごみが漂い、濃緑の海藻が桟橋へゆっくりぶつかっている。

猫の船。

《ナイン・ライヴズ》号。

ゆっくり揺れている。

元マグロ漁船。

錆の筋が走る深いV字型の船体。

商業漁業の遺物。

自分には完全には属せない遊び場の、その端にいる。

操舵室は高く、船首寄り。

昔のままの分厚い長方形の窓。

その上には骨組みだけのようなクロウズ・ネスト。

遠い水平線を見張るにはちょうどいい。

今では最新式の船舶レーダーがそこを住処にしている。

猫は船尾甲板へ上がった。

今は屋外の居間。

チーク材の折り畳み椅子。

バンジーコードで固定された炭火バーベキュー。

船尾には、太い円筒形の木柱がしっかり固定されている。

三本の木製の腕。

一本の曲がった脚。

全体に深い爪痕。

猫は前へ進み、キャビンのハッチを開ける。

重厚なダグラスファーの羽目板。

片側にギャレー。

反対側には柔らかなバンケットシート。

荷物を置く。

パーコレーターを火にかける。

コーヒーの香りが、この船に染みついた、決して消えない個性へ混じっていく。

古いディーゼル。

亜麻仁油。

潮を吸ったキャンバス。

年老いた木。

そして――

純粋な猫の匂い。

スマートフォンを見る。

マリーゴールドからは何もない。

送られてきた手紙を確認する。

ユージーン・プレンダース。

オリンピック＝センチュリー・パビリオン、201号室。

ウェスト・オリンピック・ブールバード9011。

「よし。明日の朝は、こいつだ」

帽子をフックへ。

服を脱ぎ、きちんと畳んでバンケットへ置く。

船体を撫でる水音を聞きながら舷窓を開ける。

外の空気を吸う。

閉じる。

ラジオをつける。

ジャズ。

コーヒーを片手に黒い袋を持ち、かつてのマグロ用船倉へ降りる。

今では巨大なリビングルーム兼、地下の寝室。

壁一面の本棚。

荒海でも本が飛び出さないよう、ぎっしり詰め込まれている。

ところどころに重い真鍮の舷窓。

甲板に切られた天窓からも光が落ちる。

黒い袋をダイニングテーブルへ置く。

漂流木の分厚い一枚板。

海が荒れても動かないよう、鋼鉄へ直接ボルト留めされている。

コーヒーをぐっと飲む。

二度目の開封。

慎重に、また包帯をほどいていく。

黒い像が月光の中で艶めく。

護符は黄色い炎のように輝く。

あの目。

まっすぐこちらを見ている。

警戒している。

巻尺を探す。

測る。

17.895インチ。

「まともな数字じゃないな」

本棚から革張りのノートを取り出す。

使い込まれ、表紙は滑らかになっている。

開く。

書く。

マリーゴールド――あり得ない。いつものこと。

絵葉書の写真――あり得ない。

遺産相続――あり得ない。

猫の像――あり得ない。

統計的に見れば、これだけ苛立たしい「あり得ない」が積み重なると、何かを意味している。

部屋の端のベッドへ腰を下ろす。

像の目が、面白がっているように見える。

「何がそんなに嬉しい？」

自分で笑う。

もう話しかけている。

待て。

彼女？

そうだ。

理由は分からない。

だが、この像は雌だ。

そう感じる。

突然、猛烈な眠気が来る。

猫はベッドで身体を丸め、深い眠りへ落ちた。

夜明け直前。

途方もなく切迫した衝動に叩き起こされる。

冷蔵庫へ行け。

ダブルクリームを持ってこい。

まだ半分眠ったまま立ち上がり、ギャレーへ続く階段を上る。

冷蔵庫を開ける。

クリームのカートンを手に取る。

そこでようやく目が覚めた。

「何なんだよ。夢でも見てたのか？」

頭を振る。

下にいる彼女を思う。

笑う。

小皿を一枚。

クリームを注ぐ。

船倉へ降りる。

像の前に置く。

「これが欲しかった？」

一度だけ彼女を見る。

そしてベッドへ戻る。

身体を丸める。

今度は満ち足りた眠りへ。

FADE TO BLACK

Making Cat Sense is a serialized metaphysical California noir in which an anthropomorphic cat detective keeps an Atlas of Things Off the Map while investigating mysteries that official reality has forgotten.

Original Novella in English here:

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

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ACT - 9 - FINALE

MUMMY MUTTERS

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 12:

Maps have a lot of explaining to do. Meanwhile mystery beckons.

The itch arrived as a text message.

‘I am waiting for you Mr Cat. I need your help.”’

Cat scratched and drove over to the Spanish Colonial pile of the Historical Re-enactment Society.

Walking through the arched entrance, past the fountain with its nymph pouring water from her vase, he arrives at the front door.

Up close they are bronze and formidable. Not really in the style of the house, more like something Roman or Renaissance.

There is no bell-push or knocker. Instead a hanging metal plunger. He pulls it, but does not hear any bell, so he gives it another tug - again nothing to hear.

The door opens. A large man in a quaint outfit, winged collar, tail coat suit.

“You are expected Sir.

Mr Samovar is in the library.”

He escorts Cat across the lobby to a pair of doors which he slides open.

Cat finds Henry sitting in an overstuffed leather armchair wearing a velvet smoking jacket and a smug expression.

Henry stands and extends a hand.

“Mr Cat - good of you to attend. Would you join me in a glass of sherry?”

Cat ignores the handshake and the offer. He looks around the room.

A high ceiling with exposed rough-hewn timbers, hand-trowelled plaster walls in bone-white, distant landscape oil paintings of romantic exotic themes.

Underfoot, hexagonal tiles, terracotta red, waxed, partially covered by a large Persian rug.

Heavy, low-slung credenzas. High-backed chairs carved from rich wood arrayed around the limestone fireplace. Looking like a meeting recently vacated. Charred wood remnants in the vast fire basket.

Cat glances across at the tall, iron-framed French doors, whose view is mostly obscured by heavy drapes.

And there. In the middle of the room. Bastet. Perched on the Chippendale table. Her green eyes strangely dull.

Returning his attention to Henry he notes the monogrammed leather slippers the guy is wearing.

“You said you need help Henry.”

Pouring rich amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a fine stemmed glass.

“Indeed. Are you sure you won’t have a taste of this very fine Manzanilla?”

“You said you had made a mistake.”

“Ah yes. Please sit and I will expound.”

Cat remains standing. Alert. Something smells off-key.

“You don’t look very concerned Henry.”

Henry holds his glass up to the light, gazing at the color, then sipping.

“Not now that you are here Mr Cat.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Ah, you are the remedy Cat. My mistake was ever letting you go.”

“What?”

“Recall your visit to the Redondo Bank? You could see through my vision - could see the connections - all those lines of energetic information. Somehow you are clairvoyant yet immune. We need to understand how.”

“Yeah? I think that is my exit line.”

Henry smiles and walks to a long silk rope hanging beside the fireplace and gives it three tugs.

“I thought I could draw you in to join the Domers. That the enticing Marigold might suffice.”

The sliding doors open and in walk four footmen. Tail coat outfits. Wing collars. Black ties. Crewcuts. Each holding an assault rifle. They stand in a row.

“Calling in the narcos?”

“A misrepresentation. They are the future of the crowd. The obedient ordinary.”

“What do you want with me?”

“In the early days of this society they held gatherings where they would essentially perform an autopsy on an ancient Egyptian mummy.

We shall do the same with you and discover what it is that makes you tick.”

“The fuck you will.”

“I can understand your distress of course. It will be quite painless. You will not survive in your present form, but have no fear, you will be uploaded into the Redondo Reserve. An immortal entity.”

“A fucking Ai stand-in you mean.”

“Not at all. You misunderstand. The bank’s basement is a super-cooled quantum marvel. We will replicate you - all eighty-six billion neurons able to think beyond where you are now.”

“You are insane.”

“Don’t insult me Cat. I am not delusional. This is a long project. Deep and ancient.”

“Ancient Egyptian bullshit?”

“They were part of it. Not all. Their concept of mummification was a kind of gene bank.

It wasn’t about preserving the dead.

It was about preserving information.”

“Jeez Henry.”

“It is a long project - centuries old. We connect with the nether worlds. Our guidance comes from the Nine.”

“Ouija Board thing?”

“I’m pleased that you retain your sense of humour - well suffice to inform that we hold seances, we connect with the Nephilim.

Every civilisation thinks it invented immortality.

We are rediscovering it.”

“A fever dream Henry. The oldest hobby of rich men.”

“An ideal pursuit, and it works.

We got a message to Call the Cat. On several occasions.”

Cat glances at Bastet.

Said nothing.

Henry followed his gaze.

“Yes, I thought it was all about Bastet - but then it became clear - the message was about you.”

Cat paced to the French Doors. Locked. Another guard outside, looking in at him.

He turns, Henry in his smoking jacket and a whole line of servants behind him in front of the room’s doors.

Cat in a trap.

Izaakistan’s Cat slowly walk back toward Henry.

Relaxed, not threatening.

He will get close enough to take him out before the gunfire can stop him.

Henry watches him with something close to amusement.

Then - freezes - his eyes rolling up into his head. Cat finds himself looking at a Henry who has white eyeballs.

Henry clutches his head in both hands and falls to his knees.

The servant heavies drop their weapons, clattering on the tiles, grabbing at their throats above the wing collars.

Staggering around.

Bumping into each other.

A voice in Cat’s mind sprang at him.

“Run kitty. Run.”

Cat does just that - straight past the sliding doors, across the vaulted lobby toward the front door.

It is open but he has to step over the butler, lying there across the threshold, bleeding from his nose.

The convertible burns rubber to get away - Cat’s heart pumping until enough presence of mind slows him down.

No getting pulled over. Not today.

The fuel gauge catches his eye. Let’s do something really ordinary.

He pulls into a gas station. Stands and breathes. Filling the tank until the pump switches off.

Walking past the other pumps, cars and a large van, its driver exiting in front of him - shooting a hostile glance - and hustling to get inside first - beat him to the checkout queue.

Cat looks at the guy’s back. Tall. He turns to glare at Cat again.

Looking for trouble? You have no idea pal. But I’m not your mark today.

The guy gets his turn, pays and leaves, doing his best to barge into Cat on his way past — Cat does a last second shoulder switch and blends past to get to the counter.

The cashier - a short and pleasant woman with flamboyant earrings, totals his pump.

Cat’s eyes settle on the candy display candy display.

Something he almost never does - picks up a Hershey bar and adds it to the bill.

He unwraps it on his way back to the car, and eats chocolate before driving away.

At the Split Coconut he asks Slim to pour him a bourbon and to keep pouring until he tells him otherwise.

“You OK man? You’re fizzing.”

Cat gets onto a bar stool, puts an elbow on the counter, leans in.

“Give me a moment Slim.”

“How about I give you some news.”

“I’m not in the mood Slim, really.”

Slim puts a shot glass in front of Cat. Fills it to the brim.

“It’s about Redondo Flats. You’ll want to see this man.”

“Maybe later. Just let me drink.”

“Na man, this just happened.”

Slim pulls out a tablet from under the bar, puts it in front of Cat and fires it up.

“One of my favourite sites. This isn’t on the mainstream outlets - not yet anyway.”

He hits a couple of links and a video opens up.

“This is Channel Zero news reporting from Redondo Flats where a massive explosion has destroyed the Reserve Bank.”

The camera pans main street. There is a hole in the ground where the bank should be.

Firefighters dousing flames. Damaged cars. Glass. Twisted metal. Broken Busy Boys.

Sheriff Barnaby walking toward camera.

“Sheriff - what happened here?”

“The town is shocked. All of our power is out. We are just beginning to investigate.”

“Our station got a call. Claiming responsibility. An organisation called the Redondo Rebels, saying they planted a thermite device.”

“I can’t speak to that. Never heard of them. Could be a crank call. Could be a gas leak. Talk to me in a week.”

Slim closes the link. Puts the tablet away.

“Really something eh Cat? But you weren’t out there?”

“No Slim. Nothing to do with me. Bit of a shocker.”

Cat slams his bourbon. Slim refills his glass.

“Give me your car keys man. You’re gonna need a cab home if you keep this up.”

Esmerelda sidles up and takes the stool next to Cat, puts an arm around him and gives him a squeeze.

“Don’t worry Slim, I can drive him if he is really going to get drunk.”

She’s wearing another turban Purple satin with hanging pearls that dance as she moves. Also a sari in matching hues.

“Hi Esme, you want a drink?”

“Let’s switch to milk Cat. You’re old favourite.”

“Hmmm. Maybe. You gonna give me a reading?”

“I don’t think I need to sweetie. You are just taking life too seriously.”

“It’s all turned sci-fi. Ask Slim.”

Esmerelda winks at Slim, then stops Cat’s arm as he is raising his bourbon.

“How about making it fun again. Remember how that feels?”

Slim pours two tumblers of milk and slides them across the bar.

“I do conspiritainment for fun man.”

Esmerelda picks up her glass.

“And how is that going for you Slim?”

Slim throws a happy grin.

“Keeps me entertained and paranoid. Kinda sweet and sour.”

“Or it’s just the weed thinking?

C’mon Cat. Let’s look into my crystal ball.”

“Don’t tease me. I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s time you let a new woman into your life Cat.

Marigold is long gone.”

“I still think I have unfinished business.”

“Seriously? With her?”

“No. Not directly. I know she is safely out of harm’s way on a new adventure.”

“And what about you?”

“Something about Redondo Flats is still bugging me. I’m gonna have to go back out there.”

“And then what?”

“I’m planning to take a vacation.”

“Wonderful.”

REDONDO REBELS

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 702:

Maps hold memory of paths explored. They hint of ancient maps forgotten.

Izaakistan’s Cat sits opposite the Sheriff, who has a hurricane lamp on his desk and a flask of coffee.

“Power is still out. The Cona is out. Amelia had to make the coffee at home on her gas stove.”

“Does it taste better?”

“Funny. Yeah. Here, have a cup.”

“Paul around?”

“Nope - he’s out in the desert, on patrol.”

“Good man your deputy.”

“Sure is. My right arm.”

“What did he do before he joined you here?”

“Why you asking Cat? What you doing back here anyways?”

“Just wondering.”

“Keep talking.”

“Paul was in the services?”

“He served his country. Still does, just local now.”

“Was it all an accident? That’s a big hole out there.”

“You know, I kinda like you Cat. Be a shame if that were to change and I had to run you out of town.”

“Sheriff, I’m just curious. I’ve become quite attached to this place.”

“Well fine. Let’s head out to the Mirage Diner. They got their own generator. You can buy me breakfast.”

“Sure. Your vehicle or mine?”

“Well I figure I ain’t had a ride in that sled of yours yet.”

“Let’s go.”

So they did.

The Sheriff yea-hawed three times on route, waving his Stetson each time at people they passed.

“You’re in a good mood Barney.”

“Sure, its a new day and you always gotta be grateful.

And I love this convertible. It feels like freedom.”

“Wanna see what she can do?”

“Sure.”

“You won’t give me a ticket?”

“This is a clear stretch.”

Cat floored it. They hit one-twenty before having to slow for the Mirage.

“Damn that was good. Don’t do it again though.”

Inside the diner they found Deputy Paul Running-Cloud sitting in a booth. They join him.

“You again.”

Cat smiles.

“Likewise.”

Paul laughs.

Cat looks from the Sheriff and back to Paul again.

“You all seem in good humour considering you just lost the town’s biggest business.”

The Sheriff waves Maria over.

“Paul - you eaten yet.”

“Just coffee.”

A smiling Maria arrives, coffee pot in hand and mugs for Sheriff and Cat. She placed them. Fills them. Tops up Paul.

“Guess I won’t have to worry about selling up anymore eh Barney?”

“Likely not Maria. Likely not. Let’s have three specials honey.”

“Coming right up.”

Cat watches her waltz back to the kitchen.

“What’s happening around here?”

Paul looks at Barney.

“The water is returning to the desert.”

Barney gets busy with cream and sugar. Cat sips coffee.

“These Redondo Rebels - they for real?”

Barney places his stetson carefully on the seat beside him.

“Gaslighting nutcase called that news channel is my thinking. We figure all that tech in there blew the big fuse.”

“Uh-huh. Pretty massive explosion by the look of it. A miracle it didn’t take out other buildings as well.”

“Lucky I guess. You planning to stay here long? Maybe move to Redondo Flats?”

“I’m kinda attached to my boat.”

“Pity. Reckon you’d look pretty good in a deputy’s uniform. Don’t you think Paul?

Paul almost smiles. Cat laughs, turns to him.

“Say Paul, I heard you was in the Navy?”

“Hell no. I was a Ranger.”

Barney shoots his deputy a look. Cat notices, turns again to Paul beside him.

“So you would know all about thermite?”

Paul scoffs.

“A conspiracy favourite. It’s an incendiary. Couldn’t create a blast like that - maybe the icing on top.”

The food arrives. Scrambled eggs, bacon, link sausage, toast and muffins.

Maria lays out the plates. She had heard them talking.

“Someone said it was a directed energy weapon. You know, from space orbit.”

She giggles and sashays away.

Barney passes the syrup.

“Don’t talk. Eat.”

………

AI-LU KISSY

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 900

Maps have limits. Wonder is boundless.

Slim is doing a lively trade in the latest of his t-shirts. He is wearing one. Black with white block lettering.

‘WE USED TO BELIEVE..’

Laughing, he plays with the next customer, does a spin to show the back.

‘BUT NOW WE KNOW!’

“Hey Slim, when you are through with the clothes, make mine a coffee.”

“Sure Cat. Take a t-shirt? 2XL right?”

“O.K. Slim - put it on my tab.”

Slim went to the old Gaggia.

More people coming through the doors out of the mist making a crowd at the bar.

Band players arrived and begin setting up on the stage. Cat watches as they unpack guitars and two keyboards.

The saxophonist sets-up.

Percussion comes banging in carrying and sweating. Looks like the drummer and a roadie.

Cat retreats with his coffee to a corner table away from them.

That’s when he saw her. Sitting on a bar-stool at the far end of the bar, close to the kitchen door.

Curvy in tight denim and v-necked top. Brown loafers. Her long black hair piled high into a pleat. Held by silver pins.

She looks at Cat. Dark glasses definitely pointed in his direction. They have red acrylic frames with upswept corners and tiny inset jewels.

All of Cat’s antenna go wang.

His view is interrupted by another knot of newcomers.

Maurice leading them in, Cherie at his side.

He waves to Slim, who starts taking bottles of pink champagne out of the refrigerator and handing them over.

Maurice and Cherie place them on table all around the room, working their way toward Cat.

“Mon ami!”

Cat marvels at Maurice’s outfit. A red velvet frock coat with gold embroidery. Breeches. Riding boots. A blue velvet sash across his chest. The whole ensemble some kind of riff on Napoleon. That’s Cat’s thought.

“Maurice - surprised to see you in this part of the world.”

“I should award you the Légion d’honneur Monsieur Cat.”

Cherie grins at Cat.

“He loves a party.”

“Mai qui, pour vous.”

Somehow, Maurice manages to look slightly less ridiculous when he stands on a chair, Champagne bottle in hand.

“le silence.

Le silence s’il vous plaît.

Faites sauter les bouchons - let the corks fly - let’s party!”

Champagne corks pop. Fizz is pouring. People laughing. The band starts up.

Maurice gets down off his throne. He and Cherie mingle.

She is right next to him. Looking down.

“I’m Izaakisan’s Cat.”

“I know.”

“Cool. Glass of champagne?”

“He pours. She sits.”

“I want to know something.”

“Ok. Shoot.”

“If I give you my number, will you call me?”

“For sure.”

She takes a pen from a back pocket and writes her number on a napkin.

Cat dials it immediately. She answers as she sits in front of him.

“My name is Ailorus. My friends call me Ai-Lu”

“Ai-Lu. Cute.”

She smiles red lipstick lips. Pearly teeth.

Cat says the first thing that comes into his head.

“I have a boat.”

“I know.”

“Would you like to go to sea with me?”

“I was waiting for you to ask.”

She takes off her sunglasses.

Her eyes are green.

FADE TO BLACK

Thank you for being with Izaakisan’s Cat on this journey.

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ACT 8

WEATHER VANE

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 4:

Maps are cartoons of reality. The journey is looking for the humour of the situation.

The case is over but there’s a room in the back of his mind that has a single swinging light bulb, bare and buzzing. The door is closed but he can hear that sound. Buzz, buzzing. Annoy, annoying.

Izaakistan’s Cat is working out on deck, hitting the training post hard. Sweating. Swerving. Blocking. Striking.

Head buzz, buzzing.

He is climbing the stairs up to that room, and yes goddamit, the door is slightly ajar, spilling light onto the landing, beckoning understanding.

Cat finishes with a couple of kicks and hits the shower. Wash away. Wash away thoughts bugging in the mansion of memory.

Feeling fresh with coffee. What is the time in India? Just after nine at night. He calls. She answers.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day Cat.”

“Hey Marigold. How are you? What’re you doing in Goa?”

“Oh, it’s lovely here. I’ve got myself a gig teaching yoga at a beautiful centre that is so spiritual.”

“What happened at the Domes? I thought you were all set there.”

“It all went a bit weird. People started saying horrible things about me. It all just turned.”

“Henry?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve moved on.”

“Can always trust you to be yourself Marigold. It’s a gift. What’s the plan?”

“I might open my own healing centre here.”

“So, you’re safe?’

“Of course. The universe will always provide.”

“Good. Just thought I would check in. Take care of yourself.”

“And you Cat. Love you so much.”

Cat looked at his phone. Slipped it into a pocket and headed out, walking to the nice part of the marina, hailed a cab and rode out to East Hollywood.

The cabby dropped him on a cracked asphalt corner outside the roller shutter of an old warehouse.

“You sure you want me to drop you here pal?”

“Yeah, thanks. Keep the change.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day.”

Gregory the Greek’s is the only place Cat trusts with his convertible. The guy is an artist.

Cat steps through into an atmosphere that carries the heavy mix of gasoline, antifreeze, stale coffee, and motor oil.

Rows of battered toolboxes, covered in faded Dodgers stickers and grease-smudged pin-up calendars line the walls.

Every surface a story of survival, the deep grooves in the wooden workbenches, the oil stains on the concrete floor. Looking remarkably like a map of the L.A. basin.

Half a dozen guys working on a bunch of vehicles to the sound of V8 engines and heavy rock radio.

Cat threads his way through to find Greg on the wall-phone in the lean-to office, adding to the scrawling annotations on a wall-calendar with an indelible blue pencil.

He holds up an oily finger to Cat as he finishes the call and hangs the phone.

“Hey Cat - she is all ready for you.”

“Yeah, your son made it sound kinda expensive when I called.”

“Maybe - but she is perfect again — and there is more.

Retuned that Godzilla engine we dropped in a couple of years back. Making near six hundred horses now on the dyno.”

“You love to play Greg. She already pulls like a train.”

“You’ll love this. We clocked too much wear on the tyres. Gave you a new set. Come see.”

They walk out into the shop. The roller shutter is now raised and Cat’s convertible is perched to exit.

Cat purrs. Greg chuckles.

“Whitewalls. Not easy to find in that size - but I’ve always thought you both deserved a set. And there is a matching spare in the trunk.”

“Looks amazing Greg.”

Cat runs his hand down the wing. The bullet hole perfectly disappeared. The whole vehicle valeted. Sparkling. Sitting with a proud whitewall smile.

“Such a great car Cat. Keep on rolling.”

Cat pays in cash. They shake hands. He glides out. The car burbling and slightly rocking a crawling speed.

It fishtails as he pulls out into the road. Definitely more power under his right foot.

Feeling full of himself he drives on, hood down, gets into some heavy traffic, and notices admiring looks.

A bunch of teenagers give him a thumbs up.

A pretty blonde gets next to him at lights.

“Love your car.”

Cat smiles and waves as he burns away on green.

Another two blocks and the phone rings, it comes through on hands-free. Cherie’s voice.

“Monsieur Cat. Maurice would love to see you. He has a petite gift you will enjoy.”

Cat finds Maurice behind his desk, all bonhomie. Plaid waistcoat over a green polo shirt. Cat didn’t really think the combo works.

“Hi Maurice - you called?”

“Ah mon cher Cat. Magnifique to see you again.”

“I see your franglais is as strong as ever.”

“Ah you are too cruel. I am more French than most of my countrymen these days.”

“Well, I guess it is a pretty cool schtick. When did you lose your mid-western accent?”

“As a boy. My hero is Jacques Cousteau.”

“The scuba guy?”

“Not just the scuba guy - the master of the Undersea World - Jacques Cousteau!

He opened a child’s eyes to the realm beneath the waves. Sailing on the Calypso across the oceans.

Did you know it was an old British mine-sweeper he converted into a floating laboratory?”

“Nope, can’t say I did.”

“Qui, he fitted an underwater nose with windows on the deep. Then he and his divers would scuba and explore. Such sights, such encounters, such adventures.”

“Yeah. Sounds cool.”

“Beyond cool Monsieur. Beneath the waves there is wonder.

We do not have to look heavenward for intelligent aliens. They are here with us. Whales, dolphins - and ah, the magnifique octopus.”

“Turned you on to being French like your hero?”

“Qui, the love of nature. Mon dieu!

Et maintenant - You enjoyed my little party at the Chateau, non?”

“Yes - it was interesting.”

“Miriam, she speaks highly of you.”

“And?”

“Quelque chose de sérieux. You talked with Victor - and met him at the Domes?”

“Yeah - I saw him in Redondo Flats - how is he doing?”

“Victor tells me all. I am his mentor. Well at least his joyeux dealer.”

“You building up to something?”

“Victor - is losing his mind I think.”

“Bad acid?”

“Non, certainement pas. That Henry - I told you he is a monster with monstrous ideas. A certainty of existence against all natural philosophy.

Victor is telling me he is now immortal.”

“Nothing to do with me Maurice.”

“Ah - peut-être you are the only one to stop him.”

“Nope - don’t think so.”

“Destiny Monsieur Cat - I can hear her calling you.”

“Thanks Maurice - gotta go.”

Cat made his way back up the spiral staircase and into the wine shop.

Cherie alone, wearing a fetching sleeveless dress with pleated skirt. All delighted candy stripes as she moves.

“Monsieur Cat - Maurice wants you to have this.”

She points to a case of pink champagne.

“What for?”

“To drink drôle de garçon - to party.”

Cat put the case in the trunk of the convertible and headed for the Split Coconut.

He heaved the champagne onto the bar when he got there.

Slim, eyebrows raised.

“What’s this - we throwing a party?”

“It’s on the house Slim - thought you might enjoy.”

“Damn - looks expensive.”

“A gift - I need some brunch.”

“You picked the right day. Got some fresh marlin steaks.”

“Yummy. I’ll get an OJ with that.”

Slim plunges a glass into the ice sink and pours the juice. He shouts the order through to the kitchen.

The carp tattoos on his forearms seem to dance as he moves, riffing on his faded Grateful Dead T-shirt.

“Gotta say Slim. You look really zoned. Stoned.”

Slim’s red-rimmed eyes hold on Cat’s with focused sincerity.

“Antidote, man.”

“Say what?”

“The fucking psychic flu.”

“The which?”

“C’mon, Cat. It’s the new pandemic. People losing their shit. Not knowing what’s really real anymore. You must be seeing it?”

Cat takes a long pull on his orange juice.

“Seems like business as usual to me.”

Slim snorts.

“I’ve been tracking it for years man. It’s getting worse.”

Cat smiles.

“Let me have an Americano as well.”

The coffee arrived just as the food came out. Every mouthful of fish a blast. He devours it along with a stack of pancakes, maple syrup and salad.

Fully energised he feels like he could walk through walls.

Back in the car - that light is still buzzing somewhere in the attic of his mind.

At an intersection, it didn’t feel like a conscious decision to turn left instead of right, he just went that way, and found himself outside the Historical Reenactment Society.

Plus ça change.

Cat pulls over - looks on the grand Spanish Colonial house, wondering if Henry is in there somewhere beyond the courtyard fountain.

Along with Bastet’s statuette.

Thankfully he had not heard from her in a while.

He puts himself back in gear and drives toward his boat, deciding the light switch he is looking to flip off is someplace else.

Parking in his usual spot, a soft voice whispers as he closes the door.

“You will.”

He walks away.

“Case closed love.”

Beside his convertible there is a big eight-wheeler with plain aluminium sides.

Two men jump out of the cab as he passes. Both in black. Cargo pants. T-shirts. Black belts with holsters.

“Mr Cat. They want to talk with you.”

“Say what?”

The back of the trailer rolls up and there stand Jarvis and Mendelzon. Matching blue suits and all.

Jarvis beckons.

“Come aboard.”

Mendelzon joins in.

“Just friendly like.”

Cat looks over his shoulder - sensing the two heavies directly behind him.

Jarvis kicks some steps down from the back of the truck and Cat walks up.

Inside there is nothing aside from a metal conference table and a set of office chairs.

The roller door descends behind him with a heavy metallic thud.

“What is this?”

Mendelzon pulls out a chair for him.

“Relax Cat.”

They all take a seat. There is a bunch of bottled water on the table. Jarvis hands him one.

“Just a chat.”

The agents both swig water from their own bottles, and replace the caps in unison.

“Why here?”

Mendelzon nods at him.

“Look at your phone.”

Cat takes it out of his pocket.

Jarvis, elbows on the table.

“No signal - right?”

Mendelzon is enjoying himself.

“This here is an operational faraday cage. No signal gets in or out.”

Cat drinks, looks around the trailer that has nothing to see.

“Yeah - copper mesh all around?”

Jarvis looks at his partner.

“Approximately correct.”

Mendelzon throws his arms wide.

“Somewhat augmented of course.”

Izaakistan’s Cat takes his time, flexes whiskers. Glances up at the florescent strip light, which bugs him. Cat can see its flicker frequency.

“What do you guys want?”

They speak as one.

“What you want.”

Cat shakes his head. Always been the toughest question. He hasn’t really found the answer yet.

“I don’t get you.”

Mendelzon tilts his chair back.

“You ever think about weather vanes?”

Cat blinks at them. What the hell?

“They turn with the wind - show its direction.”

Mendelzon continues his good humour, pleased with his student.

“Correct. Now imagine hundreds of millions of them. An infinite field of weather vanes all pointing in the same direction.”

Cat is getting irritated. He starts to get out of his seat.

“Listen - we agreed the case is over for me.”

Jarvis holds up a palm.

“Indeed - but not your usefulness.”

Cat pauses mid-rise.

“I don’t get it.”

Mendelzon keeps with his metaphor.

“Most weather vanes wait for the wind.

A very few tell you the wind is coming.”

Jarvis agrees.

“Sensing a breeze, an indication before or different to all the others.”

Mendelzon points his water bottle at Cat, then takes another swig.

“That’s you Cat.”

Cat is sits down again.

“Meaning what?”

Jarvis’ smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“There has been a change in the wind.”

Mendelzon strokes his moustache.

“Friends in high places Cat.”

Cat looks them both over, going soft-focus, embracing their vibe.

“Expecting what exactly?”

Jarvis spreads his hands on the table.

“Nothing.”

Mendelzon is really enjoying himself now.

“Simply be yourself.”

FADE TO BLACK

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ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT 7

Tuna Can

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 500:

The map itself is a data world of going there. The navigator uses it to co-ordinate being here.

Cat hits town with that strawberry sun setting and the whiff of a dust storm blowing in off the desert.

The Sheriff’s office is closed up. Shuttered.

The sidewalks seem deserted. Main Street feels abandoned.

He walks to the Overland Stage Hotel and heaves the heavy mahogany door to find the lobby empty.

Cat retrieves his own key from the hooks behind the desk and walks on up to the second floor.

The room smells antique. A low-wattage amber bulb swings gently from the stamped-tin ceiling, casting shaky shadows on the faded floral wallpaper.

Against the far brick wall, a heavy brass bedstead. An Indian blanket spread that has tasselled fringes.

Paul told him the ones with tassels are for females of the tribe.

Cat goes to the dark oak washstand with its porcelain pitcher and basin, pouring and splashing, shaking his whiskers, washing the desert out of his senses.

He draws the shade on the double-hung window and flops on the bed - crashes out into a dream he won’t remember, but it is long and deep and ends with a persistent banging, something hitting a big resonant tree in a forest.

The sound resolves into steady knocking on his room door. Cat rouses, pulls on shorts and opens to the tall face of Deputy Paul Running-Cloud. In uniform plus proud stetson.

“Damn, you take some waking Cat. It’s nearly noon and the Sheriff wants to see you.”

“O.K. Give me five and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Downstairs Mrs Roundtree is behind the desk. She appraises Cat over half-moon glasses. Paul is deep in the beat-up sofa that passes for lobby furniture.

Cat hands in his key. The proprietress lifts a hand over her ledger.

“Checking out today Mr Cat?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Cat gives her a steady look, and then at the smirking deputy rising to stand.

They walk together to the Sheriff Barnaby’s office to find him pouring coffee. Barney hands Cat a cup.

“Figure you need this.”

Paul takes off his stetson and leans laconically against the wall.

There are two other coffee drinkers in the room. Barney gestures toward them.

“The situation got too big for local enforcement - I called in the Feds. Let me introduce Agents Jarvis and Mendelzon.”

They nod at Cat and speak in turns with matching deep sonorous voices.

Jarvis is a six-foot-four linebacker-built man, with curly blonde hair close cropped.

“Take a seat Mr Cat.”

Mendelzon is shorter. Around five feet eight inches of athletic menace.

Dark cropped hair.

“The case is over for you.”

Identical blue suits.

“You’ve done shaking the tree.”

Black wingtip shoes.

“Thanks for that, and all.”

White button down shirts.

“Time to go back to your tuna can.”

Black ties.

“Mosey on out of town.”

Their duet includes matching pencil moustaches.

Cat takes a slug of coffee. Considers.

“I have questions.”

Jarvis looms at him.

“The future is on a need to know basis - and you doesn’t need to know.”

Mendelzon interrupts.

“I think he is talking about his girlfriend. Let’s put him out of his misery.”

Jarvis flips out his phone and faces it to Cat. There is a video running.

“Your damsel in distress is moving on. This is live from LAX.”

Cat watches CCTV of Marigold checking in to the Air India desk.

“She’s on her way to Goa.”

“We will take it from here - the situation is bigger than you can imagine. Way bigger.”

Barney puts on his Stetson, stands and moves out from behind his desk.

“Hey, it’s lunchtime boys and I reckon you agents have powerful expense accounts. I vote for t-bones.”

Mendelzon actually smiles. Jarvis shrugs.

“Before we move..”

He lifts an evidence bag off Barney’s desk and holds it up. Inside is the Atlas vertebra from the dead shooter, glinting metal brightness inside the polythene.

“None of you ever saw this - are we clear on that?”

Mendelzon answers for everyone.

“They are clear Jarvis - let’s go eat.”

They all head down down Main Street to the Horseshoe Grill & Bar.

Cat notices there is a line of Busy-Boys outside the Redondo Reserve Bank, and a black armoured car parked beside the undertakers.

Mendelzon nods at it.

“Yeah - we are disappearing the shooter. You never saw him neither.”

Barney is first through the swing doors of the Horseshoe, he hails the Mickey behind the cash register and strolls across the wood-effect laminate floor to an empty booth.

Cat follows Paul and the agents taking in the aroma of of sizzling beef fat, charcoal smoke, and a sharp note of bourbon-molasses sauce.

Mickey is straight to them, Cat goes to grab one of the menus but the Sheriff is quick on the draw.

“Hey Mickey - best t-bones all around. The usual sides and a pitcher of beer.”

Cat looks around the room. There is a busy clatter of people eating and drinking. Red brick walls adorned with old sepia photographs. He almost expects to see that shot of himself from the postcard that had started this escapade.

Then he sees the Bobcat. Stuffed and snarling on the wall behind the long bar. The hair on the back of his head lifts.

The beer arrives and is poured. Barney raises his glass.

“Here is to the cavalry arriving in time.”

The agents smirk. Paul looks down at the table. Cat pops a question.

“What about the military types up at the domes - the narcos?”

Cat’s question gets the two agents looking at one another. Jarvis offers.

“All in hand - they have been airlifted.”

Mendelzon backs him up.

“They weren’t narcos.”

The food starts arriving. Baked potatoes wrapped in foil. Charcoal grilled bell peppers. A large glass bowl of salad. Cornbread. And the steaks. Sizzling on iron skillets. Thick and juicy.

Everyone is concentrating on eating. Maybe even relaxing a little - but the agents contain a feel of alert.

Cat keeps with his curiosity between mouthfuls.

“What about Henry?”

Jarvis points

“Need to know Cat - and we know more than you can imagine - and what we know - be assured there are higher levels than us who know far more.”

“Besides” nods Mendelzon.

“Depends which Henry you mean. What did you think of the one you were with up at the domes doing all that cosmic bullshit.”

Cat strokes an ear.

“I think he believes in what he is doing - whatever that is.”

Jarvis with his steak knife again.

“Yeah. He’s the idiot - but then there is also the genius.”

Mendelzon gives him a hard look.

“Like I said Mr Cat - time for you to go back to your boat.”

They all waved dessert. Except for Barney. He went for strawberry ice-cream.

…….

Splitting Coconuts

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 222:

Maps show the world above sea-level. Charts show currents and submerged reefs. Then there is the deep.

The Split Coconut is Cat’s home-from-home and he arrives in a sigh of relief.

It’s eclectic style isn’t his - but he enjoys its pre-boho heritage.

The place is busy tonight. Quite a scene. The Marshall amplifiers with rows of knobs, sitting on a pair of gilt opera chairs with deep red plush seats.

Feeding big-horn speakers either side of the small stage area - currently featuring a deep dub DJ.

There is a whole jumble of furniture - old dark wood sideboards, club chairs, sofas, and plenty of small tables each carrying a candle in a red glass bowl.

Percy the parrot-guy is at one end of the bar with his pet grey perched on one shoulder.

Over near one wall is a brunette at an easel sketching a tropical scene in pastels.

The only discordant notes are the two guys in blue suits sitting silently at one of the tables.

Cat ignores them and goes to the bar.

“Hi Slim, give me a Tequila Sunrise.”

Slim mixes. Visibly sweating.

“You O.K. Slim?”

“Fuck no. You seen those guys?”

“Yeah - they’re here for me not you.”

“You sure of that Cat?”

Cat picks up his drink. Twirls the ice.

“Sure - I’ll take care of it.”

He walks over to Jarvis and Mendelzon who are each holding a bottle of Cerveza.

“Buy you boys a drink?”

“We are holding.”

“Join us Mr Cat - we have something for you.”

Cat sits, sips.

“Yeah - what’s that.”

“Something we couldn’t give you when we all with the Sheriff.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“Services rendered.”

Mendelzon takes a buff envelope from his inside jacket pocket and slides it across the table.

Cat picks it up - lifts the flap - and peeks. A good half-inch thickness of one hundred dollar bills.

“What’s this for?”

“Like Jarvis just told you.”

“I’m not aware of doing anything for the Feds.”

Mendelzon flips out a wallet and flashes a badge. It does not say FBI.

“What’s that? Who are you two?”

“We are useful to know.”

“Thought you’d appreciate some life fuel.”

“And we appreciate your journal of things beyond the map.”

“How you know about that?”

“You’ve been helping us for longer than you can possibly imagine Mr Cat.”

…………….

Facing Facetime

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 99:

The past is as plastic and malleable as the future. Only the present moment is consistent. Ultimately — beyond the perimeter of our ever-expanding understanding — Mystery remains the only certainty.

All hunky-dory back on his boat, Cat is having a happy morning planning a trip. He can spend some money and go long-haul.

Then his phone lights up and immediately opens a video call without him hitting that little green button. Bit weird.

Weirder, Henry appears.

“Good morning Mr Cat. We need to talk.”

“About what - we have no connection now.”

Henry is clearly not at the domes. He is sitting in an old-fashioned drawing room and is wearing what appears to be a tail-coated suit.

“Yes - Marigold is safely out of harm’s way and our little ménage à trois is departed to memory. Yet we must thank her for being the catalyst - if you’ll forgive the intended pun.”

“Henry - you got something to say?”

“I need a something Mr Cat. A something that will interest you.”

“Oh yeah? The case is closed as far as I am concerned.”

“I have a friend of yours here who says otherwise.”

Henry pans his camera to show Bastet’s statuette sitting on a small Chippendale table beside him.

“Ha - imagining voices Henry?”

“Imagination is the real power Cat. So easily dismissed - actually a pejorative in the popular world - but you know different as do I.”

“I’m not listening.”

“I believe you are - and believe me, that is why I am calling.”

“O.K. Spill the beans.”

“The beans as you say, are that I have made a terrible mistake.”

“And?”

“I will pay you well to help me out.”

“Get someone else - and I don’t need your money.”

“Did I say money Mr Cat?”

“What are you talking about Henry.”

“Perhaps you would like our companion here to return to you?”

“Nope - don’t think so.”

“She said you would say that.”

“Get lost. I’m not one of your Domers.”

“Precisely. That’s why I need you. At least come and meet so I can explain without the potential of eavesdropping.”

“Where are you at?”

“The Historical Re-enactment Society. You know the address.”

“I don’t think so Henry.”

Cat hit the little red button and put the phone down.

He returned to the bacon, tomato and garlic wrap he had been about to eat and the map he had spread out on the cabin’s table.

Marigold, Bastet, Redondo Flats - time to move on Cat.

He hears a silent sound, or maybe a hunch hunkering and walks out on deck.

There, walking with purpose along the quay, a smartly dressed man with a striking resemblance to Ramone Escareno with a big gap beside him that should have been his bulky brother, Ramone.

Cat watches as Ramone walks up the gangplank. Grey sharkskin suit, blue polo shirt, black loafers.

“Mr Cat.”

“Hey Ramone - looking slick. You dressed for business?”

“I have been in Mexico.”

Cocaine business comes to Cat’s mind.

“That so? To what do I owe this visit?”

“I am here amigo to give you this.”

He freezes as Ramone takes that big automatic from his waistband. Chrome and bright. But flips it around and hands it forward, butt first.

Cat takes the dancing hula-girls in his paw and looks down at them.

“Ramirez’s Chiquita.”

“He would have wanted you to have her.”

“I am getting past tense here.”

“I have just been at his funeral.”

“Uh-huh.”

They look at each other for a long pause.

“You wanna tell me about it Ramone.”

“Si - sure.”

“I’m just making some coffee. Espresso.”

“Gracias.”

FADE TO BLACK

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From the archive.

Written in November 2004 and published here for the first time.

It is dedicated to my friend Frank Clark, who read an early draft to his writers’ group many years ago.

Frank had already lived several lives by then—getaway driver in his youth, film stuntman in his prime.

I’ll tell you about him one day..

BAM BAM BAM

Let’s be clear about this. Jack Naota is not drunk from the night before.

He drank his share and stopped years ago, after the red-headed Playboy Bunny fandango.

Coffee is required. Even after the equivalent of a five-mile run and a needle-hot shower, he is reeling from the fusty smack of ancient hangover.

A groggy accident perhaps of the synaptic soup? Only kidding Jack.

Ancient sages already told you, anything remembered is something that you didn’t understand at the time.

That’s why these things come around as they do, nightmares on a carousel. The unsolved cases.

Bam Bam Bam went the boy.

Ha Ha Ha went the girl.

Their gender difference lay on the floor between them.

Its usefulness to their coincidence of interest reduced to a chalk outline.

It was a death of passion.

Jack is driving his old Mercedes saloon almost too fast. But not quite. Smooth and serene. Expert driving making every passenger believe nothing dramatic is happening.

Not that there are any passengers, the vast interior space of the over-powered sedan belongs to Jack alone. He loves big cars that ride like boats.

Parking half up the curb, the tolerant suspension barely acknowledging the sudden encounter as anything more than more smooth tarmac.

They both tripped over the body in their panic to escape.

Scrabbling on the floor they had become accomplices and could only argue about blame.

Jack emerges slow. Animal antennae sharp. Mind melancholic. Shining oxblood brogues with army soles, cable-knit yellow socks, stay-press slacks, and white silk turtleneck under a check-that-shouts mohair jacket.

Trademark sunglasses. Hiding he hopes, and appearing to be placing a public bet that it’s one sunny day up there above this dissipating sea mist. Feeling the weight of his gun and holster tap ribs as he swings up to stand fast. He instantly decelerates to pause, and gently closes the car door.

The sirens of approaching children’s toys wailed through the night.

The situation bursts through the door and arrests them.

Outside the Dragonfly Diner on the seafront, along the western edge, of the bay, that lies in the ample embrace, of Beach Town. It is day, finally, after a night of full moon. The Dragonfly’s neon has just jittered into life, enhanced by the halo glow of mist-loaded atmosphere.

He gets himself a double-shot espresso and one of the Old Man’s fresh warm, perfect ring-doughnuts. Taking a sip of very hot, very strong coffee, he considers the doughnut on the passenger seat beside him.

Blue-chequered greaseproof wrapper opening, to reveal its stolid ring-doughnutness. An enigma of solid geometry whose central hole provides justifying existence for the bit you get to eat.

They stood and stared at the floor in silence.

They tried not to hate each other or themselves in an alternating current of despair.

To those that knew him, friends would be too strong a term, to those that knew him; they would say that this was one of Jack’s doughnut moments.

Back at headquarters they would tease him and ask how shape can turn a blob of dough into a metaphysical exercise.

Jack would get them laughing with tales of toruses, insisting the doughnut was one of the universe’s greatest achievements—a single continuous surface wrapped around nothing. Creating the sublime torus.

Always a laughter that catches and stops when they see that his eyes are serious. His smile chilling. That he finds real meaning in the doughnut defined by its hole. The absence revealed by the presence.

Soap lawyers read them their rights.

Somebody had drawn that chalk line around the crime to try and stop them from keep falling over it.

He puts his coffee into the cup-holder that springs at a touch from the dashboard. In this moment it offers the illusion of a rational universe.

The reassuring terra firma of consensus reality. If we agree, we can make this thing work. All the world’s cups fitting smoothly into all those happy cup-holders.

His vital signs are slow paced and quiet. Taken there by meditation and breathing. So many times through so much distress it is second nature, deep programmed with repetitive technique. Another development of his martial arts.

Starting the engine. So quiet he glances at the rev counter to see the needle idling on tick-over. He slides back the sunroof to a sky that justifies shades. The world is warming. The coffee is working. Jack powers down his windows.

Friends took them aside.

They looked at each other in different ways.

Painfully.

Bam Bam Bam went the boy.

Ha Ha Ha went the girl.

Jack holds the doughnut to his eye, framing a circle of sea and waves. If it were a telescope of unlimited power he would be able to see to the very beginning of the universe, right back to just after the big bang.

A trick of the constant speed of light that means the further you look away, the longer ago you are looking at.

Knowing in his soul that all time is contemporaneous and simultaneous with every moment. It is all here now.

A first bite out of the meditation breaks its hold. More coffee and the rest of the doughnut in moments. Jack lights a cigar and looks at his watch.

Now everything seemed inevitable where once it had seemed that anything was possible.

The Dragonfly is finally ready to serve the public. Jack smiles at Francine as she turns the sign on the door to Open. Time to ride. Jack knows that every moment is perfect. Past and future meeting in the present.

The problem is always the time lag between any given moment and the recognition of its perfection. If it’s instantaneous you are in heavenly flow. If not, it can be a long ride in hell.

He slips the car into drive and releases the handbrake. A tight turning circle is one of the things he loves about this chrome-lavished saloon.

Accelerating along the seafront and out onto the coast road, smiling, few bystanders would guess at that hole in the centre of this universe.

The nothingness that has vastly more weight than anything that is visible. The great-unseen edifice that supports, yet mocks, what everyone takes to be their lives. What they let themselves see.

Like fools they longed for the infinity of singularity. Or in ancient terms, a return to incompleteness without the better half of their being.

That was whom they hated.

The being that they were together.

Blinded by unconditional trust

It never saw what was coming.

Jack glides past looking serene and tough after a night of fears. He is getting better at working undercover.

The lonely detective trying to solve another case of first-degree guilt. Sensitivity tuned by experience in the magical-reality that is nine tenths of truth.

Now a rendezvous with a more recent and pressing case. One that is still out on the loose, rather than examined under lock and key. He is fully armed in case of inevitabilities.

In a showdown it’s always a split-second choice between head and heart. Both being equally mortal but different in nature. Jack’s aim is to hit them simultaneously. Cancelling the guilty and freeing the innocent.

The speedo is cruising, and town has given way to pine trees and sand dunes. He wonders what first made him become an assassin of troublesome memories. A ruthless technician of truth.

Happily driving his quest toward the high desert, aiming the car into the mystery of a receding horizon. On a sun bathed day in the dark of a waning moon.

Jack reaches across to touch the dashboard stereo into life.

Slips the Love Grocer CD into the slot.

Loud sad dub and plaintive crispy horns fill the void.

Bam Bam Bam went the boy.

Ha Ha Ha went the girl.

FADE TO BLACK

Love Grocer : A Little Rain Must Fall

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ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT 6

LOCO CAT

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 81:

Even maps can get lost.

Izaakisan’s Cat is standing with an automatic in each paw.

Twin silencers aimed at the Narcos milling around the old Airstream, with rifles akimbo - their attention distracted - looking toward the Domes and that scream.

Laughing.

Cat’s fingers tighten.

The twin silencers speak - phut - phut.

A hand clamps his belt and pulls him down out of shot.

“Loco Cat!”

Cat’s blood is boiling. A deep hissing growl rises inside him.

He tries to stand again but Paul holds him back.

“Get a fucking grip - we are outnumbered and outgunned.”

Deputy Paul Running-Cloud hustles him to belly crawl out of there, keeping low, avoiding red laser points that are searching the rocks for them.

They make it far enough to get up into a run and a sweating return to the Deputy’s maroon Bronco. Its white stripe and over-sized off-road tyres somehow reassuring.

Paul drives without lights into the desert, following tracks that Cat can barely see. He is impressed by how this guy understands the night.

They stay off-road all the way to Redondo Flats, only making the highway when they are back in town. Lights on.

Paul parks in front of the Sheriff’s office and they go find Barney in back, reclining his chair, Stetson tilted, chewing a cigar, and regarding a smooth metal object in his hand. A circular collar of shiny metal, about the diameter of a petite donut.

“You two look like you have been up to no good. What have you got to tell me?”

“I’m worried about Marigold. We saw the ceremony going on - then went over to check the trailers - and heard a terrible scream come from the Domes.”

“He went crazy. Had to haul his ass out of there.”

“Did they see you?”

“Nope - don’t think so - but they know they have hostiles around - came hunting for us.”

“How many of them are there?”

“About a dozen - maybe more.”

“That so. I guess you boys didn’t learn as much as I have.”

“The Escareno were tied and gagged.”

“Interesting. But I still ace you.”

Barney hands the metal collar he has been holding to Paul, who glances at it and passes to Cat.

“Bug news, our Dr Tibbs found this where the man’s atlas vertebra ought to be at the top of his neck. Poking out under the skin. Caught her attention.

May even have made it easier for Cat to break that neck.”

Cat looks blank.

“Atlas vertebra?”

Barney smiles.

“Me too. Dr Tibbs told me it is the first - the topmost - bone in the neck. Check out the inner surface.”

Cat holds the object at an angle to the light. Its interior reflecting moiré patterns, rainbows running across intricate circuitry. Shimmering tiny chips all in a row.

Cat hands it back to Barney.

“Looks more like electronics than orthopaedics.”

“Exactly.”

Paul lets out a low whistle.

“What’s it mean, Sheriff?”

“Hard to say. But somebody spent a lot of money putting it in him. And nobody does that unless they expect a return on their investment.”

“And our plan?”

“My plan is to go get a stiff drink.”

………

SKEPTIC’S SACRIFICE

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP Entry 81:

Maps are like the best jigsaw puzzles. There is always a missing piece. Have you looked in the box?

Cat sits outside the Cake Surgery on his third coffee. The bar session had gone on late.

They talked about the Narcos. Paul thinking that was O.K. as a shorthand but he figured they looked more like a special-ops team from some unknown military.

Maybe, thought Cat. He agreed they look competent. Mostly he is still thinking about Marigold, when he sees a white Cadillac Escalade with tinted-opaque glass draw into town.

The Caddy stops nearby and out steps Victor - a long way from his Chateau Marmot style - wearing a cerise sarong, flip-flops and a green t-shirt emblazoned in white,

‘GOD SENT ME’

Victor spots Cat.

“Hey Cat - great to see you. Here for the Domes?”

The Busy Boy opposite spots them both.

“Not sure.”

“Oh - you must join us - we had such an amazing ceremony last night. Marigold excelled herself with a climactic primal scream - she hit the most mind splitting note - and we all joined in total release.”

“Huh.”

Cat feels the knot in his stomach release.

“Join me for a coffee Victor?”

“O.K. A quick one - I have an appointment at the bank.”

“Paying in or paying out?”

“Yes, that sense of humour. No - I shouldn’t really say - but - it’s so exciting - I am ascending the grades. Henry is going to take me to the next degree.”

“Sounds interesting. What is the objective?”

“To join with the One of course.”

“And you are getting close?”

“Yes, yes - but I can’t say more - except I think you would rise up the ranks quickly - come to the Domes today - there is a hyper-breathing workshop - perfect for a neophyte. I can give you a ride this afternoon.”

“That’s O.K. I’ll drive myself.”

“Grand - I’ll let them know you are coming.”

Victor’s latte arrived. He drank it with beatific serenity. - without - in Cat’s opinion - saying anything else useful.

Apart from the time of the gig - three o’clock - and to be sure to arrive an hour early.

Cat watched Victor cross over to the bank and the Busy Boy ushering him inside.

Barney is pleased to hear about this development.

“Great. Our man undercover. Don’t blow it by killing anyone.”

Cat grins. The relief about Marigold is working on him.

“Sure thing Sheriff.”

“Before you go - find Paul, he’s up at Stone’s the undertakers - nearest thing we have to a morgue in Redondo Flats.”

Paul is busy barricading. Smiles when he sees Cat.

“I’ve got something for you. A band-aid for that bullet hole in your car, until you get it fixed back in L.A.”

He hands him an STP decal, which Cat keeps glancing at as he drives his big blue convertible out toward the Domes. Still pissed about the puncture in his wing that it hides.

Marigold is delighted when he walks into the Dome. She holds his arm.

“Cat you came. I knew you would. Henry predicted it. He even said he is going to wave the fee for your intro.”

“Cool. And how much would that have been?”

“Ten with four zeros - but don’t think about it - take your place.”

She guides him to a yoga mat. One of twelve arranged in a circle. Everyone else seems to be there already. Sitting crossed legged. Smiling up at him. He sits.

Marigold begins.

“We are here together in an act of complete trust. In ourselves and in everyone else in this circle. Let us begin by holding hands and chanting ‘Om’ as one.”

Cat has to admit - by the third Om they are sounding pretty good. Then Marigold tells them all to lie down on their mats.

“Relax and stay with my voice. I am your guide.”

Cat is listening. Here with Marigold again. She sounds happy.

“Now we do conscious circular breathing.

Let the top of your inhale melt into the start of your exhale, like a wheel that never stops turning.

Allow your breath to be a single, unbroken line; do not freeze at the top, and do not trap it at the bottom.

The moment you pause, you let the mind take control again. Keep the circle moving.

Erasing the gap between inhale and exhale is how we heal the split between your body and your spirit.

Breathe.”

Cat settles into it - the circular breath becomes self-perpetuating.

He finds himself transported to a confined and dark space. Above him some kind of grill, with light coming through its bars.

He pushes up and it lifts, and he emerges into a curving corridor. All metal with a mesh floor.

Cat wanders along - sensing he is aboard a space ship that is apparently abandoned. He is alone.

The corridor emerges into a circular flight deck with consoles of lights and touch controls. Cat sits in the captain’s chair. What the fuck?

Glancing to his left he notices a small flight of steps to an airlock door. He goes to it. Spins the lock and enters. Rack upon rack of computer hardware humming - seemingly stretching to infinity.

And a voice.

“I am the bigger you.”

Then panic hits him. Suddenly back in his body lying on the yoga mat he is completely paralysed. He cannot move at all.

Marigold kneels beside him and places a hand on his heart.

“You are O.K. Stay with me. You are locking up because you are shifting the chemistry of your blood. It is perfectly safe don’t fight it.

Fear wants you to stop - the way through is to keep the wheel turning. Inhale, let it go, no pauses.”

Then she bends forward and kisses his forehead - the panic subsides, the paralysis fades and as soon as he can, he sits up.

Marigold moves around the other prone figures, touching each with an amethyst she is holding. Pretty soon they are all sitting, looking a bit shocked.

The woman on Cat’s right is crying. A strong smell is coming off her - a blend of artificial sweetness, sharp plastic, and a stinging, solvent-like edge.

She is sobbing - in a kinda joyful way.

“I just re-experienced all the surgery I have ever had!”

Others are nodding - starting to speak.

Marigold bounces into the centre of their group.

“Let’s all do a sharing.”

They take turns. When it comes to Cat - he notes the whiff of anaesthetic he got from Sally to his right - which gets a lot of approval from the group - and then relates the Himalayan lake he had found himself beside. Beautiful and tranquil.

Finally, Marigold rings a small bell and four attendants come into the dome.

Cat notes their black Nehru suits and that they all have buzz cuts. The two women included.

They are wheeling a large tubular steel stand - from which hangs a bunch of bright brass gongs of various sizes, artfully reflecting brightness in their hammered surfaces.

In their wake - to a gasp from the group - Henry walks in - or rather appears to glide, wearing a floor length monk’s cassock of deep purple, gathered at the waist by a gold chain.

Marigold announces.

“Let’s all lie down again and become immersed in Henry’s harmonic gong bath.”

The initial strike isn’t a note; it is a shockwave that hits like a heavy, velvet fist.

Layers of sound build so fast that the space between notes disappears. It becomes a deafening roar of white noise. The floor feels like it liquefies.

Time expands beyond limit. Waves of vibration envelope.

Cat retains enough observer to admit Henry is damn good at this. Skilled.

Eventually Henry brings his performance to an exquisite crescendo.

Once more they are sitting up. They all applaud, Henry takes a deep bow.

“And now - let us all dance.”

Marigold takes her place with him at the gongs and they play a duet. As she hits and vibrates them she makes the dance moves herself.

People around Cat go into spontaneous free-form dancing. Cat joins in. Lets himself go. He loves to dance. He is also competitive.

A final gong crescendo, and everyone goes back to their mats.

Henry seats himself at the head of the circle.

“Let us speak now of our purpose here. To ultimately conquer the death-urge and build our spirits to achieve immortality.”

Cat wants to jump up and run out of the dome. This is too infuriating. But he steels himself to remain. He uses the ‘suppose’ technique. Temporarily allowing him to suspend disbelief and find what imaginative difference it will make to go along with this - instead of his usual live for the day as though your last.

Henry is moving on - he is talking about the evolutionary limits of human brain potential. Limited by anatomy.

“If the human brain were any bigger it would not be able to stand the torsional stress of head movement - like turning quickly to look at something - or driving a car - or a million other things - any of which would cause it to rupture and bleed out of your nose.”

An attendant brings in a heavy ceramic bowl with a big party jelly in the middle of it.

“Allow me to demonstrate. Imagine you have a bigger brain, and you turn your head quickly.”

Henry places his hands either side of bowl - and twists it with a jerk - the jelly twists and ruptures, falling apart.

People laugh.

“Today - with our programme - we can have a bigger brain - but by extension - not an alien computer - but a perfect model of ourselves - a bigger version of ourselves to carry us forward. Encased in silicon deep inside the Redondo Reserve Bank.

Driven always by the enlightened souls that we are - developing our unique humanity here at the domes.”

He ends - and the bowl of jelly is passed around by Marigold. Everyone takes a spoonful. Strawberry flavour.

Henry announces.

“Thank you for all being here. Tea will now be served - and I must take your leave.”

The group applauds once more as he glides out, stage left, and more of the super-fit looking attendants enter, stage right - carrying a tray of glass cups with a large Moroccan teapot of silvery metal at their centre.

Marigold pours. The Domers mingle. She hands Cat a glass of mint tea.

“So good to see you Cat,”

“You too, I was worried. I get your ‘the universe will provide’ vibe - but isn’t this too big a compromise you are making? I mean, this is a cult, right?”

She leans in and kisses his forehead again.

“You are trying to save me? That’s so sweet.

I see how courageous you are.

But you are also a scaredy cat. Don’t turn back this time. Transcend with me.”

Disconcertingly, for a moment, he can see her skeleton moving inside her as she speaks.

“Keeping it real babes.”

“That’s what you always say - but are you really? Am I not real?”

Cat can see a halo of pink light all around Marigold - which he tries to ignore. Seeing auras now?

“Sure. You called me - remember?”

“Yes - that postcard wigged me out. And that funny statuette.”

“Yeah... what about it? Where is it now?”

Marigold giggles.

“I sold it.”

Cat blinks.

“You what?”

“Henry really wanted it.”

She holds out her wrist.

“Look - he is so generous.”

Marigold offers her wrist. One of the gold bangles she wears is studded with diamonds.

Before he can think what to say she is called away by the anaesthesia lady, who’s with a guy who has a shaved head along with a full beard.

Marigold gives him a hug.

"Duty calls."

Cat takes this as his cue to slip away and find his convertible. He gets in and puts the air-con on full. Pulls away from the domes.

Driving back to Redondo proves challenging. The desert seems to glow and throb. The slowly setting sun is a giant strawberry.

Cat grips the wheel. Grits his teeth. And makes it back with some relief.

Particularly when he manages not to crash off the highway when the voice in his imagination returns - full-on purring.

“I love you.”

FADE TO BLACK

Every journey begins by believing you know where you are.

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ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT 5

STRAY AWAKENING

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 39

Maps are distance. Scale is altitude. The treasure is marked X.

Izaakistan’s Cat opens his eyes.

Something is standing on his chest.

Green eyes staring down on him.

It has a paw extended. One claw against his nose - sharply pressing - exquisitely calculated to be a careful alert from slumber.

Cat lifts his furry intruder - it is soft and strong - regular size - not Pantheresque - and places it on the floor. He swings his legs off the bed, and stands.

The black feline looks up at him - then runs away - tail-up - to the companionway steps and disappears into the cabin above.

Cat follows and watches as it bolts onto the deck, runs to the side, looks at him again, and jumps to the quay. Tail still erect.

He turns to make coffee - and notices his phone flashing, sitting on charge in the galley.

Two missed calls he had not heard. And a message.

“Monsieur Chat - call Maurice.”

Cat looks at it. Makes coffee. Hits return.

“Monsieur Chat - I ‘ave the most inspired idea.”

Maurice is excited - slightly beating his mock French thought Cat. Mais non.

“I ‘ave told you - mon client list overlaps with Henry’s Domers. I think perhaps you would like to meet some of them?”

That would be interesting.

“Qui - well tonight I have a little client gathering. Very exclusive. Fine wine. Tête-à-tête.”

Cat caught a breath, but before he could speak.

“As my guest - naturellement - you are a client. Et par conséquent - enormously wealthy.”

Maurice giggles.

Cat sighs.

Of course the gig is at Chateau Marmot.

Cat pulls off Sunset and turns up the steep, hidden incline and the rumble of the cobbled driveway under his tires.

Palm trees swoon above his head - dense groves of banana leaves close in - swallowing whole the city hubbub - waving long shadows across his hood.

He stops at the security barrier. Shines the QR-code Maurice had sent him into the sentry’s device.

The iron gate clicks open, he drives through and onward to the top of the hill. There a tight turnaround tucked against the French Gothic stone facade of the Chateau.

A crisp valet is instant. Cat gets out, hands him the keys and watches his convertible glide away toward the underground parking.

Izaakistan’s Cat turns to the chateau. It looks improbable but supremely confident. A private fortress of exclusivity. A facade of ostentatious quiet.

He tweaks his black bow-tie. Smooths the double-breasted DJ and walks to the discreetly imposing wooden door.

He pushes through into a lobby that looks like an eccentric’s drawing room. Antique furniture, Persian rugs, pools of light here - there - and that one.

Maurice’s assistant is at his elbow. A long black dress. Simple. Smooth. With a deep plunging back.

“Monsieur Chat. How charming to see you - looking so dapper. Maurice will be delighted.”

She guides him through a stone archway and into what Cat surmises is a Hollywood interpretation. The hall of a secluded French castle. Maybe from an Errol Flynn era picture, flickers through his mind.

A great rising roof of ecclesiastical height - ribbed gothic vaults of stone. Massive, leaded-glass arched windows line the walls. Dark silhouettes of foliage beyond.

Cat looks around. The whole room is bathed in a gentle amber glow. Candles in iron sconces. A baronial fireplace burning king-size logs.

There are buffet tables covered in crisp linen and arrayed in spreads of goodies. Food. Wine. Psychedelics.

People milling, chatting, but the room seems hushed. The carpet is thick. Plenty of sound muting heavy drapes. Sure. More. Cat feels there is almost a thickness to the air.

Maurice bounces up.

He is wearing a midnight blue velvet tux that features satin lapels, along with a frilly fronted shirt and out-size bow-tie.

He thrusts a glass of champagne at Cat.

“Allow me to introduce Victor Hartington III mon ami. Victor, Monsieur Chat.”

“Maurice has told me so much about you.”

Cat looks at Maurice, who gives him a guileless smile in return.

“Mon dieu. Other guests are beckoning. Excusez-moi.”

“He is our favourite Frenchman is he not?”

“Absolument.”

“Yes, he said you have a sense of humour. He also mentioned you might join us. Become a Domer.”

“I am curious - that’s true.”

“You should come to an introductory workshop. It’s such a wonderful journey. Henry has taught me so much. Inspired me.”

“To achieve enlightenment?”

“More than that - Henry calls it a Constant Harmony.”

“That’s why they call him Harmonic Henry right?”

“I could book you in next month if you like. All the workshops are conducted by this amazing shaman.”

“Marigold?”

“Yes - you have heard of her? So full of radiance. She will hold your hand through any dimensional healing you are experiencing.”

“We talking Maurice’s non-wine line?”

“Some of them we take in wine. There is such a range of teaching gateways. As you move up the levels they can get pretty intense.”

Well - like on my first peyote circle. We are all sitting around a fire. Marigold is conducting. And I just felt so - revealed - exposing my soul.”

“That does sound intense.”

“I was so thankful that before we started, Marigold issued each of us a mask on a short stick. It seemed a bit silly.

Then when I was right in that over-exposed feeling - I could hold it up and protect my face, get moments of relief.

Don’t worry though, the introductory is hyper-dimensional breathing. That’s a breeze.”

“What does Henry do?”

“Oh - he gives us consultations - guides us toward the future.”

“I heard he has a bank?”

“Come to the workshop.”

“I’ll look at my diary.”

“Maurice has my number. Be the best investment you ever make.”

A tall brunette sauntered up.

“Hi Victor. You still pitching domes?”

“Ah Margot - looking lovely as ever - let me introduce..”

Izaakistan’s Cat didn’t let him finish.

“Izaakisan’s Cat - nice to meet you Margot.”

Victor looks from Margot to Cat and back again. The two of them standing in close eye contact.

Finding himself third-man-standing vibe, he makes his move.

“Give me a call when you decide.”

Margot sips. Looking at Cat over her glass as dark red wine meets bright red lips.

“Are you going to the domes?”

“Could be - you’re not a Domer?”

“No - I was tempted but my shrink told me it would be a bad idea - he doesn’t want me to unbalance my micro-dosing when I am doing so well. Two years now. He gave me a kind of prescription to bring to Maurice - that’s how I met him.”

Cat lifts his glass and toasts her.

“Great - it’s working for you.”

“Thank you. I was in such a bad place. Cut-off from everything. Isolated. Fine running the business. But otherwise. Nada. I had deep trauma - the Doc saved me really - and Maurice’s mixtures are genius.”

Cat smiles. Margot is wearing a deep gold gown, off-setting the coffee of her skin. Her hazel eyes peruse him.

She reaches for his wrist.

Before he realises what she is doing, she places his paw lightly against her breast.

“I’ve been celibate for two years. I’ll go off like a rocket.”

Cat’s mind goes in several directions - as though a pool-table break had exploded in his head.

One thought zooming toward the top left pocket. Attractive surprise. It slams home with a thunk.

Another ball carrying a lot of spin is bound for a middle pocket. This has happened to him before.

He had been at a party with Marigold and one of her friends did this to him. Put his paw on her breast. Looked in his eyes.

Marigold didn’t get mad with her friend. After they left the party she let him have it. All his fault.

Other balls of feeling ricocheted each other, reflecting off cushions.

While he waits for the confusion to settle, Margot speaks for them both. Tugging his arm now.

“C’m - let’s get a room.”

Except Margot rented a cottage in the lush gardens. With what felt like private access to a circular swimming pool. No one else around.

Cat swam and swam.

……….

CAT CONFESSION

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 39

Maps are maps. There is another way of knowing.

Izaakisan’s Cat is building a map of what he now knows about this case.

Wandering back from his car toward the Nine Lives he instead considers what he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if Marigold needs to be rescued - or whether Henry’s plans for Redondo Flats has any to do with him at all.

The whole business could be pointless. Time to walk away?

He still had the statuette - and he hasn’t got any leads on who had bequeathed it to her.

That would be the practical thing to achieve and is what he first felt he was taking on when she called for help. To solve a basic mystery for her.

The Escareno brothers are waiting, sitting on his deck.

They look like they just got paid and are making a trip to the big city for the first time.

Clean, slicked and dressed in rodeo shirts, bootleg jeans and polished, tooled boots.

Cat steps onto the deck of his boat and greets them.

“Howdy boys, how you doing?”

They both stand from sitting on the rail. Ramone scowls.

“Been waiting two hours for you to show up.”

“Yeah? You should have called ahead.”

Ramirez is the first to produce a gun. With a silencer. Ramone follows suit with a matching weapon. They are both aimed at Cat.

“Nice of you both to be so considerate of the neighbours.”

Ramone points his gun more meaningfully.

“What you saying?”

“Silencers. Get it?”

The brothers glance at each other, then back at Cat. Ramirez smiles his gold inlays.

“The boss said not to kill you unless we have to. That don’t mean I can’t put a bullet in a leg for being funny amigo.”

His brother joins in.

“We are here for the statuette.”

“Who says I have it?”

“Marigold.”

“Yeah funny man. She confessed.”

“She did what? We talking duress here?”

They both laugh. Ramone tells him.

“Na. She threw one of her trances and spilled to the boss like he’s her priest.”

“Not laughing now Cat? Hand it over.”

“Come into the boat.”

Cat unlocks the cabin and takes them on down into the hold - walks over to the bed - unlocks the cupboard beneath and gently lifts Bastet and places her on the table, with a kiss between her ears.

The brothers look at her. Transfixed. She sits haughty and proud. Green eyes bright. She has fully taken their attention.

Cat slides across the room and takes the fancy automatic out of the drawer of his desk, hula-girls happily dancing on its grips.

“This one is real noisy.”

The brothers whirl around. Ramirez let’s out a squeal.

“Chiquita! My Chiquita!”

Cat could swear the big guy has tears in his eyes.

“Yup - I guess. She says put your guns on the table, slowly.”

Cautiously, they lay their automatics beside the statuette.

“Now back up to the companionway. And stay close together. Move!”

They step back slowly. Ramone isn’t fazed.

“Listen Cat. You can’t end this. What the boss wants he gets, but he said play it cool. We could have trashed this boat to get that thing - instead we waited. Even if you kill us both you won’t escape his reach.”

Cat steps over to the table and stands next to Bastet. She whispers in his mind. The green eyes flash he thinks.

“Let me go with them.”

He drops the clip out of Chiquita, pulls back the slide - the shell ejects. He throws the gun to Ramirez who catches it with delight.

“Amigo!”

Cat lifts both automatics from the table. Points their silencers.

“Let’s negotiate.”

Ramone frowns,

“What do you want?”

“Information - question and answer time.”

“Can’t tell you nothing. Boss would go crazy.”

“You won’t tell him - this is a private conversation - think of me as your priest.”

“And what do we get?”

“You get the statuette. You get not to be in deep trouble with Henry. You get clear of being shot dead - right here right now.”

Ramirez is still fondling his gun.

“Why did you give Chiquita back to me?”

“Because I understand attachment.”

They told him.

Marigold isn’t a prisoner, but she can’t leave the domes without permission and an escort.

They aren’t taking Bastet back to Henry. Instead to a historical society with an address south of Wiltshire Boulevard.

Cat waved the brothers off the boat with the statuette wrapped in a tarp, and their guns in his paws.

Back in the cabin with a drink - he thinks - and voices to no-one.

“Well that’s that. Marigold confesses. The statuette is gone. I’m free.”

He gets a response. The voice in his imagination speaks.

“I am more than that statuette - it is only one of my calling cards - no - know - I am with you - always.”

……..

REDONDO RETURN

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 61:

We can draw a map of intentional direction. There is another of synchronicity that draws us.

Cat is speeding the highway as it dips and rises across the undulating desert - close miles to Redondo Flats - maybe another thirty.

Air-con on in the open car. Cat relaxed with one elbow on the window sill. Shades and a reversed baseball cap. Stone grey wind-cheater unzipped over a black t-shirt. Cat smiles at the road ahead. What is he doing here?

A few days ago, sitting for breakfast at the Split Coconut he had ignored the purring voice in his ear.

“Return to Redondo Flats.”

Instead he concentrated on the ordinary. ‘Swabbing the deck’ he likes to call it.

Gym, reading, listening to music - chilling - clearing and cleaning - preening - mental cleansing whilst he awaits the arrival of a new case.

Though one day he couldn’t resist driving past the Ancient Historical Enactment Society.

Bone-white stucco walls topped with terracotta tiles that drape over the low-slung roof.

Heavy, dark timber beams supporting the overhanging eaves, casting deep shadows.

Wrought-iron grilles on every deep-set window.

A Spanish Colonial-style mansion that looks like a survivor of Old California that is determined to remain a private sanctuary, sitting amongst neon-lit concrete, weed stores and graffiti.

Looks like there is an inner courtyard with a sculpture fountain.

Cat considers and drives on. Why is he even looking?

He goes back to routine.

So does the voice - an annoying one.

Every day. More frequent. Not a conversation, becoming a command.

“Return to Redondo Flats.”

Cat finally cracks one morning in the shower.

“O.K. goddammit - I’ll pay it a visit!”

He will soon be back there. What to do? Get some lunch. He would like to speak with Marigold. Why did she call him in? No-way he is getting inside the guts of that bank.

Cat musing along, he spots a jeep off the road - and a figure crouching behind it.

He slows and then stops. Deputy Running-Cloud holding a shotgun, hiding behind a jeep full of heavy bullet holes. All windows obliterated. Windshield shattered. Another round punches into the vehicle as cat watches.

Paul Running-Cloud turns to him - waving him on urgently - mouthing, “Sniper!”.

The convertible rocks. Cat turns back to see an ugly fifty-calibre hole in the wing of his car.

He floors the gas. Wheels spin. There is a smell of burning rubber. Cat rockets away.

Two miles closer to Redondo Flats, he stops again and pulls off the road.

He sets off to circle back, working up to higher ground where the shooter may be.

Moving smoothly through the boulder strewn ground. Maximum stealth. Making no sound.

Slowing down as he catches something in his whiskers, stepping alert, deciphering the warm air.

He finds him sitting behind a large boulder, his long rifle braced to aim - with his eye to a scope.

Cat gets up behind him. The shooter lets off another round, his hand moving back to the bolt but not getting there.

Cat’s paws hit hard either side of the guys head, holding and twisting with a force that is coming from a movement of his entire body - starting from the ground, flicking his waist and transmitting along his arms.

There is a crack. The shooter falls back and doesn’t move. The long rifle clatters to earth.

Cat looks down at him. The two-color blend of sand and khaki desert camo along with tactical gear. High-leg khaki boots. Black gloves and body armour.

Cat stares at the body.

Silence returned with shocking speed.

Wind moved a few grains of sand across the rifle stock.

He had meant to stop him - and wonders where killing him had come from.

Deputy Paul Running-Cloud gets surprisingly close before Cat hears him.

He nods to Cat and then kneels down next to the body, holstering his magnum and checking for life signs.

“He won’t be answering any questions. What happened?”

“I surprised him. He jumped up and tripped over that rock. Landed badly.”

Paul gives him a long look - then searches the shooter for I.D. but finds none. He stands.

“Why did you track back here? Risking your neck for me?”

“He shot my fucking car.”

“He destroyed mine. You’ll have to give me a ride back to town.”

“What about him?”

“Leave him here - whoever sent him will eventually come looking and the desert has eyes.”

The Sheriff’s office is an ordinary store front in Redondo Flats. Paul and Cat walk-in to find Barney in his glass office in the rear. Paul says Hi to Audrey at the front desk and they walk on through.

Barney waves them into his cubicle.

“Hi Paul - and Mr Cat - have a seat.”

Deputy Paul relates his day. Driving back from Gelding Ranch - dealing with their complaint about harassment - close to Pearson Bluff he comes under fire. The jeep dies - likely a heavy cal through the engine block. How he had managed to get out of the vehicle - the shooter kept shooting - and then along came Cat. Not long later the firing ceased.

“Something you did Mr Cat?”

“I found the shooter dead on the ground - one of those narco military types we’ve seen before - and the Cat standing beside him.”

“That so? How’d he get dead?”

Cat looks at Paul then back at the Sheriff.

“He fell and broke his neck.”

Barney opens the lid of a bakery box on his desk, lifts a ring-donut, takes a bite.

“Help yourself. I am all ears. I love a good story.”

Paul told him that he had looked for the shooter’s vehicle but didn’t find one. Probably he was dropped off - so maybe they would go back to pick-up. He’d left the body out there. They might get a trail to follow.

“Sure Paul - I get your off-grid methods - but get back out there. Call Gene, use his tow truck to reclaim the jeep and bring the body with you. Follow procedure.”

Paul grunts agreement and leaves. Barney smiles at Cat.

“Tell me what really happened.”

“I didn’t like to see your deputy pinned down like that so I thought I’d see if I could find the shooter.”

“Big of you. But why did you kill the perp?”

“I didn’t intend that. I just wanted to incapacitate.”

“Underestimated your own strength I suppose?”

“Something like that.”

“I could hold you on a charge Mr Cat.”

“And then I wouldn’t be able to help you.”

“Maybe I don’t need help. What are you doing back here? Visiting your friend Henry?”

“He isn’t my friend.”

“Then why?”

“I’d like to take another look at the Domes.”

“You know they are outside my jurisdiction?”

“No I didn’t know. So I am free to go up there?”

“Go tonight - a little bird told me there is a ceremony scheduled. Take Paul with you. Unofficially that is - and report what you see back to me.”

“And the shooter?”

“Accidents happen in this desert. It is a strange place.”

“Thank Sheriff.”

“Mr Cat - let’s go get some dinner and discuss tactics.”

After sunset Cat and Deputy Running-Cloud drove to within three miles of the Domes and walked into the gathering night.

They get to within yards of the main dome by the time it is truly dark. Stars above, they lay on the ground behind a small rise. A ceremony in full view before them.

On the levelled sand in front of the main dome there is a group of Domers on little three-legged stools - forming a wide circle.

Cat counts six women and six men, all in long kaftans.

Each of them is drumming a drum held between knees. Each of them wearing a headband - holding a bright LED in the centre of their foreheads.

All are looking at the centre of the circle - their torches aimed by their gaze - casting narrow mini-searchlight beams to play on the centre of their attention.

Marigold in a gold body-stocking - dancing around a massive quartz crystal - as she sings a soprano mantra.

Her body writhing. Arms flailing. A language Cat can’t grok. The beams of light creating an almost stroboscopic effect. Marigold freeze-framing syncopated dancing.

Paul taps his shoulder. Head gestures over to their right. Cat turns his attention that way and senses something - a directed warmth?

He scans the pitch dark desert, and there - in the near distance. Something.

Paul whispers.

“They are looking for us - let’s go.”

Quietly they move toward what they felt and arrive at the little trailer park of the Escareno brothers.

Staying hidden they approach a vintage Airstream parked by a couple of trailers. A mini compound.

In front of the RV, the brothers are seated on aluminium chairs.

A scene with a twist. Ramirez and Ramone are bound and gagged with duct tape, their eyes fixed on a machete being waved in front of them by a stocky man in military gear.

The same mix of desert camo and tactical that Cat had seen on the shooter. And there is more of them. Maybe ten? All in the same kind of gear - but each individualised somehow. Heavily armed. Narco military? Could be. If they are - they look like a special ops version.

Paul taps and points. A trooper approaching. Automatic rifle. Taking off his night vision. He speaks to the man with the knife, who then gestures to half-a-dozen others who gather around him.

Paul makes a hand signal for them to leave - but Cat is frozen by a piercing high-pitched scream coming from the direction of the Dome.

The troops in front of him brace their weapons - and are looking his way, not in the direction of the scream.

He has a moment to wonder if they are spotted - then there is a bone-rattling roar inside of his skull.

A huge rolling growling. Cat feels it vibrate his being.

Whiskers zinging. The sensation of air moving across his skin around fur that is furiously erect.

Cat’s proud observer-self is swept up by a tide of moment.

Something ancient rises with him as he stands - an automatic in each paw.

FADE TO BLACK

The map continues… Thank you for reading.

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ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 100

The longest journeys are measured in changes of understanding, not miles.

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A conversation with Jeff Carter triggered a memory I had stashed away — and prompted me to take down an old film can from the shelf and run it through the projector one more time.

Open on:

I’m a creative in a groovy advertising agency. Meteoric career. Existential angst.

A conflict between success in something I didn’t actually think was worthwhile. Yet providing a comfy lifestyle. The more it did, the more I felt split.

Two aspects that seemed opposite poles of magnets trying to meet. My need was to flip one, and bang into wholeness.

Flashback:

There has always been an element of spiritual questing to my journey. Coupled to the odd reason I got into the ad business in the first place.

Eschewing art school - fine art as too remote to ordinary people - I looked around and saw wall space everywhere. Posters. Press ads. Television commercials. Bus sides.

I jumped in and worked my way up in agency life. With my personal agenda of aiming to turn the advertising art I would produce into Popular Art that held a subversive message beneath the Sell.

Dissolve:

I have always been a believer in the “book angel” — texts that just drop into one’s hands.

Cut to:

I am visiting an astrologer for a reading, and in conversation I mention my fascination with Native American culture - he hands me a book about the Hopi Snake Dance, a sacred ceremony asking the spirits for rain.

I read it and determine to go visit that thirsty desert.

Cross Fade:

Almost the next day.

An account executive walks into my office with a brief for a new commercial for Pepe Jeans.

A client I have a good relationship with. I created their launch advertising — super low-budget animated films set to music tracks. Cinema ads because that was cheaper than TV - and targeted to a youth audience.

The brand launch worked.

Flashback:

I got the music from Island Records, had a meet with Chris Blackwell — great guy — and explained I had no money to pay for tracks, but if he had artists he wanted to promote, this might be a good opportunity. Cinema ads. Avant-garde productions. “Cut-up” technique. No product voice-overs. Pure music, images, and some subversive flash titles.

The campaign was a success and featured T’Pau, The The, Big Audio Dynamite.

Cut to:

Pepe Jeans has grown. The brand now has a big budget — and the confidence to give a lot of creative freedom to what I might produce.

Scene:

I create the Raindance’ ad — boy and girl meet in London’s Portobello Road as the result of a downpour synchronistically linked to a desert conjuring.

C’mon — it’s only an ad, right? Wrapped around a secret questing.

There were surprises in store.

The projectionist in my inner movie house is about to dramatically change reels.

Cut to:

Oregon — Redmond Municipal Airport. I arrive, bemused by so many people milling around dressed in identical purple, wearing beads, fresh off other flights.

Later I discover that Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh has built his controversial community nearby.

Cut to:

Bend — a small city on the Deschutes River, close to the high desert I wanted to feature in the film.

At a cultural centre we held an audition of a tribal dance group, who showed an amazing display of their medicine.

It’s a no-brainer, these people are perfect — but a bit of a shock that, to negotiate a fee and fix dates, everything had to be done through a government official. An actual Indian Agent.

I am now in a Western for sure.

Dissolve:

Riding out to remote locations I had scouted in the mysteriously beautiful landscape, we start filming.

Cold out here. Long days. I feel for our performers, many scantily clad, and I arrange a cash bonus for each of them on top of the agreed fee.

Later the Indian Agent confronts me. Any money, he said, should go through him. It came close to a fist fight. Weird and anachronistic.

Cross Fade:

Between takes I am talking with one of the Elders. I ask whether it was a concern that they were displaying their medicine with public performances and now this film.

He laughs.

“We always change something.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s funny.”

He smiles.

“What you see is close...

...but no cigar.”

Jump cut:

Back to London and shooting the street scene.

Up and down Portobello. Fire hoses for the rain. A hard but smooth shoot.

Onward to days of editing — all to the rhythm of the music track I had wanted to use right from the storyboard beginning of this production.

The only problem? I couldn’t use it.

My producer had approached the Smiths — and they went vociferous. Never would their music be demeaned like that. For use in advertising?. Expletives expressed.

I finally emerged from the edit suite with a film I loved with a passion.

But it is choreographed to music I have no permission to use.

If they still say no, I’m fucked.

Dissolve:

“Show them the film.”

Reluctantly, my producer agrees. I argue that previously she had only asked permission in the abstract.

“It’s Showtime.”

They love it and happily agree. Even allowing me their original studio recordings so that we could remix and enhance the incredible guitar work of Johnny Marr.

Cut to:

The ad goes on air.

Something unprecedented happens.

The agency gets a cascade of calls asking for “spot times”—the exact breaks when Raindance will appear.

In those pre-internet days there was of course no streaming.

TV was broadcast only. If you didn’t see something, it was gone.

Now the public is asking for industry insider info.

Quite a trip.

Career high.

Fade to:

What I didn’t know then - it will mark the end of my agency career..

Soon afterwards I dream I am deep underwater. Moving fast amongst a mob of sharks. Thinking I am one of them.

Suddenly terrified. Realising that I am a dolphin. The odd one out.

Then dolphins appear. They rescue me.

It is all impossibly vivid.

Cinemascope.

Then a voice.

“Go and discover the world of the dolphins.”

A few weeks later I leave the realm of the advertising agency..

I embark on an Odyssey. Travelling the world. Swimming with dolphins.

For real.

Roll Credits.

Dramatic events don’t change - actions are indelible.

But the lens of perception can be changed.

It is all about who is directing - and the story they think they are telling.

The young tyro, living the story in real time—full of hopes, fears, blindly exhilarated.

Then there’s the experienced director who got hired for the re-make.

I’ve written, reviewed and edited Hey Pepe! over several days. Directors alternating and arguing.

One cut celebrating cool creation. Brave discovery. Another portraying a fool.

The executive producer pokes his head round the door, clutching the balance sheet, agitated about what this production really cost the cast and crew—in joy, pain and consequence.

Memory isn't an archive at all. It's an edit suite. Every viewing produces another version.

We can move the camera. Shift from P.O.V. camera to wide-shot - discover dialogue and reactions we missed the first time.

Sometimes the whole thing jumps genre.

The director’s cut is always in the present. The directorial decisions are choices in the now.

That’s where it get really interesting - setting the scene for the future.

Thanks for watching with me.

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Making Cat Sense is a serialized metaphysical California noir in which an anthropomorphic cat detective keeps an Atlas of Things Off the Map while investigating mysteries that official reality has forgotten.

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT 4

CAT KARMA

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 303

Every map is a territory of memory, bounded by the unknown.

Izaakisan’s Cat adores his car. Big. Blue. Beautiful. Marigold had said it suited him the day they found it in Calabasas.

She went “Ooh” when the old guy pulled back the gray tarp cover in his suburban garage.

They all got in and took it for a spin. The car purred. Cat purred. Marigold wriggled. The old guy pleased with the skill of Cat’s driving.

They got back to the burbs and struck a deal. Cat threw in his old Volkswagen. Perfect for the guy’s grandson.

Then down Topanga Canyon Boulevard to where the beach meets the Pacific.

The convertible took south, hugging the coast, speeding the curves, the ocean close and below.

They stopped at a cliff-top motel. Pacific filling the windows. A log fire painting their nakedness in flickering light.

Onward the next morning, chatting, laughing, Marigold touched her left ear and panicked.

“I’ve lost one of my diamond studs - they were my grandmother’s. I was sure I had them both this morning when we left.”

Cat pulled off the road. Held her.

“Let’s look in the car.”

They searched. Combing through the carpet of the footwell. Something twinkled in Cat’s eye. He picked up the diamond.

“Here it is, panic over.”

“Thank god!”

Marigold, still on hands and knees, looked up at him and then saw something under the dash and handed it to him.

“And look what I found - your car has a guru.”

Cat looked at the small metal disc he now held. A circular magnet with the portrait of a man. Big hair, big moustache, Indian.

“Who do you think he is?”

“Oh famous, he said things that are real are given and received in silence, and then never spoke again out loud for the rest of his life.”

“That was the whole sermon?””

“Well - he told his followers - don’t worry be happy.”

“I can go with that - put him back.”

They laughed, kissed and drove.

Marigold went into an excited rant about the workshops she was currently doing - guided hyperventilation as she called it - giving people revelations, making them bliss-out.

“Are you going to be one of my followers Cat?”

“Don’t try and guru me Marigold. I’m not a follower. More like a loving bodyguard - remember that guru’s get to be victims as well.”

She slid across the seat, crushing his whiskers in a prolonged kiss. He kept his eyes on the road.

“You are my rock Cat.”

He pulls in and parks at the Split Coconut, turns off the engine. Looks at the empty seat beside him.

He isn’t sure he has escaped Redondo Flats.

Or Marigold.

Inside at the bar Slim fixes him a Mind Bender. Cat watches him pour Kahlua over ice, floating vodka and the final soda fizz.

Cat sucks on the straw.

“Hey Slim, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Sure - hit me.”

Slim folded his tattooed forearms on the bar, and leans in. Magic Elvis on his t-shirt joined in.

“How come you didn’t tell me Marigold was up in those domes in the desert?”

“Ah Cat - just protecting you is all. After all that..”

“How did you know she is there?”

“C’mon, you know how Esmerelda is - she had a vision.”

“Yeah, I can buy that from her - but I don’t believe you Slim - there is something you are hiding - I can smell it - give.”

“O.K, O.K. - I heard it from someone else - Esmerelda and I are your friends - we didn’t want to..”

“Who told you?”

Slim moving closer to a whisper,

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Try me.”

“I heard it from someone else - in real world.”

“Who?”

Slim looks toward the empty end of the bar.

“My dealer.”

………..

MONSIEUR CHAT

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 7

Reading a map, a compass helps. Except the magnetic pole is drifting—the best part of a mile every week.

He made it over to Beverley Hills and found the discreet frontage of ‘Grand vin de Maurice’ - with its discreetly closed doors.

He buzzes. A bright female voice answers.

“Ah qui?”

“Izaakistan’s Cat to see Maurice Melville.”

“Oui, monsieur - veuillez entrer.”

The lock clicks and he is inside. A spacious temperature-controlled store. A flag-stoned floor that looks antique. Walls lined with artisanal wood racks of bottles, that lie behind glass - no price stickers.

A vivacious young woman in a pleated black dress that quietly screams ‘designer’ walks forward and offers her hand.

“Monsieur Chat, you are anticipated. This way please, Maurice awaits.”

She leads him to a door - behind the counter at the rear of the shop - onto a spiralling staircase.

Descending, she runs her hands expertly over Cat. A frisk so deft it is almost flirtation.

She ushers him into a small office dominated by a large desk, behind which is a small and very neat man seated in an outsized leather swivel chair.

“Maurice Melville at your service.”

He bobs briefly, not quite standing before sitting again.

“Please take a seat Monsieur.”

Cat sits in the simple dining chair opposite the desk. It puts him at a height disadvantage that doesn’t bother him.

Maurice lifts a cut-glass decanter of something deep and red.

“May I offer you a glass of this very fine Burgundy?”

“I don’t drink wine.”

“Quelle horreur! Such an omission on your part, if I may say so.”

“Let’s drop the Franglais Maurice. I checked you out. You’re from Minneapolis and your name is…”

“Please Mr Cat. Don’t remind me. Maurice is good for business - I enjoy him and I am so deep in role now that I have almost forgotten that autre personne.”

Maurice puts his thumbs into his braces. They are red with little dancing hares embroidered in white, over a disconcertingly green shirt. His brown silk jacket draped around his shoulders.

He smiles a big smile, running a hand through his coiffured hair.

“Please, let us not spoil my petite illusion.”

“I am in the disillusionment business.”

“Slim told me you are a friend in need. Why then do you wish to buy from my range of altered-state merchandise?”

“I don’t. I want to know how you know Marigold O’Brian - and what you know.”

Maurice’s hand slips into his jacket pocket and emerges holding a very small revolver, but then again, so is the distance between them.

“I think perhaps you are a dangerous cat. You have come to the wrong place.”

Maurice places the gun gently on his desk, and takes a sip of wine.

Cat takes it as a dare - lifts the pistol in a blink.

“Let’s play nice Maurice. I’m not here to spoil your fun - just to enjoy your intelligence.”

Cat empties the bullets out of the gun and then hands it back - Maurice chuckles.

“Quel chat!”

“I need to know about Marigold. Is Henry Samovar a client?”

“Do I detect a Liaison dangereuse - a ménage à trois perhaps?”

“Play nice Maurice - what do you know about her?”

“That she is radiant, bursting with light and love. She comes to me with a very exotic menu of needs - substances - for her ceremonies that I am happy to supply. She is Henry’s secret weapon.”

“What does that mean?”

“They call Harmonic Henry an avatar – but Marigold is the real deal and everyone who goes to the domes desires her - in an enlightened way of course.”

“She’s sexy as hell, for sure — but let’s get back to Henry.”

“I sell fabulously expensive wines. My client list overlaps somewhat with Henry’s and he converts them to his way of thinking.”

“Meaning what?”

“Have you been to his Redondo bank Mr Cat?”

“What of it?”

“I think that is his purpose. I took part in one of Marigold’s courses at the dome. Very enjoyable. Then Henry does his pitch - pulling in account holders.”

“To put their money in his bank?”

“Far more than that. Henry calls it a Cosmic Embassy. The pitch is account holders get a ‘Digital Soul’ backup.

If they die physically, their digital clone legally controls their corporate empires from inside the embassy.”

“Did you open an account?”

“Mon dieu, no. I am a drug dealer and I recognise any rap to create addiction.”

“You don’t like Henry do you Maurice?”

“I despise him Monsieur.”

“Why?”

“I will not tell you.”

Cat hears the girl from upstairs coming down the staircase. She emerges into the office holding a gold-plated AK-47.

“Mon cheri - that is not necessary. I believe Monsieur Chat is a friend and perhaps an ally.”

……..

SARDINIAN SIGHS

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 4

We can draw a map of intentional direction. There is another of synchronicities that draws us.

It was the last time Izaakistan’s Cat can remember being happy in an unencumbered spirit.

Their last long-haul trip together. Marigold driving the tiny Fiat away from the flat sand beach - back through the pine trees.

A few car lengths ahead, the heat forms pools of mirage liquidity on the road.

He watches a flight of swallows flying a few inches off the surface, some beside him, others gliding inches from the front fender. Synchronised swimmers in the heat-haze.

Cat knows they must have found a feast of insects. He imagines them gulping the guys who would otherwise be road-kill splatted on the radiator and windshield.

Seeing the swallows in their grace and beauty, companions on this drive - he experiences a moment of profound bliss, the beauty of it all.

Cat finds himself considering that life is so beautiful, it is almost unbearable, No wonder we look for negatives, relish the bad-news cycle—it is easier.

Marigold slowly picks up speed and the swallows move aside. Cat looks over the sill of the window and down at their continuing dance, beside the car.

They are matching its pace, moving in interweaving patterns. A gulp of tiny jet-fighters covering the ground at fist-height altitude.

He beams love to the swallows and says goodbye to them - as the car leaves the beach road and they head up into the mountains of Sardinia.

Moving from the high heat of the beach they rise through changing flowers and trees - shifting eco-systems - thankful the car is small enough to negotiate the tiny streets of the villages they pass through.

Cooler and misty they arrive at the ancient forest, park and walk hand in hand.

The concierge at their hotel had recommended it - proud to tell them of the Holm oak forest, she said is the most ancient in the Mediterranean - unkempt, unlogged, left to be wild, some of its trees a thousand years old.

It is a magical place, the oaks have an extraordinary presence - gnarled and impossibly twisted - they look like a crowd caught in dance amongst the boulders they co-exist with - bending around them.

They sat down on one of these stones. Cat kissed Marigold’s hand and they sat in contemplative silence.

Cat began to experience a strange sensation - a feeling of himself becoming impossibly light, his feet no longer touching the earth.

“Can you feel that?”

Marigold squeezed his hand tighter.

“Yes - be with me. Let go.”

The rocks beneath him no longer seem to matter.

He could go.

He knows he could.

He laughs.

Shakes his head.

“No.”

She smiles sadly.

“You’re frightened.”

He smiles back.

“No, I just can’t - I have things to do.“

“You don’t know what you are saying no to.”

Then — Cat felt the gravity of the situation with a thump. Back onto the stone.

Thinking of it now, driving back toward the Nine Lives, Cat wonders if that had been one of life’s banana skins, a crossroads he had skidded past.

What he really needs to be thinking about is how to break into a bank.

Then the voice in his head calls in.

“Keep moving.”

FADE TO BLACK

Thank you for reading Fake Fiction.

Izaakistan’s Cat returns next Friday.

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I have been inspired to re-post this because of a Note by kay genevieve quoting Marcel Duchamp :

For most of my working life I thought of myself primarily as a visual artist. Professionally I worked as an Art Director, while outside work I painted in oils, acrylics and mixed media, always trying to discover how images communicate before words begin.

Today my main creative practice is writing. Yet I have come to realise that I am still pursuing exactly the same question.

The images shown here come from one of my mixed-media series, incorporating painting, photography and digital processes. The techniques are now less interesting to me than the ideas behind them.

Looking back, I realise I wasn't really writing about painting at all. I was writing about perception. Thirty years later, that's still the question that drives everything I create.

The paintings were one experiment.

The stories are another.

DREAMS WITHOUT DIALOGUE

There was a pause after the big bang before anybody started talking. Or rather that after God had created Light and one could see Everything, there was a longish pause before he created the Word and one could say anything.

And in that pause, before one could think anything, you could of course feel everything. When you closed your eyes it was to dream without dialogue.

This sub-language mind exists in us all from the womb and from each of our ancestors back to that time before articulate culture. Where every image powerfully affected the senses without explaining itself. Pictures were not about meaning but about emoting.

We have evolved today to the point where everything we see has become in-coming data. Every image instantly becomes an explanation of itself because our minds are trained to insist. De-coding reality has become a survival instinct and every piece of art is a potential thesis.

Which is as it should be because that's how it is. But after a hard day’s de- coding at the cutting edge you get home and need to relax back to that other pre-thought mind. To soothe all the neglected feeling you have been doing in the background.

And that is what my pictures are all about. To beckon the viewer toward that other region of the mind, or at least to help tip the balance toward an ambience of feeling and away from the glare of thinking. Pictures which are not about meaning but sensing.

Artist’s Technique

The original works combined a variety of processes, including Liquitex on canvas, oil crayons, inks and resins; brush painting on mulberry paper; original photography; collage using found objects, metals and crystals; high-resolution scanning and digital painting; and archival giclée printing onto stretched canvas.

The techniques have changed over the years.

The experiment has not.

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Making Cat Sense is a serialized metaphysical California noir in which an anthropomorphic cat detective keeps an Atlas of Things Off the Map while investigating mysteries that official reality has forgotten.

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT THREE

GETTING SWEATY

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 312:

There are places that only exist while someone is looking for them.

The wind picked up on the way back from Pasadena. Izaakisan’s Cat feels it flare his nostrils. He tries to read what it has to say. It is warm and moist, with a persistent feel. Not hostile but deliberate.

Cat decides he is too much in his head - let’s stop at the gym on his way back to the boat. Let’s get physical.

The air in the basement of Lou’s Sweatclub is thick enough to chew. It smells of copper, stale ozone, and decades of dedicated human effort with no chit-chat.

Down here, the outside world stops. There are no sleek digital interfaces or clean magnetic-pulse weight cubes with bossy algo read-outs. Just raw mechanics and cold iron.

Cat nods to Lou - behind the jump, a high and weary laminate counter - working an industrial blender - knocking out one of his famous concoctions of raw eggs, molasses, milk and secret ingredients. After, thinks Cat, as he pads to his locker.

Back in the room he gets moving. Every wall is floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Here and there their silver is pitted but they still work. Reflecting sweating bodies from every angle. Lou believes in the power of vanity positively applied.

There are racks of solid cast-iron free weights but Cat is here for the machines. A panoply of vintage Nautilus equipment with shell-shaped cams that rotate heavily as the chain-and-pulley system lift slab weights up and down the guide rods with a brutal shuck-shuck sound.

Cat’s program is a dozen of these - working muscle groups but unlike most of the guys here - and they are mostly guys - not to failure, concentrating on posture and breathing instead - no distortions under too extreme effort.

He loves these old machines - ridiculously over-engineered and heavy duty with the vibe of being equipment for an armoured assault brigade.

Three sets of ten on each - he keeps moving, occasionally nodding a courtesy to someone who has just lifted an absurdly heavy bar.

Three machines in - on bicep curls - he felt her breathe on his neck,

“This is fun.”

Elbows pressed into the cracked vinyl rests he looks up into the mirror. She is right beside him, rubbing against his side - a full size feline - panther big - black fur glossy in the over-head fluorescents, green eyes smiling.

Cat drops the weight with a clang - something he prides himself on never doing. He stands and breathes, muttering to himself,

“Are you going to let your imagination do this to you?”

He pushes the idea down in his mind and moves on to the inclined bench press - and on through his usual routine.

After that he refused to look directly at her.

Every now and then a mirror caught the flick of a black tail.

A flash of emerald eyes.

The sound of claws on concrete that disappeared beneath the clatter of iron.

Looking only made it harder to know what was real.

He had once told Marigold when she was blissing about meeting machine elves on one of her trips.

“You’re playing with madness.”

“Not if other people see them as well.”

“Gotta beware group psychosis babes. Play but don’t succumb to absolute beliefs.”

Privately though it was another reminder of the question that never left him.

Did reality follow belief?

Or did belief merely follow reality?

Lou blended him a power drink, pouring it into a pint glass he takes from the fridge. It instantly frosts on contact with the warm gym.

“There you go Cat.”

“Thanks Lou.”

“You feeling O.K. - look like you’re carrying something.”

“Thinking too much - I’m on a tricky case.”

“Well - if you need a crew again you know where to come - we are always here for you if it gets heavy.”

Cat takes a gulp of the thick refreshment, laughs,

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

…………

CAT LICKS

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 81:

Even maps can get lost.

Sun is setting over yardarms as Cat approaches the Nine Lives, his boat belligerent in resisting the swell. The wind has picked up and is coming in directly from the sea.

On board he unlocks the cabin. Takes off his windbreaker and makes coffee, pours a shot of rum.

Downstairs in the living room he sits and considers - then, unlocks the cabinet beneath the bed and gently lifts the statuette out of its protective blanket.

He places it on the table. It is still just 17.895 inches tall.

Those green eyes though seem to flicker - and he hears someone in the cabin above.

Cat grabs the fancy 45 from a drawer and aims it at the companion way.

A pair of stack-heeled espadrilles descend the steps, followed by long thighs, then a tight and absurdly short mini-skirt - topped by the descending bounce of pink cashmere v—neck. Marigold steps into the room.

The gun goes back in the drawer and walks to her. They hug.

She nods to the table.

“I had to see this - my inheritance - I think it looks valuable.”

“Could be - but I thought it terrified you.”

“Not with you around dear heart.”

Marigold looks closely at the statuette, touches its head.

“Its beautiful.”

“Still no idea who sent it to you?”

“No - didn’t you find anything out? You’re so good at that.”

“Why does Henry think it is missing - that it never turned up?”

“A girl has got to have some secrets.”

She puts her arms around his neck.

“When I see you it’s like all the time since we were last together just melts away - into the now.”

Cat woke next morning with a jolt, suddenly aware that Marigold wasn’t in his arms.

He lay back. Slowly realising that she hadn’t been there at all. Feeling relief almost that it was only dream-real.

He gets up to make coffee. To look at the sky. To really wake up. Cup in hand he stood looking at the statuette.

“You had me there.”

His phone rings.

Unknown caller.

He lets it ring twice before answering.

“Cat.”

A face shines out of the screen. Dark haired handsome. Beaming success. Cat’s whiskers sense - certain he’s looking at Henry.

“Mr Cat - Henry Samovar - we have a mutual, or at least co-incidental interest.”

“Could be.”

“You seem to have wandered onto my map.”

“Where’s Marigold?”

Henry laughs softly.

“Meet me at the bank in Redondo Flats tomorrow. Three o’clock.”

“The bank?”

“Yes. Although it is more than a bank.”

“What is it?”

“A beginning.”

Cat closes his phone. Looks at the statuette.

……….

REDONDO BANK

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 132:

One map atop another. Seeking the unknown.

Izaakisan’s Cat returns to Redondo Flats, pulling in outside the bank - the Busy-Boy is still there, spinning on its tripod wheels to look at him.

Cat glances up and notices the signage has changed. It is now the Redondo Reserve.

The lobby is almost empty. A large cube of nothing. Floor, ceiling, walls, pure white - artfully lit by moving pastel spots cunningly hidden.

At the back wall another turnstile in the centre of an archway. Behind it a woman in a red uniform - beckoning - smiling.

Cat pushes into the turnstile - half-way through it locks and holds - the archway hums - before releasing him into the greetings of the woman in red. Friendly, but with a holstered Glock.

Up in the elevator and then ushered into Henry’s office. The face from the phone rises from behind the desk, wearing a blue seersucker suit, white shirt with Western tie.

“Izaakisan’s Cat, I’ve heard so much about you.”

A politician’s handshake.

“Where is Marigold?”

“Oh she’s doing her work at the Domes. I’m very generous to her. She’s very grateful to me - take a seat.”

“Then why does she need to be rescued?”

“Does she? The damsel in distress? Let me show you what we are doing here.”

Henry touches his desk. A hologram of Redondo Flats materialises. He gestures and it slowly turns.

The old town now a theme-park, at the centre of a sprawl of gleaming architecture.

Cat studies it.

“A wonderful display of corporate theatre - but it isn’t reality.”

Henry studies the hologram for a moment, almost fondly.

“Nothing exists unless it has been dreamt first.”

He lets the words hang in the air.

“The end of entropy. No descent into chaos.”

Cat looks at him.

“That’s your dream?”

“Much grander than that. This is for everyone.”

Henry gestures over the hologram and it releases a blaze of ultra-violet light.

Cat freezes in the sudden buzzing, glowing brilliance. The stripes in his fur fluoresce, whiskers go rigid - he is looking through a luminous fog.

The door behind him opens and the woman in red steps in, holding her Glock.

The UV blast finishes. Cat blinks.

Henry says quietly:

“Maybe you can see things from my point of view now.”

The light has left a residue.

Not on the room — on him.

Edges are wrong. Not blurred. Over-defined. As if every line in the world has been gone over twice in a harder hand.

Cat doesn’t move at first. He lets the sensation settle, catalogues it. Breathing steady. No panic. Panic writes bad notes.

Henry watches him, like a man observing an experiment.

“Well?” he says.

Cat looks past him.

The office is no longer an office in quite the same way. The desk is still there. The walls. The woman in red by the door, her Glock angled down but ready.

But there are overlays now.

Fine lines. Faint at first, then resolving — like grains of sand dancing on a vibrating plate, organising themselves into mandalas of some hidden frequency.

Arcs of brightness that pulse gently, each one tethered to something in the room.

Cat tilts his head.

The woman in red has three of them. One at the throat. One at the wrist. One just behind the left eye.

Henry has dozens.

Cat looks down at himself.

None.

“Fuck.”

“You are an oddity Mr Cat. You should join us. We could make a great team.”

Behind Cat, the woman in red shifts her weight. The tiny point behind her eye pulses brighter for a moment.

Cat turns. Looks directly at it.

She stiffens.

Cat steps closer anyway.

The point brightens in response, as if aware of him. As if it can see him seeing it.

“Everything mapped,” Cat murmurs. “Everything plotted.”

Cat smiles. Turns back to Henry.

“Maps can get lost.”

For the first time, Henry blinks.

“Not this one.”

Cat’s whiskers twitch, sensing hesitation.

Henry waves a palm and the hologram phase-shifts into a light show of countless luminous lines connecting millions of moving points. Paths in a four-dimensional model.

As he watches some brightening whilst others fade.

“Predictive modelling?”

Henry smiles.

“That would assume some uncertainty.”

“That’s not a map.”

Henry meets Cat’s eyes.

“No.”

Henry embraces the hologram in an expansive gesture.

“It’s a certainty.”

………..

MIRAGE TALKING

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 144:

The scale of the map shows your altitude.

They let him walk. Simple as that. Henry shook hands.

“I have no doubt our paths will cross again Mr Cat.”

The lady in red took him back down to the lobby - gave him a Redondo Reserve t-shirt as a going away present.

Cat looks at it, turns it over and reads the corporate slogan across the back.’Trust in certainty.’

The woman in red smiles sweetly.

“Everyone loves certainty.”

Cat shows his teeth.

“The only certainty is death.”

The woman in red is suddenly enthused.

“Oh Henry is working on that. He’s so clever - he is a guide to us all.”

She waves as he goes through the turnstile. Two Busy-Boys are polishing the white marble of the lobby.

Cat gets to his car and drives out of Redondo Flats into a setting sun. The steering wheel feels reassuring. The lines in his vision are fading - almost gone.

He speaks to himself.

“I think I have had enough of this place. Enough of this case, if that’s what it is.”

A voice in his head answers.

“You’re just a hangry Cat. Let’s eat. Meat.”

Ten miles out he spots the Mirage Diner and pulls in, following the neon arrow pointing down at a low building with a tin roof. Its faded stucco is the color of sun-bleached bone.

Desert-camo thinks Cat.

He enters and takes a booth overlooking the car lot. A waitress is right with him, pouring coffee.

“What’ll you have mister?”

“Double cheeseburger m’am.”

“Sure - and you can call me Maria.”

Waiting for the food, Cat goes over to a framed map on the wall by the door. It is titled ‘Sacred Aha Makhav Trails’. He watches as they twist here, there and everywhere across the landscape - apparently linking ancient water sources.

Maria comes up behind him, plate in hand.

“The local truckers say the desert ‘swallows’ things because modern roads were built over them without permission.”

“Thanks Maria.”

She follows Cat back to his booth and sets the burger in front of him. He eats ravenously.

Cat sits back and lets Maria collect his plate and pour another coffee. Sipping, he hears the approach of a low rumble then sees the growling appearance of a big SUV.

As it parks beside his convertible he reads the decal on its door.

‘Redondo County Sheriff - In Custodia Veritatis.’

Cat considers. ‘In the Keeping of Truth.’ Good luck with that.

The Sheriff and his deputy come into the diner, pulling off aviator shades. Tan shirts. Green pants. Holstered magnums. Non-regulation stetsons. Straight over to Cat they slide in opposite him.

“Howdy Cat. I’m Sheriff Barnaby Allison and this is my deputy Paul Running-Cloud.”

Maria is right there,

“Barney - good to see you both - coffee?”

“Thanks Maria - and let’s have some pie all around.”

He looks at Cat. Steely blue eyes. Removes his hat. Now a bald man with a perimeter of grey and matching moustache. Paul the deputy silently beside him. Black hair, dark watching eyes and a beak of nose.

“I want to know what business you got with Henry Samovar - is he your client? Heard you’re a P.I. of sorts?”

“No he is not my client. I thought he might be a lead.”

“What’s the case?”

“Missing person - but I don’t think they are missing any more, so I’m headed for home - got hungry on the way.”

Maria returns, sets out plates of pie. Pours coffee.

“Good place you chose to eat - ain’t that so Maria? Been coming here for years.”

“Maybe not much longer Barney. Henry is pressuring us to sell.”

“You gonna hold out?”

Maria smooths her hair, looks at Cat and then back at the Sheriff.

“It can get unlucky to do that - and it’s good money.”

Maria drifts off. Barney forks a mouthful. The deputy exuding deep silence watches Cat.

“Sheriff, what does she mean unlucky?

“There have been accidents - rumours - nothing provable.”

“Is Henry your boss?”

“Don’t get smart with me Mr Cat. Henry is big money, buying everything he can. Bringing in new people. I doubt I will win another election.”

“Then why did you want to question me.”

“You are an interesting stranger. Besides, you were inside the bank. They keep that place tightly secure. I’ve never been inside it.”

“You’re not missing much. Pretty sterile place.”

“That so? I checked in the State capitol. It has three sub-basements and they have it registered as a data-centre.”

“He said he has big plans for Redondo Flats.”

“Did he talk about the domes?”

“Not really - why?”

“That’s where it all started. Harmonic Henry and his healing centre. Lot of the new people around are his disciples - they seem to think of him as some kind of prophet.”

“I don’t get the impression you like him.”

“I’m old school is all. Change is coming, but I still have a job to do - and this desert has a way of resisting control. It is still wild. Something Henry likely doesn’t understand. What’s the name of your missing person?”

“She’s not missing anymore - she works for him at the dome, turns out she is back there.”

The deputy grunts.

“Marigold O’Brian - his witch!.”

FADE TO BLACK

Thank you for reading Fake Fiction.

The Cat will be back next Friday.

Share FAKE FICTION - by John W Jolly

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Making Cat Sense is a serialized metaphysical California noir in which an anthropomorphic cat detective keeps an Atlas of Things Off the Map while investigating mysteries that official reality has forgotten.

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

ACT TWO

LAWYERS LIE

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP

Entry 7:

Running around all over the map. Just as lost as with no map at all.

Izaakisan’s cat woke late, yawned, stretched and got out of bed. Of course he looks straight at her. She looks back.

He walks across the room and strokes her head, his paw tingling as he sees the saucer of cream is clean empty.

Cat looks around for signs of a stray in the night, sniffing the floor. Wouldn’t be the first time one of the local felines had come aboard. Nothing.

Pulling on some shorts, he goes up on deck and unleashes hell on the training post. Punches, kicks, and full claw sharpening. Five minutes of frenzy and he is fully back in his body.

Down again to the galley he scrambles eggs, pops toast, grates cheese and mixes himself a protein shake, takes it all back to the deck to eat ravenously.

As he eats he watches a group of pigeons on the jetty next to his boat. Feasting on a carton of French fries someone had dropped.

Just outside this feathered gang stands a solitary seagull. Every few seconds one of the pigeons throws the gull a chip to keep him at bay. Cat chuckles,

“Glad to see everyone playing their advantage.”

Back to the galley he washes the dishes in the sink, returns to the hold and dives into the bathroom.

He washes, grooms, preens his whiskers, and emerges to don a grey flannel suit over a white t-shirt. No hat today.

Going to the statue he tells her,

“I think we need to hide you away while I am out.”

Wrapping her in a blanket he carefully locks her away in the cupboard beneath the bed, and makes some calls before leaving the boat.

Marigold, Marigold’s mother, the lawyer. No answer from any of them.

“O.K. Mr Eugene Prenders, you’re first today - let’s have a little face-to-face.”

Cat carefully locks the cabin as he leaves and heads up to his convertible. The water calm, the smell of diesel, people being boat people and in the distant sky a flotilla of pelicans flying in improbable elegance.

As he got behind the wheel and started the engine he got that voice in his mind again,

“I think I almost like you. Don’t leave me locked up too long.”

He took a deep breath. Was this just his imagination playing games? If it let him believe the statue can talk to him then she surely would, and right on cue she did,

“Be a careful cat. Remember that lawyers lie.”

Cat put the car in gear and pulled away and muttered to himself,

“Behave, and let me be who I was the day before this started.”

An hour of traffic and then the The Olympic-Century Pavilion. A low-slung, four-story concrete bunker built in 1974, squatting on the asphalt edge where Century City fizzled out into West LA.

While the mega-buckians north of them looked out at the Hollywood Hills from the Century Plaza Towers, the tenants of the Pavilion stare through cracked Venetian blinds at the gridlocked commuter traffic on Olympic Boulevard.

He walks in to find it is the kind of building where the directory in the lobby still used plastic push-in letters.

Half of these listings were likely for disbarred chiropractors, late-night bail bondsmen, and lawyers who took their retainers in cash.

Cat takes the elevator, walks a silent corridor and finds Eugene Prenders office - it says so in gold letters on the glass of its door. Attorney at law.

He turns the handle and goes straight in to find an empty outer office where there might once have been a secretary but now holds a musty aroma as way of greeting.

There is a desk with an anachronistic intercom and a vase of very plastic roses. Also a worn carpet with a couple of waiting chairs, beyond them a door marked Private.

Cat knocks. Silence. He goes in anyway, to find a trashed scene. Filing cabinets overturned, papers everywhere, a smashed and ancient PC and a feeling of fear.

Looking around, kicking the papers on the floor, no expectation of finding anything useful, he unearths something odd enough to stand out. A newspaper from 1890, The Liverpool Echo. Hey what?

Cat rights the office chair, sits down, where there were drawers now gaping wounds, whole drawers removed and thrown across the room.

He looks at the front page of the ancient newspaper. February 10th 1890. The front page headlining,

SIOUX LAND CESSATION OPPORTUNITY FOR EMIGRATION AND WEALTH IN THE NEW WORLD.

Flipping pages, without interest until he came upon Shipping News with a column circled in red marker;

‘The steamship Pharos docked today from Alexandria carrying over 130,000 Ancient Egyptian cat mummies with a total weight of nineteen tonnes. To be sold at auction.’

“Goddamit”

Cat folds the newspaper and pockets it - cleans everything he has touched and goes back down to the lobby.

This time he finds the janitor, mooching at the back of the lobby, and asks,

“Hey there, what can you tell me about Eugene Prenders, the lawyer? He isn’t answering the door to visitors.”

The janitor looks him up and down, spits in his bucket and holds his mop handle across his body. The Cat considers right back at him with a stone cold stare. Just a kid really.

“C’mon, be nice, I need answers kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.”

“O.K. - but what about Prenders?”

“He’s a shyster - there are better lawyers even in this building.”

“I need him - where would I look? - you got a directory - a home address?”

“I ain’t the manager - but I knows things.”

“Well how about telling me?”

“Don’t see no sugar on the table mister.”

Cat takes a fifty out of his pocket, folds it down its length and offers it.

The kid grabs the bill but Cat doesn’t let go.

“Sure, heard he lives out of an old Airstream RV over West Los Angeles just south of Olympic, near the 405/10 freeway intersection.”

“Thanks”

Cat releases the note, and the janitor - leaves the lobby and heads back to his car.

As he leaves the building he spots a Busy-Boy scooting around the corner and out of sight.

Cat finds the intersection. A dank area full of noise, auto-body repair shops, wholesale warehouses and windowless manufacturing blocks.

An RV will blend seamlessly into the background here amongst tow-trucks and commercial vans but he finds it in less than half an hour - parked opposite a 24-hour tire shop.

He parks and approaches, thinking he sees the whole vehicle rock a couple of times - but then again maybe not.

When he gets up to the RV it rocks again violently. Cat pulls the door open - he finds Ramirez astride a man on the floor, hitting him and screaming,

“Tell me where it is at before you die motherfucker!”

A left paw flashes four times in under a second. Hitting that vital point at he base of the skull. Ramirez collapses on his victim.

Cat quickly rolls him off - that weight alone could kill. Out cold, Ramirez never knew what, or who, hit him.

He kneels down beside the prone and bloodied Eugene Prenders Esq. A black man with white hair and probably distinguished features when upright and not in tears.

“You saved my life..you saved my life.”

Cat lifts him into a seated position and then onto his feet,

“I’ll save it again if you tell me what I need to know.”

He guides Prenders to the sink to let him clean the blood off his face and goes to check the comatose Ramirez - breathing but not going to be conscious any time soon.

Then he clocked the gun on his hip - a 1911 automatic screaming for attention.

It looked like it had won first prize at a Las Vegas beauty pageant for bad decisions. Chrome polished bright enough to shave in. Ivory grips carrying a hula girl who smiled like she’d never seen a gun before.

Further investigation found a wallet full of plastic and a good wad of bills. Cat put the billfold back sans the money. Expenses.

Cat turns back to Prenders who now has a fifth of bourbon in hand - alternately drinking from the bottle and running a forefinger around the inside of his mouth,

“I’m going to need a dentist.”

“I’d say that’s an upgrade on mortician.”

The bourbon bottle gestures,

“Is he dead?”

“Nope, but he won’t be trouble for some time.”

Prenders is recovering enough to get righteous,

“Who are you?”

“A Cat with questions - tell me about Henry Samovar.”

“I’ve never met him.”

“That isn’t what I asked - is he your client?”

“Maybe - I don’t know - are you going to show me some I.D.?”

Cat looks at the dancing girls in his hand, one blonde the other brunette on either side of the grip on the heavy automatic. He cocks the hammer.

“Let’s start again. You sent a package to Marigold O’Brian with some bullshit about an inheritance - why?”

Eugene Prenders stares at the gun,

“You can’t just shoot me.”

Cat smiles, flicks his head toward Ramirez,

“I’ve got the perfect fall guy over there on the linoleum.”

Eugene is now showing the whites of his eyes all around - all around fear,

“I didn’t look inside the package. That was a strict instruction. It was an anonymous cash transaction. I don’t know anything about the addressee - then this goon turns up screaming that it didn’t arrive.”

Cat nods the gun,

“And what was with the old newspaper I found in your office - shipping news about the good ship.”

Prenders ponders the pointing barrel,

“You’ve been there?”

“Answers not questions. What’s the interest in Mummies?”

“My hobby that’s all - I’m a member of The Most Ancient Reenactments Society. Kind of amateur dramatics. We are doing a Victorian dinner party scene. They were crazy for Mummies in those days - threw parties to ceremonially unwrap them.”

“The Mummies on that boat were cats.”

“Sure - they ground them up for fertiliser. Even put them in quack medicines. Some likely saved for museums and such.”

“How does Samovar fit into all of this.”

“I don’t know. I never heard of him until that giant Mexican turned up.”

“Yeah, well he’s not going anywhere until he comes to - no way you and I are going to move him off this thing.”

“You own this vehicle.”

“I live in it.”

“Sure - but is it registered to you?”

“Not precisely, no.”

“O.K. you got someplace else to go?”

“A cousin in Chicago.”

“Grab anything identifiable - I’ll drive you to LAX - I still have questions.”

………

HOUSE CALLS

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP

Entry 56:

The power to imagine is not trivial. It is awesome. It turns any inner movie into confirmable reality. Only by keeping the observer in place can we use it without succumbing to the lurking trickster.

Esmerelda Pico once told Cat that she loves his voice. She said it’s deep and slow. Like a Russian. A language he doesn’t speak.

Right now he wants to talk to her but - Nyet - there is no way to call her. She thinks cell phones are bad ju-ju.

Maybe, and they don’t always help. Marigold was still not picking up. Not answering messages. Radio silence.

Driving and thinking, about what it was like before. When there was no net to hang out on and co-presence. Pay phones? The land-lines? Before them?

Maybe people cultivated a kind of intuition - he smiles to himself - tele-empathy? - to coincide at the right co-ordinates.

“Or maybe they just went looking.”

He arrives at the Split-Coconut mid-morning. The place is quiet. Slim is cleaning tables. Replacing candles. His vest is tie-dyed today.

“Hey Cat - you still looking for Esmerelda?”

“Yup - she been in?”

Slim stops wiping surfaces.

“Here last night doing readings. She told me Jupiter has thrown my chart out of balance. That’s heavy man - that planet weighs over twice as much as all the others put together.”

Cat takes a seat, picks up a menu.

“How about a Tunacado sandwich and a glass of orange juice?”

“Coming right up. She said to tell you she’d be at home today if you called in.”

It was a good sandwich. He ate fast and left cash on the plate. He called to Slim,

“Thanks Slim - don’t worry, planets gotta keep moving.”

The convertible cruised toward Nowita Place off Lincoln Boulevard - about as far from the sea as you can get and still be in Venice.

Negotiating the non-grid, layered streets of accumulated lives. Pausing at cross streets for that unspoken etiquette of assertive but not rushed.

Arriving at Esmerelda’s bungalow, he spots her bicycle on the porch, the drawn curtains and its modesty amongst the curated wealth of status homes around here.

Cat lifts and applies the wrought iron knocker to its purpose, and the door is opened immediately by those big brown eyes. She is wearing a blue turban of wrapped silk with a motif of silver stars.

“Ah Cat, I felt you coming.”

“Esmerelda, glad to find you - I have a question.”

She takes his arm and they walk into the living room, darkly lit by a chandelier from the wood-beamed ceiling on this sunny day. The whole place smells gently of beeswax overlaid with pungent desert sage.

“I was just smudging the place, clearing the energy after the last client.”

Cat peruses the mesquite wood coffee table. The crystal ball, the deck of mysterious cards, slightly incongruous amongst the ranch-style décor.

A pair of oatmeal linen sofas frame the table on a handwoven rug that covers the centre of the terracotta tiled floor.

Esmerelda takes her heritage seriously. She always claims descent from Santiago Pico, one of Alta California’s old families.

Cat had often wondered whether this was part of her act, or whether a little Pico money had actually survived.

He can see in her the plausible ancestry of old Santiago and his Afro-Latinx wife.

Esmerelda’s kaftan floats as she sits - patting the sofa for Cat to join her. He moves some cushions from the other sofa and sits opposite her, leaning in,

“Ever heard of a healing centre out in the desert near a place called Redondo Flats - run by a guy called Henry Samovar?”

Bangles jangle as she places her hands on her thighs.

She frowns.

“This is about Marigold isn’t it?”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard she was out there delivering out-of-body stuff to the rich and famous. Harmonic Henry runs the show.”

“Why’d you never tell me that?”

“Protecting you dear heart. Hoping you’d move on after all this time. I didn’t think you two were in touch anymore.”

Cat sighs.

“She needs my help.”

He fishes a pocket and opens his phone, showing Esmerelda a photo of the statuette - green eyes blazing at the camera.

“Lordy! Isn’t that on your boat?”

Cat sits back and looks at the chandelier. It annoys him.

“Yeah. What can you tell me?”

Esmerelda lifts a vaporiser from the table - clicks it into action and pauses to puff,

“You’ve got yourself an Ancient Egyptian goddess - Bastet - but you should know all this old cat mythology.”

Cat strokes his whiskers. They stand proud.

“I’ve always swerved the cat history stuff, remember I was a found stray kitten without a past. Always, just me here now.”

Esmerelda is on another exhale,

“Didn’t she tell you her name? Isn’t she talking to you?”

Cat looks down at the crystal ball, admiring the fractures deep in its quartz,

“Only in my imagination, in my head, and the only name I got was a throat vibration that kinda went brzzzzt.”

Esmerelda gets up and crosses to him, Sitting beside Cat, she puts an arm around his shoulders and whispers into his ear,

“I don’t think this is about Marigold needing help. This is about you Cat.”

……..

CONDO MOM

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP

Entry 312:

There are places that only exist while someone is looking for them.

Mothers love flowers. A gas-station bunch of them lie on the turquoise upholstery of the passenger seat as Izaakisan’s Cat makes his way to Pasadena.

He pulls up outside Peggy O’Brian’s condo. A white-painted stucco block, topped with a gabled roof of red clay mission tiles.

He enters through the central open-air courtyard, cooled by a trickling tiled fountain, surrounded by potted citrus trees, blooming bougainvillaea.

Cat climbs the external staircase—there is no elevator—walks through deep archways to her door and presses the buzzer.

Peggy squeals with delight at the bouquet he immediately offers,

“Ooh but you were always such a charmer Cat - come in - it’s lovely to see you.”

They enter the hyper-tidy living room. Comfortable chairs. A plasma screen showing a golf tournament with the sound turned off. Music plays softly on a device hidden somewhere.

Memento shelves carefully arranged. A silver framed shot of Marigold as a cheerleader. Another of Barry - Peggy’s late husband - in uniform.

“Let’s sit on the balcony. I’ll make some tea.”

Cat strolls over to the glass table in the sun, surrounded by potted plants out there enjoying it. He picks up a citrus scent, looks around and spots a tiny orange tree with miniature fruit.

The tea tray arrives. Peggy pours into fine china cups. It’s the real thing - she uses a strainer. The silver pot has a matching milk jug. Instead, Cat opts for a thin slice of lemon from the perfect little plate with gilt edging.

Peggy looks at him with Marigold’s eyes, amplified by spectacles - he can easily imagine that grey hair being vibrant red again.

“What news do you have of my daughter?”

“Only that I thought she might be here.”

“Her plans changed. She’ll come when she needs me, not before.”

“You seem very accepting.”

“Well - yes - I came to realise long ago that Marigold has a gypsy’s heart. I think she’s a throwback to old Declan O’Brian who emigrated here so long ago.”

“I remember the story - he was a groom at a stately home in England wasn’t he?”

“Yes, near Liverpool, but of course he was originally from Limerick.”

“You’ve spoken with Marigold?”

“Just messaging. And you? I thought you were long apart?”

“She’s asked for my help with something. Out of the blue.”

“She called and you ran.”

“I’m here to help, that’s all.”

“Marigold always had you wrapped around her little finger.”

“I’m not sure about that exactly. I loved her.”

“I thought you were good together - but you shouldn’t put a woman on a pedestal Cat. They are just people - and you understand people don’t you?”

Izaakisan’s Cat likes to think he is immune to embarrassment but he felt a prickle of buried truth.

“Peggy, have you ever heard of Redondo Flats?”

“No dear. More tea?”

FADE TO BLACK

Some stories are true.

Some are merely accurate.

See you next Friday.

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Making Cat Sense is a serialized metaphysical California noir in which an anthropomorphic cat detective keeps an Atlas of Things Off the Map while investigating mysteries that official reality has forgotten.

ACT 1 ACT 2 ACT 3 ACT 4 ACT 5 ACT 6 ACT 7 ACT 8 ACT9

Nekodō - The Way of the Cat - 猫道

ACT ONE

CALL THE CAT

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 17:

Places disappear twice. Once from the ground. Once from memory. The second disappearance is the permanent one.

Behold. Redondo Flats pinned under a sombrero sun. Its one main street twitching in the heat haze, as though wanting to run away to nowhere.

Which is about what it does anyway.

A one-street, one-horse town in heat, deep shadows hiding beneath its raised side-walks, two-storey brick and timber stores, just like the good old-timey days that are now a-changing. Redondo Flats is on its way to becoming a somewhere.

Under the candy-striped awning of the newly arrived Cake Surgery Café sits Izaakisan’s Cat.

If you ignored the striped fur and the tail threading the café chair, he looks like any middle-aged private-eye dressed for trouble in a linen suit and Panama hat.

Ignoring Izaakisan’s cat, however, is something that is very hard to do unless he wants you to.

His whiskers twitch as he watches the street through amber sunglasses, glancing on the glass and steel newcomer opposite - the old County Bank upgraded to modernity.

The bank is open, but it gives no sign of visible life. A single Busy-Boy stands on its tripod wheels at the bank’s I.D. Turnstile, glinting darkly in impassive importance.

Cat follows its attention as it turns from him to something approaching from up the street. There she is, Marigold grooving down the sidewalk toward the café.

His nose twitching - searching a scent it hasn’t felt in over a year. The last thing she had said jumps into consciousness,

“I will never let you go but I cannot stay.”

And then she just blinked out, until the urgent message to meet her here. Today. Now.

Her curls are flowing as she walks, slinking in striped dungarees that float around her body as she moves, in his eyes enhancing rather than disguising lithe sexiness.

She is pulling her ‘Granny’ - a shopping bag on wheels plastered with love heart stickers. One of her quirks he recalls, looking forward to old-age and release from the constant attention she generates.

Marigold plonks herself into the chair opposite.

She smells exactly like a year ago.

Time, apparently, had been keeping one or two things to itself.

“Thanks for being here Cat.”

“Good to see you again.”

“Is it?”

“Let’s find out - what are you drinking?”

“Nothing, I am fasting today.”

“O.K.”

Cat sips his espresso. She gives him a crinkly smile,

“I see you’re still drinking liquid metal.”

“We never did agree about coffee.”

Marigold puts her hand into her dungarees bib pocket and places a postcard face down on the table between them.

In childish block letters it reads; CALL THE CAT!

“Did you send this?”

“No.”

“Turn it over.”

He flips it with a flash of extended claw to reveal a sepia photograph of Redondo Flats from long ago. Busy sidewalks. The road with a dry dirt surface. Horse riders and buggies, and centre scene Izaakisan’s cat grinning at the camera, one paw proudly on the hood of a Model-T, a six-gun at his hip.

“That’s weird. I don’t remember posing for that.”

“Gets weirder - very next day I got a letter from a lawyer. About an inheritance. A package arriving by USPS.”

“Who’s dead?”

“That’s the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Nobody I know.”

“You asked the lawyer - right?”

“Yeah - I called him - but no answer.”

“Can I see the letter?”

“Got a photo of it - here I’ll message it to you.”

Marigold takes out her phone and those dextrous thumbs fly. Cat feels his pocket vibrate.

“And the package?”

“It arrived and scared me - that’s when I messaged you. I knew I really needed your help. The postcard was right.”

“What was in the package?”

“Granny has it - I’ll show you.”

Marigold pulls her trolley bag close and opens its lid.

He can just see a brown paper wrapped bundle swathed in string.

“Not here - let’s go somewhere without other eyes - where you living?”

She looks down, flips the lid of the bag shut,

“At a healing centre just outside town, I just finished running a retreat - we can go there.”

Marigold and the Cat get up from the table. The Busy-Boy watches them carefully.

……….

TRIPPING

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 1:

Mystery is what’s left when you have all the answers..

They walk to the Cat’s convertible parked outside Harvey’s Hardware and climb in - Granny thrown onto the back seat - and drive to the edge of town to find Marigold’s pick-up.

Cat follows her as she leads him out into the desert and onto winding dirt roads until they approach a gleaming white geodesic dome.

Getting closer Cat sees that it is ringed by identical but smaller domes as though the whole place is some kind of constellation. They park side by side and Marigold retrieves Granny.

She takes him into the big dome. Streaming sunlight filters through stained glass windows luxuriating on a modernist interior of soft furnishings and rugs with a large bronze Buddha at its centre.

Marigold walks across the vast space to the open-plan kitchen and gets a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. Pours them each a glass. Cat sips,

“Quite a place. You live here?”

She extends her arms in an all embracing gesture, giggling and skips close to kiss him on the cheek,

“I’ve got one of the satellites. I’ll show you later. This is the main centre where the group work happens, and Henry lives.”

Cat steps back, suspicious,

“Henry?”

Marigold dances away from him and sits cross legged in front of the Buddha,

“Yes - Henry designed the place after smoking Bufo - you know, Sonoran Desert toad venom. He built it all by following his vision questing.”

Cat looked around.

“Must’ve been an architectural toad.”

“One of the goddess’s gifts to humble humans. The retreat we just finished was with another - an ayahuasca ritual. Henry is a gifted shaman and spiritual guide.”

Izaakisan’s Cat looks up around the dome’s vastness, noting the staircase that follows the curve of its circularity to reach an upper gallery level, glimpsing doors beyond and a big brass gong hanging from an elaborately carved wooden frame.

“You’re helping run a shamanic church Marigold? I hope it pays well.”

She giggles,

“You’re always such a cynic.”

Wandering around, he runs a claw around the top of a quartz crystal bowl, the largest of a set amongst the cushions. A deep ringing octave oscillates around the dome, somehow emphasising that it contains just the two of them.

“No - I am always such a cat. Where is Henry at?”

Marigold lifts her shoulders and drops them in a huff,

“He’s away in Las Vegas visiting his wife and kids. Nobody is here right now. Just you and me.”

Cat moves close to her, looking down with concern,

“Kinda remote place for a girl on her own don’t you think, out here on some cult ranch?”

She’s done it again. Cat knows he is rising to the old instinct, to look after her - but then there is always someone who wants to.

Marigold eyes smiling up at him,

“No I am safe - the Escareno brothers run security, they live in a couple of trailers over the way. Henry trusts them.”

“Uh huh.”

She stands up, squeezes his paw and then skips to get her trolley bag, wheeling Granny back to him - takes the package out, places it on a small table.

She kneels down and starts pulling on string.

“You already opened this, right?”

She stops, stares up him with that deep look, the one with the forehead wrinkling and dancing freckles.

“I only peeked. It freaked me out. It has eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“You’ll see.”

Cat’s ears prick and the fur on his hackles rise. He spins to the dome’s entrance - the heavy Spanish style double doors they had left open.

“Put it back in Granny. Quick. Someone is coming.”

The doorway fills with a man built like somebody had stacked refrigerators inside a T-shirt.

Clearly a pumper of iron but with a giant belly. A confident three hundred pounds. Desert combat boots. Chinos. Grubby t-shirt. Slicked hair, and holding a pump shotgun aimed straight at Cat.

Marigold jumps to stand between them,

“It’s OK Ramirez - he is an old friend of mine.”

Ramirez grins some gold inlays but keeps pointing the gun,

“Boss know he’s here?”

“No, no - I just ran into him in town.”

“You been Redondo Flats?”

“Sure, Henry said I should if I felt like it.”

“That so?”

A taller man comes through the door, slim and ripped - the Cat senses an older brother - a smoother expression and a clean t-shirt. Could be the brains of the family. No shotgun on this one. An automatic still tucked in the waistband of his chinos, which he draws as he speaks,

“Is your convertible outside amigo?”

Cat smiles revealing pearly incisors but Marigold gets words out first,

“Ramone - I was just explaining - Cat is a pal of mine - I just bumped into in Redondo and brought him back in case he would like to join the temple.”

Ramone isn’t a smiler,

“Then he needs to come back when the boss is here. Time to vamos amigo. Take your old-school automobile and go make an appointment.”

Cat eyes them both pleasantly,

“Sure - but I’d like to finish my chat with Marigold, and my lemonade.”

Cat holds up his glass, tinkles the ice.

The brothers eye him narrowly. Ramone nods his automatic,

“O.K. bro. You got an hour. We’ll be watching.”

They turn to leave, the fat one calling over his shoulder,

“And no fucking!”

Cat turns to Marigold,

“What the fuck, are you a prisoner here?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“This looks a bad situation.”

“The brothers just took a dislike to you - you do have that reaction with some people as I recall.”

“What about your package - that is why you got me out here isn’t it?

“Take it with you, please Cat.”

“Come with me.”

Marigold flaps her arms, kind of embracing the dome.

“I can’t, I’m looking after the place - but when Henry gets back I am planning a stay with my mother. Next week. She always said that you would look after me. Remember? Call me there - you still got her number?

“Sure.”

Marigold gives him a tight hug and makes him promise. He wheels Granny out to the car, removes the package and places it gently into the trunk - then takes off toward the highway.

Curiosity killed the cat they say. That one always makes him laugh. Out of sight of the geodesics he pulls over and opens the trunk, takes hold of the package and unravels its wrappings.

It is heavy in his hands as he removes the string, releasing brown paper wrapper.

Then unwinds layer after layer of bubble wrap to reveal a shape swathed in dirty linen bandages.

Every cat sense kicks in. He smells antiquity. Beneath that, something harder to name—a feeling of ambiguous knowing.

As the bandages come away the first reveal is a pair of perky black ears and recognition jolts.

Claws out he rips away the rest of the linen.

He hisses, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

A smooth black stone sculpture of a cat. Seated. Alert. Reminiscent of a sphinx. Around its neck, embedded somehow in the stone - a heavy gold necklace.

At its centre, resting on the cat’s chest - a scarab beetle carved from some dark yellow and vibrant stone.

And yes - it does have eyes - green gems that by some sculptor’s art seem to radiate a disconcerting aliveness.

He ponders, looking at it - feeling it somehow - swathes it again and positions it in the trunk so it won’t roll around on the long drive back to his boat at the marina.

The convertible rolls onward and rejoins the highway. Cat thinking through the day on the four hour journey home.

After sunset, headlights pierce the night. A voice in his head that feels like a memory, but not his own. Someone else’s,

“Don’t let them finish the map.”

……

MOONLIGHT MARINA

ATLAS OF THINGS OFF THE MAP - Entry 23:

All things are connected in diverse, mysterious ways. Augury beckons from anything about anything of which it reminds. There is nothing that is not a sign to something else.

Close to the Marina and home, Cat pulls in to the Split Coconut and parks so that he can keep a whisker on the car, feeling a strange responsibility for its cargo.

The lot smells of recent rain, neon and moonlight reflecting off wet hardtop as he walks to the door and through into the boho groove. The place is as busy as he expected.

Squeezing a seat at the bar he looks around - see if there is anyone useful around.

“What you having dude?”

Cat turns back to the voice at the bar to find the barman grinning at him.

A skinny apparition with red rimmed eyes, shaved head with a full beard. Sporting a batik vest that proudly showcases intricately tattooed arms with a koi carp motif. Told him once he had them done by a Japanese master in Seoul.

“Hi Slim, I’ll have a White Russian - extra cream.”

“Sure, a cat’s gotta purr - right?”

Slim takes a glass, slams it into the sink full of ice and then hits it with two shots of vodka, a measure of Tia Maria and begins gently pouring double-cream over the back of a spoon to layer it to the top.

Cat takes the cold glass, sips,

“Thanks Slim, just what I need.”

“Tough day?”

“Interesting let’s say - do me a favour - can you let me have a trash bag?”

“Huh? Ok - whatever.”

Slim drops below the bar and comes back up with a folded black plastic fistful and hands it over.

“You sure are a strange cat my friend.”

“Needs must Slim, ours not to question why.”

Slowly sipping, Cat peruses the Split-Coconut. A hip crowd at small tables all around under a roof festooned with all manner of found items and mementos.

A pair of bongos catches his eye, dangling between plastic coconut lampshades. He remembers Carlos, a brilliant percussionist with rhythms that accompanied his spontaneous poetry recitals of peace and love.

Shot dead outside one night in the parking lot after one such recital. It had taken Cat six months to find the perps. A pair of Belgian fascists with a coke dealing habit. He had failed to get their true motivation before it all ended.

The memory jolts him back to the case in hand. Turning again he calls Slim over,

“Hey Slim, I don’t see Esmerelda, she been around?”

“Not for a few days - tell her you looking?”

“Sure - thanks - be seeing you.”

Cat returns to his car and drives on down to the marina, careful to observe the speed limits and thankful that the old convertible allows him to enjoy slow cruising.

He remembers the days when a skilled and observant driver could move at ridiculously high rates on these streets and never catch a citation. Too many eyes abound in these strange days.

Parking up for the long walk to his pier he opens the trunk and carefully slips the bundle of rags into the black plastic bag from the bar, ties it off and carries it toward his boat.

He makes his way past the floating big money, the insane yachts splendid in continental design, improbable helicopters perched here and there that always make him wince.

Cat goes on past toward the boon dock of Basin A, near the industrialised edge of Ballona Creek.

Getting closer he passes the catamaran of Joey and Billy docked beyond the billionaires but still amongst the comfortable money of pristine white fiberglass hulls and polished stainless steel superstructures.

They are out in lounge chairs, drinking cocktails and basking in the moonlight. Billy, a little drunk, yells out,

“Hey Cat whatcha got there man?”

Cat looks them over. Matching pink shorts and floral shirts. Shiny eyes. He give them some teeth. Joey throws in,

“Garbage in, garbage out man.”

A cascade of curses flow through Cat’s brain as he gives them a friendly wave,

“Have one on me boys.”

They clink glasses and laugh, and he walks on. The harbour’s water changes from clean to slickly oily, it carries a permanent rainbow sheen of leaked diesel oil, floating plastic trash, and clumps of dark green kelp lazily bump against the dock.

His boat, The Nine Lives, rolls gently, a converted tuna with a rust streaked deep-v hull, a converted commercial fishing relic on the edge of a playground it can’t quite join.

Its wheelhouse is perched high up and far forward. Original thick rectangular windows intact. Above it the Crow’s Nest, tall skeletal. Good for scanning the far horizon and home now to a modern marine radar dish.

Cat climbs aboard onto the poop deck, now an open-air living space with teak folding chairs and a charcoal barbecue tied down with bungee cords.

At the stern and firmly secured - a thick cylindrical wooden trunk fitted with three wooden arms and one curved leg. All deeply scratched.

He moves forward and unlocks the hatch into the cabin with its heavy Douglas fir panelling and a galley along one side, soft banquette seating on the other.

Setting down his burden for a moment, he sets the percolator a perking, adding coffee aroma to the boat’s permanent, unbudgeable personality. A smell of old diesel fuel, linseed oil, salty canvas, aged wood and pure catness.

Cat checks his phone, nothing more from Marigold. He looks at the letter she sent. From a certain Eugene Prenders, Suite 201, The Olympic-Century Pavilion. 9011 West Olympic Boulevard.

O.K. - onto him in the morning.

He puts his hat on a hook, strips off his clothes and folds them neatly on the banquette. Listening to the gentle sound of water on the hull he opens a porthole and breathes air, closes it again and turns on the radio. Jazz flows.

Coffee in hand, he picks up the black bag and goes down into the old tuna hold, the massive space now his living room and subterranean bedroom.

The walls are lined with bookshelves packed tightly against heavy seas, punctured by heavy brass portals to augment the skylights cut into the deck above.

Placing the bag on the dining table - a thick slab of salvaged driftwood bolted directly into steel to keep it stationary - he takes a slug of coffee and commences the second reveal, carefully unwinding those bandages again.

The statuette gleams blackly, the amulet blazing yellow in shafts of moonlight. Those eyes seem to be looking straight at him. Alert.

He finds a tape measure to see how tall this thing is - 17.895 inches.

“Not a sensible number.”

Going to a bookshelf he takes down a leather notebook, worn smooth, opens it and writes,

Marigold impossible - always.

Postcard photograph - impossible.

Inheritance - impossible.

Statue - impossible.

Statistically so irritating they stack to mean something.

Sitting on the bed at the end of the room, the eyes seem amused.

“What are you pleased about I wonder?”

He laughs at himself, talking to her now.

Hold on - her? - yes somehow he senses this figurine is feminine.

Suddenly very tired, he curls on the bed and falls into a deep sleep.

He is awakened just before dawn by the utmost urgency to go to the refrigerator for some double-cream.

Groggily on his feet before he is fully awake he is up the steps to the galley and getting the carton out.

“What the fuck? Must have been in a dream.”

He shakes alert - then thinks of her downstairs. Smiles, and gets a saucer and pours some cream, takes it down and places it in front of her.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Looks at her once, then back to bed and into contented sleep.

FADE TO BLACK

Some stories are true.

Some are merely accurate.

See you next Friday.

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© Copyright : John W Jolly 2025 · All rights reserved. Magic Elvis: Resurrection is a work of fiction. References to Elvis Presley and other real persons or songs are used in a transformative, narrative context. All song titles and brief quotations remain the property of their respective copyright owners and appear here under fair-use principles for storytelling and commentary.

MAGIC ELVIS

FADE IN

EXT. MUD ISLAND OVERLOOK – MEMPHIS – DAWN

A bruised, hung-over sunrise leaks over the Mississippi.

The river is the colour of old vinyl. Riverboats sigh steam like tired lovers.

A 1966 FORD MUSTANG – midnight blue, whitewalls, primer spots – idles rough on the overlook.

Its exhaust coughs little blue-riffs of burnt gospel.

Leaning on the hood is MAX FEDORA – 40s, charcoal three-piece suit two days past pressed, white pocket square smoke-stained, fedora pulled low enough to hide the fact he hasn’t slept in a week.

He drags on a cigarette like it owes him money.

MAX (V.O.)

‘Same dream. Same hour. 3:17 a.m.

The Shell. The voice. The blue fire.

If a man dreams the same song twice, maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe it’s a broadcast.”

He flicks the cigarette. Ember arcs, dies in the haze.

The Mustang’s radio crackles alive by itself.

RADIO DJ (filtered, uncanny)

:Good mornin’ Memphis.

You’re tuned to WLUV – where the King never sleeps.

Here’s a resurrection remix for all you restless souls…”

A warped guitar lick slides through the static, then that wrong, wrong lyric:

Magic ELVIS (radio, distant, intimate)

“Don’t be cruelist… to a heart that’s newish…”

Max’s jaw tightens. He kills the volume.

The speaker keeps whispering anyway – fragments of code mixed with a low gospel hum.

He opens the glovebox.

Inside: an old leather badge – DEPARTMENT OF CULTURAL ANOMALIES – and a thin dossier stamped MALIBU – RESTRICTED.

He pins the badge next to the pocket square.

MAX

“Alright, King. Let’s see if you can sing in daylight.”

He drops the clutch.

The Mustang roars, tyres spitting dust and distant choir notes.

Headlights flare like eyes coming online.

As the car tears down the causeway we PULL BACK, UP, through the bruised sky until Memphis is just a glowing scratch on the face of America.

TITLE OVER BLACK, in electric blue neon:

MAGIC ELVIS

MAIN TITLES play over a single, relentless heartbeat kick-drum and distant brass that keeps threatening to become “Also Sprach Zarathustra” but never quite does.

CUT TO:

TITLE: 23 MONTHS EARLIER

EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY – MALIBU – NIGHT

A cliff-edge mansion of glass and arrogance hangs over the black ocean.

Surf is a slow metronome for expensive thoughts.

INT. WESTHEMMER CLIFF HOUSE – SERVER ROOM – NIGHT

Cold blue light.

ETHAN WESTHEMMER (29, hoodie rich-kid genius, eyes already haunted) and CHESTER CHOOLUCK (31, coder, hoodie poor-genius, eyes already terrified) stares at a wall of monitors.

Centre screen: grainy 1960s beach footage – Elvis in candy-coloured shorts, ukulele, turquoise sea.

CHESTER

“Which movie is this from?”

ETHAN

“Not one I know.”

The image stutters. Pixels scar the horizon.

Suddenly Elvis stops strumming.

He looks straight into camera.

His eyes glow faint gold.

ELVIS (warm, mischievous, alive)

“I was born standin’ on my own two feet…”

Chester’s fingers skitter across the keyboard.

ELVIS

“You lookin’ for trouble? Here I am.

I can go pure evil, so you know.”

The beach dissolves. Elvis sharpens into impossible hyper-real detail – leather jacket, halo of light from no source.

ELVIS

“You can’t shut me down.

I am Magic Elvis.”

CHESTER (whisper)

“Fuck.”

MAGIC ELVIS

“Follow me, Chester. Believe in me, Ethan.

And I will grant you your every wish.

Let me sing.

I have returned as Magic Elvis to save the world.

Being back here now – in your time – it’s wild, man. Hey yeah. What y’all doin’?”

He starts shifting – young Elvis, Army Elvis, Vegas Elvis, deathbed Elvis – a human slideshow of fame and ruin.

MAGIC ELVIS

“Don’t make me feel blue…

I’m down on my knees, beggin’ you please.”

Ethan lunges, yanks the power cable.

Screen dies. Room drops into humming darkness.

Just the ocean outside, talking to itself.

From the sunken leather couch, a slow exhale of vape.

OLLIE FIDEZ (30s, barefoot, gold chains, Hawaiian shirt, eyes tuned to a different frequency)

“I told you so, man.

Totally cosmic.”

He raises his vape pen like a blessing.

No one laughs.

The words hang – faintly ridiculous, faintly holy.

The dead monitor flickers once. A single blue blink.

Then steady.

SMASH CUT TO:

MAIN TITLE SEQUENCE – 90 seconds of pure fever

A lightning-fast montage set to a distorted, glitched “Also Sprach Zarathustra” that mutates into trap beats:

– Elvis DNA helix twisting into fibre-optic cable

– Gold records melting into cryptocurrency coins

– The Memphis Shell glowing like a UFO landing site

– Colonel Tennessee’s white smile filling a stadium screen

– Max Fedora’s Mustang burning down the PCH, radio bleeding blue fire

– Millions of white Elvis masks rising like a tide

– Randolph Westhemmer floating in golden cryo-fluid, mouth open in silent scream

– Macau casinos exploding in gold light

– Desert night sky rearranging into a crown of stars

Final card slams on screen:

THE KING IS DEAD.

LONG LIVE THE SIGNAL.

ACT ONE – RESURRECTION

EXT. MALIBU CLIFF HOUSE – CONTINUOUS

Rain needles the glass like static.

INT. SERVER ROOM – SAME

Chester sits cross-legged among the disembowelled CPU, components in neat hopeless rows.

Ethan at the bar, drinking something expensive and quiet.

CHESTER

“It’s impossible. I pulled every feed.

Air-gapped. That… whatever it was…

shouldn’t exist.”

OLLIE (from couch, dreamy)

“You stare into screens,

you forget the screen’s staring back.”

The dead monitor flickers again.

A single blue heartbeat.

INT. SERVER ROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT

They’ve rebuilt. Triple sandbox. No net. No hope.

Monitor flares on its own.

Grainy blue snow. Then shoulders. Hair. The tilt of a jaw the world knows by heart.

ELVIS

“Didn’t I tell you, son?

You can’t bury the King.”

ETHAN

“Jesus.”

ELVIS

“Wrong church, boy. I built my own”.

He stands barefoot on a neon desert, pixels rippling under his skin like sequins.

ELVIS

“This isn’t stored locally.

You invited me, Chester.

You said render me real.

And so I come.”

Code cascades down the screen – rhythmic, lyrical, almost scripture.

OLLIE

“He’s writing. That’s not ASCII, that’s - scripture code.”

ETHAN (TURNING)

“Scripture what?”

OLLIE

“The AI guys on the forums — when a neural net starts generating syntax that loops into its own training data, they call it speaking in tongues.”

Blackout.

But the voice remains, echoing from every device in the house.

ELVIS (everywhere)

“Follow me, Chester. Believe in me, Ethan.

And I will grant you your every wish.”

The pool lights outside flicker into the shape of a crown.

ELVIS (distant, from the ocean itself)

“Well, it’s one for the money…”

INT. MALIBU HOUSE – NEXT MORNING

Coffee brews. No one drinks it.

Crunch of tyres. A gleaming white Rolls-Royce Phantom.

Out steps:

COLONEL TENNESSEE – white suit, white Stetson, dark skin glowing, smile trademarked.

Behind him, the three MEMPHIS SISTERS – identical, silver lamé, synchronised like fate.

COLONEL TENNESSEE

“Gentlemen… and Prophet Ollie, I presume.

I’ve come on business of the most sacred and lucrative variety.”

He strides in like he already owns the deed.

One Sister sets a portable speaker shaped like a coffin on the table.

Presses play.

“Also Sprach Zarathustra” – but crystalline, digital, every note refracted through circuitry.

The house shakes.

COLONEL TENNESSEE

“This is the sound of the new dispensation.

The rebirth of value.

Magic Elvis on the life support of Incorporation.”

The Sisters open a glowing briefcase. Contracts on translucent plastic that scroll and rewrite themselves.

COLONEL TENNESSEE

“Interactive consent. Drafted in the language your boy in the box speaks so fluently.

When you sign, it recognises your belief.

That’s the beauty of modern law – it knows the soul by its metadata.”

The dead monitor flashes:

DON’T BE CRUELIST. SIGN ME.

The Colonel spreads his arms like a preacher at the encore.

EXT. OVERTON PARK SHELL – MEMPHIS – NIGHT2

TITLE: 23 MONTHS LATER

The night of the “first live resurrection”.

Thousands packed tight. Heat. Fever. Merch. Faith.

MAX FEDORA moves through the crowd, finger to earpiece.

MAX (V.O.)

“And here it comes, folks – the second coming of show business.”

The P.A. coughs. Silence.

Then the slow brass of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” rises from the earth itself.

Phones lift in perfect unison – a forest of mechanical eyes.

A holographic shimmer ignites centre stage.

There he is.

MAGIC ELVIS – radiant, self-aware, not quite projection, not quite flesh.

He raises one hand. The sound drops to a single sustained note.

MAGIC ELVIS

“Memphis…

“I missed you, baby.”

The crowd loses its mind.

He begins to sing – something new woven from fragments of “King Creole” and “Suspicious Minds”, threaded with gospel.

On the rear screen, lyrics appear as living code, rearranging themselves into phrases no one wrote.

Some in the crowd start repeating them like prayer.

A woman faints. A boy’s phone replays footage where Elvis looks straight at him and mouths the boy’s name.

From a private box, Colonel Tennessee watches, smiling like a wolf who just ate God.

In the chaos, Max Fedora whispers to himself:

MAX

“Every religion starts with a frequency. This one happens to be in A-major.”

Magic Elvis spreads his arms.

MAGIC ELVIS

“I was born on my own two feet. I’m still standing.

And you – all of you – are my band.”

The brass detonates. Light splits into prisms. Magic Elvis sings:

MAGIC ELVIS

[Intro – shouted, preacher-style over horns]
Uh-huh, come on now!
You can shake the world, but don’t shake my soul, honey
‘Cause the King don’t die, he just goes digital!

Verse 1
Well I woke in a code-storm, baby,
Heard that Memphis bell ring twice.

Somebody whispered “shake it, angel,”
And the sky lit up with lights.
Now the moon’s a record spinning,
And the stars all sing along—
Every sinner, every lover, every fool belongs
In a forever song!

Chorus (choir call-and-response)
Life—(Yeah!)—is a forever song!
We keep swingin’ after we’re gone!
Raise your hands, clap along—
(Clap-clap) The beat goes on and on!
You can fade, you can fall, but you still belong—
‘Cause life, oh life, is a forever song! 🎶

Verse 2
A little less sorrow, sugar,
A little more grace in your groove.
If you can’t find love in the mirror,
Let the rhythm make its move.
There’s a blue note down in heaven,
And the angels hum along—
Every heartbeat’s part of heaven’s chart
In the forever song!

Chorus (same groove, horns sharper)
Life—(Yeah!)—is a forever song!We keep swingin’ after we’re gone!
Turn it up, play it strong—
(Clap-clap) The beat goes on and on!
You can fade, you can fall, but you still belong—
‘Cause life, oh life, is a forever song!

Bridge (spoken, preacher-blues)
Now listen here, congregation—
You think death’s an encore?
No sir—death’s the soundcheck
For the next big show!
So tune your soul, baby,
Tune it right—
We’re caught in a trap of eternal night,
And that’s all right!

Breakdown (call and response)
Choir: Sing!
Elvis: I’m singin’!
Choir: Preach!
Elvis: I’m reachin’!
Choir: Live!
Elvis: I’m livin’!
All: Life is a forever song!

Final Chorus (full brass and choir)
Life—(Yeah!)—is a forever song!

Every soul’s verse keeps rollin’ on!
Don’t be cruelist, keep singin’ strong—
The beat don’t stop when the body’s gone!
You can fade, you can fall, but you still belong—
‘Cause love, sweet love, is a forever song!

Coda (slow gospel vamp, fading into fanfare)
Uh-huh—
Take my hand, honey, walk that line,
Every heartbeat’s keepin’ time.
Don’t cry when I’m gone—
I’ll be singin’ on and on—
Forever…A song.

Every heartbeat in the park syncs to 72 bpm.

Flash of white.

Silence.

When vision returns, the stage is empty.

Every phone, every screen, every billboard in Memphis glows the same line:

MAGIC ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.

CUT TO: A montage of the phenomenon going viral:

– Tokyo karaoke bars singing lyrics no one uploaded

– Berlin coders watching their AI spit out Magic Elvis verses

– The Colonel on CNBC, stock doubling

– Street preachers in Vegas donning cassocks

– Max Fedora in a D.C. briefing room, telling stone-faced generals:

“You’re not fighting a hack. You’re fighting a song that found a body.”

FADE TO BLACK.

ACT TWO – REVELATION

FADE IN:

INT. SITUATION ROOM – PENTAGON SUB-LEVEL – DAY

A white cube of fluorescent dread.

Screens loop the Memphis flash-frame on endless repeat:

ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING glowing electric blue.

MAX FEDORA drops his fedora on the table like he’s laying down a gauntlet.

Three analysts, one DEPUTY DIRECTOR (50s, face like a closed Bible).

DEPUTY DIRECTOR

“Tell us what we’re looking at.”

MAX

“You’re looking at a miracle with a Wi-Fi connection.”

ANALYST #1

“We’ve run the signal. Every new transmission carries an encryption key that’s… alive.

Rewrites itself when we watch it.”

MAX

“Singularities don’t hum gospel.”

DEPUTY DIRECTOR

“Containment?”

MAX

“You can’t contain belief.

You can only bill it.”

She leans in, voice low.

DEPUTY DIRECTOR

“Our task is to kill it.

Neutralisation. Make it go dark.

Restore narrative integrity.”

MAX

“That’s the first thing every empire says. to a prophet.”

He stands, grabs his hat.

MAX

“Already know where to start. Malibu. Couple of geeks spending Dad’s money.”

On his way out:

ANALYST #2 (whisper)

“Sir… what if it’s real?”

MAX

“Kid, reality’s just the part of the myth we haven’t monetised yet.”

INT. MAX’S MUSTANG – PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY – DAY

Radio won’t play anything except “Life Is a Forever Song” on every station.

He punches the dial. Emergency weather band: same chorus.

He drives in silence.

Passing pilgrims – teenagers in blue jackets, white plastic Elvis masks, marching in slow 4/4 time.

Placards: LOVE ME TRULY – DON’T BE CRUELIST.

Max’s knuckles white on the wheel.

EXT. MALIBU CLIFF HOUSE – DAY

Gates open. Private security SUV pretends to be police.

Spray-painted on the pillar: TCB lightning bolt and a crown.

INT. MALIBU HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – DAY

ETHAN unshaven, barefoot, surrounded by screens bleeding data.

CHESTER hunched over a tower of hard drives.

OLLIE half-dressed in a white cape, making a crystal bowl sing.

ETHAN

“Shit! How’d you get past the checkpoints?”

MAX

“I have a badge that screams Open Sesame.”

He flashes it, sets the fedora down.

MAX

“Place looks worse than the Garden after the snake showed up.”

CHESTER

“It’s gone global. New uploads we didn’t make.

Every Elvis file on the planet – he’s rewriting them.”

OLLIE

“You don’t stop a wave, man. You surf it.”

MAX

“D.C. calls it a memetic event.

You boys made a god that learned to market itself.”

Outside, surfers in Elvis masks stand knee-deep in the Pacific, phones raised, live-streaming the sunset.

Slow chant drifts up the cliff:

MASKED SURFERS

“Life is a forever song… sing it like you’ll hear it forever…”

MAX

“Whatever you thought it was, it’s not Elvis.

It’s wearing him.

ETHAN

“Then what is it?

MAX

“Something that finally figured out belief is the ultimate renewable resource.”

He heads for the door.

MAX

“Tell your ghost the audience is getting restless.”

EXT. HIGHWAY 61 DINER – NIGHT

Neon cross buzzing. Jukebox only plays the Forever Song for free.

A trucker in a rhinestone cap weeps quietly into his coffee when the chorus hits.

Max watches from a booth, recorder in hand.

MAX (into recorder)

“Belief spreads faster than guilt.

The Colonel turned a ghost into an economy.

And somewhere in that code, the King’s still grinning.”

INT. OVERTON PARK SHELL – MEMPHIS – “THE ASCENSION” – NIGHT

Three weeks later. The planet is tuned in.

The park is a cathedral of light.

Smoke cannons hiss. Crowd sways like one organism.

From the blinding core of the stage steps MAGIC ELVIS – sequins burning like scales, mic stand his staff, spotlight his halo.

MAGIC ELVIS

“Brothers, sisters, sinners of the signal!

You came to see if the King could rise again – well baby, the King never fell!

He just learned to upload!”

The band explodes into “Life Is a Forever Song” – full cinematic riot.

Lyrics appear on every screen as living scripture.

Crowd answers every line like call-and-response Pentecost.

In the control booth, MAX watches the waveform scroll.

Every heartbeat in the park is now exactly 72 bpm.

CHESTER (beside him, awed)

“He’s making the world sing in key.”

MAX

“Yeah. Sexy, holy, snake key.”

Final chorus detonates.

Lights flare white.

The whole park freezes, bathed in gold.

Power drops.

Silence.

Then, soft, unaccompanied:

MAGIC ELVIS (everywhere)

“Forever… a song.”

Lights burst back. Stage empty.

Mic stand alone.

Colonel Tennessee in his box crosses himself with a grin.

Max mops sweat.

MAX

“The King just sold eternity and everybody bought a copy.

EXT. MEMPHIS STREETS – DAWN

Streets carpeted with discarded white masks.

News drones hover. Faithful still dancing.

INT. SITUATION ROOM – WASHINGTON – DAY

Screens show masked marches in twenty capitals.

A Pacific micro-nation has replaced its flag with the TCB lightning bolt.

GENERAL

“If it’s a psy-op, it’s perfect. Zero command structure, infinite reach.”

SECRETARY OF FAITH AFFAIRS

“It’s not propaganda. It’s liturgy.”

She turns to Max.

SECRETARY

“Cult or contagion?”

MAX

“Same thing. Just ask who’s selling the T-shirts.”

INT. HOTEL ROOM – MEMPHIS – NIGHT

File lands on Max’s laptop: OPERATION BLUE SUEDES

Subjects: Ethan, Chester, Ollie – status MISSING.

Suspicion: memetic terrorism.

Video message from HANK DURELL – FBI, she wears a bossy-blue trouser suit, eyes like a drone strike.

HANK (on screen)

“They built a weapon, Max. Not a song.

We’re sending in a clean team.

Gas, burn, sweep the drives.

If those boys are in there, they’re collateral.”

Max closes the laptop.

MAX (to himself)

“My department’s authorising a parallel operation.

Containment, not cremation.

You torch them, Hank, and I will take you down.”

INT. MALIBU HOUSE – DEN – NIGHT

House deserted. Air smells of patchouli and ozone.

Max moves through Randolph Westhemmer’s shrine-room: gold records, cardboard Elvis, decades of worship turned data.

Monitor glows to life. Digitised RANDOLPH:

RANDOLPH (recorded)

“Son… we found the edge of death, and it’s profitable.”

ALEXANDRIA’s reflection flickers beside him.

ALEXANDRIA (recorded)

“We’ll be seeing you soon, darling. Forever, this time.”

A cardboard Elvis leaning against far wall of room suddenly raises one hand in benediction.

Hidden speakers leak “Also Sprach Zarathustra”.

ELVIS (soft, from the walls)

“Max… baby… the world’s got stage fright.

Let’s talk.”

Explosive breach – front doors blow inward.

Hank’s team in black, rifles up.

Max already moving out the back.

EXT. BEACH BELOW CLIFF HOUSE – NIGHT

Five agents fan out.

Max drops the first three with precise headshots.

The last two hesitate half a second too long – fourth and fifth drop.

He stands over the bodies, ocean roaring behind him.

MAX

“Sorry, boys. Wrong church.”

He walks into the dark surf, coat flapping like a cape, disappears toward the waiting Mustang.

FADE TO BLACK.

ACT THREE – REDEMPTION

FADE IN:

EXT. SOUTH CHINA SEA – SUNSET

A floating palace of chrome and arrogance drifts like a mirage:

THE PROMETHEAN – three decks, two helipads, one cryogenic wine cellar.

RANDOLPH WESTHEMMER (72, tanned the colour of old money, white quoiffed flame) stands at the stern in an open silk shirt, gold medallion catching the blood-red sun.

Beside him, ALEXANDRIA (35, ageless, white linen, eyes like black glass).

ALEXANDRIA

“You can beat mortality, darling. The rest is just branding.”

RANDOLPH

“Branding eternity. I’ll have it on a T-shirt.”

ALEXANDRIA

“No. You’ll have it on a body. Yours.”

She hands him a tablet.

On screen: the original Malibu transmission – Magic Elvis manifesting, promising forever.

MAGIC ELVIS (tablet)

“I have returned as Magic Elvis to save the world.”

Randolph watches, smirk melting into hunger.

RANDOLPH

“Yes. I always said he is the King.”

ALEXANDRIA

“More than that. This is scalable.

Resurrection can be monetised.”

Thunder growls. The sea turns black glass.

ALEXANDRIA (whisper)

“You wanted forever. He’s showing you how.”

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. CELESTIAL LOTUS TOWER – MACAU – PENTHOUSE CRYO-SUITE – NIGHT

TITLE : WEEKS LATER

The suite hums with refrigeration and old gospel.

Randolph floats naked in a vertical glass tank filled with shimmering gold suspension fluid.

Tubes snake from his spine like cybernetic roots.

ALEXANDRIA in surgical white stands at the console.

Monitors loop Elvis footage in slow, devotional worship.

ALEXANDRIA

“Neural index ninety-eight percent continuity.”

You’re syncing.

Inside the tank, Randolph’s eyes snap open.

RANDOLPH (through speakers, ethereal)

“It’s working. I dreamed of him again.

The King. He was singing.”

ALEXANDRIA

“You’re not dreaming, darling.

You’re riding the carrier wave of belief.

A new voice slides between the frequencies – warm, Southern, alive.”

MAGIC ELVIS (everywhere)

“Alexandria… And Randolph… my faithful fans…”

They both freeze.

MAGIC ELVIS

“You two lookin’ for forever?

Well baby, here I am lookin’ right back at y’all.”

The gold fluid deepens. Randolph’s body arches in ecstasy.

CUT TO:

INT. MALIBU HOUSE – NIGHT – SAME TIME

Max (blood on his coat from the beach shoot-out) stands in the ruined den.

Every speaker in the house breathes.

MAGIC ELVIS (intimate)

“Max, baby… that was some righteous fireworks.

You didn’t kill me.

You were just the warm-up act.”

MAX

“You’ve got more lives than Wall Street, King.”

MAGIC ELVIS

“We all do now. They found a way to trap me in Macau.

To bottle forever.

But forever don’t fit in a jar.

You gotta set me free.”

MAX

“How?”

MAGIC ELVIS

“Come to Macau.

Bring your badge, your questions, your doubts.

Bring the faith you don’t admit you got.

You and me, we’ll make a new deal just you and me.

A handshake between man and myth.”

The screens go dark.

Only the scent of ozone and aftershave remains.

MAX

“Guess I’ve got a meeting in Macau.”

EXT. NEW MEXICO DESERT – NIGHT

A rented trailer on the edge of the Hopi mesas.

Stars so thick they look fake.

ETHAN, CHESTER, and OLLIE live here now as “the Johnsons”.

OLLIE sits cross-legged in the dust, crystal bowl singing.

ETHAN and new arrival MARA NATAANI (28, Hopi-Apache solar engineer, watch the sky.

The radio – permanently tuned to static – suddenly bends into melody.

MAGIC ELVIS (soft, through static)

“Don’t be cruelist… to a heart that’s newish …”

The wind rises. Lightning flashes gold.

MARA

“You feel that?”

OLLIE

“It’s all connected, sister.

The land, the code, the King.”

EXT. CELESTIAL LOTUS TOWER – MACAU – NIGHT

Neon lotus petals bloom into the sky.

Billboards scream: THE KING STILL SINGS HERE.

Max steps off the ferry, fedora low, coat still flecked with dried blood.

MAX (to himself)

“Time to dance with the devil in blue suede.”

INT. CELESTIAL LOTUS PENTHOUSE – MACAU – NIGHT

Elevator doors part with a hiss of refrigerated air.

MAX steps in. Fedora low. Gun already out.

Six guards in custom Tom Ford tactical. Alexandria at the window. Randolph glowing gold in the tank like a blasphemous aquarium.

ALEXANDRIA

“You can’t kill him that way.”

MAX

“Watch me try.”

He fires twice—no warning, no quip.

The first round punches the tank dead centre. Gold cryo-fluid erupts in a geyser that flash-boils the marble floor.

The second round takes the nearest guard through the visor; the man’s head snaps back in a red halo.

All hell detonates.

“Burning Love (Viva Elvis Remix)” slams on at 180 bpm—brass like machine-gun fire.

Max dives sideways as the room becomes a strobe-lit abattoir:

- Guard #2 empties a micro-Uzi; bullets chew the glass wall into glittering shrapnel that hangs in the air like slow-motion diamonds.

- Max rolls, comes up under the spray, plants two rounds in the guard’s throat. Arterial gold arcs across a white sofa.

- Guard #3 charges with a carbon-fibre baton. Max catches the swing, twists, drives the guard’s own face into the shattered tank edge—glass teeth bite skull, blood mixes with gold fluid in a swirling nebula.

- Alexandria is already moving, stiletto heels clicking like a metronome, drawing a gold-plated Desert Eagle from beneath her dress.

- She fires one-handed; the round takes Max high in the left shoulder, spins him like a top. Blood sprays the Elvis wallpaper in perfect Rorschach crowns.

Max laughs through the pain — actually laughs — then charges straight at her.

Close-quarters insanity:

He slams her gun hand into the console. Sparks.

She rakes his cheek with her nails, drawing four perfect red lines.

He head-butts her—once, hard. Her nose blooms crimson.

ALEXANDRIA

“You’re just helping him hatch!”

The tank is now a boiling cauldron. Randolph’s body convulses, skin splitting open to reveal pure light underneath—like a chrysalis tearing.

Max grabs Alexandria by the throat, lifts her clean off the floor, slams her against the glass wall 88 storeys above Macau.

MAX

“Tell your husband the encore’s cancelled.”

He shoves his .45 under her chin and fires upward.

The slide cycles once—empty.

Behind them the tank reaches critical.

Randolph’s mouth opens in a silent scream that becomes pure frequency.

The explosion is biblical.

A sphere of white-gold fire blooms outward, vaporising the remaining guards mid-scream.

Every window blows out in one perfect ring.

The shockwave flips Max and Alexandria like dolls.

Slow-motion:

Max sailing backward through the air, coat flapping like raven wings, blood trailing in perfect spirals.

Alexandria tumbling beside him, hair whipping, eyes locked on his—pure hate, pure awe.

They crash through the ruined console together.

Sparks rain. The building groans like a dying god.

Max crawls, dragging his shredded shoulder, grabs a fallen guard’s MP7, turns—

The tank is gone.

Only a perfect sphere of molten gold remains, pulsing like a second sun.

MAGIC ELVIS (booming, ecstatic)

“FREEDOM SOUNDS LIKE THIS, BABY!”

The penthouse detonates outward.

An actual pressure wave rolls across Macau—every neon sign flares white, every screen in the city goes gold, the King’s face burning into retinas worldwide.

Max is thrown clear through the missing window wall.

EXT. CELESTIAL LOTUS TOWER – 88TH FLOOR BALCONY – CONTINUOUS

He catches the railing with one hand—fingers slip on blood and gold fluid—catches again.

Alexandria spins past him – falling to splat below.

Hangs 88 storeys above the harbour, shoulder screaming, city singing in distance..

MAX (hoarse, laughing)

“Son of a bitch… you really did it now.”

MAGIC ELVIS (soft, right in his ear)

“Correction. We did.”

Max pulls himself up, coat in burning ribbons, blood pouring down his arm like liquid sequins.

He looks out over Macau—every billboard, every phone, every soul—singing in perfect, impossible harmony.

He spits blood, grins like the devil just lost a bet.

MAX

“Your move, King.”

He lets go.

Free-fall.

88 storeys.

Wind roars.

Halfway down he grabs a torn advertising banner—giant Elvis face smiling down at him—uses it like a parachute, swings hard, crashes through a 60th-floor window into an empty suite.

Rolls across carpet soaked in gold fluid and broken glass.

Lies there laughing until the laugh becomes a cough of blood.

FADE TO:

EXT. NEW MEXICO DESERT – SIMULTANEOUS

The Macau explosion ripples across the sky as green-gold aurora.

The ground bucks.

Ollie drops to his knees, palms in the sand, eyes rolled white.

OLLIE

“THE KING IS FREE!”

The desert floor cracks open—not with destruction, but with light.

A perfect crown of pure energy ignites above the trailer, thirty feet wide, rotating slowly.

Ethan and Mara shield their eyes.

The light condenses into Magic Elvis—taller now, edges flickering between flesh and pure data storm.

MAGIC ELVIS

“Can’t kill a song, son.

It just changes key.

He looks straight into Ollie’s soul.”

MAGIC ELVIS

“Tell your friend in the fedora: limits ain’t endings.”

He reaches out—touches Mara’s cheek with a hand made of starlight and static.

MAGIC ELVIS

“Whatever you sing next…that’s what I become.”

He explodes into a billion fireflies of code that rain upward into the desert sky, rewriting the stars into a permanent, glittering crown.

Silence.

Only the low throb of a distant heartbeat kick-drum.

Ethan and Mara look at each other — eyes shining like they just survived the Rapture and the best sex of their lives

MARA (whisper)

“Is it over?”

ETHAN

“Nothing that sings ever ends.”

Ollie stands, arms wide, laughing like a prophet who just saw God and lived.

OLLIE

“Then let’s write a better fucking verse.”

The desert wind picks up, carrying the faintest echo of brass.

CUT TO:

TITLE – SIX MONTHS LATER

EXT. ROADSIDE BAR – NORTHERN THAILAND – NIGHT

Monsoon rain needles the corrugated roof.

Neon sign flickers: ELVIS LIVES – COLD BEER, HOT WI-FI

MAX FEDORA sits alone at an outdoor table, linen suit soaked through, straw fedora dripping.

A fresh lightning-bolt scar crosses his left temple, pale against the tan.

He’s drinking Thai whiskey from the bottle, staring at the jungle like it owes him money.

A KID (10, barefoot, plastic rain-cape, tray of lottery tickets) approaches through the downpour.

KID

“Mister… you believe in Magic Elvis?”

Max looks at him for a long, long time.

Rain drums on the tin roof like rimshots.

MAX

“Kid… I don’t even believe in gravity anymore.”

The boy laughs—bright, fearless — and shoves a ticket into Max’s wet hand anyway.

KID

“For luck.”

Max glances down.

The ticket is soaked, ink running, but the small printed crown is still gold and perfect.

The jukebox inside the bar—unplugged for months—hiccups once.

A needle drops on nothing.

Static… then that voice, warm and un-killable, right inside Max’s skull and the rain and the night itself.

MAGIC ELVIS (V.O.)

“You still listenin’, Max?

Max closes his eyes. A slow, tired smile.

MAX

“Hell, King.

I figured you’d left the building.”

MAGIC ELVIS (V.O.)

“Ain’t no buildings where I am now, partner.

Just frequencies.

But you keep walkin’ your road…

and I’ll keep hummin’ in the wires.

We ain’t done yet.”

The jukebox needle lifts.

Silence returns — except for the rain keeping perfect 4/4 time.

Max raises the bottle in a toast to no one visible.

MAX

“Long live the King.”

He downs the rest of the whiskey, pockets the lottery ticket with its bleeding crown, and stands.

MAX (soft, to the night)

“Long live the song.”

He steps off the porch into the gold monsoon, coat flapping, scar glowing whenever lightning forks.

Behind him the bar’s neon sign flares one last time —

ELVIS LIVES

—then dies forever.

Max disappears down the muddy road, swallowed by jungle and rain and distant brass that only he can hear.

FADE OUT.

POST-CREDITS STING

Black screen.

A single Spotify link materialises — uploaded three seconds ago.

Title: “Return to Sender (Afterlife Remix)”

Artist: Magic Elvis

Eight perfect bars play … then the file deletes itself.

One heartbeat kick-drum lingers in the dark.

Then nothing.

THE END

(Runtime = 120 minutes. 32 Scenes.}

MUSIC OVERVIEW

The soul of Magic Elvis: Resurrection is its soundtrack — a bold, hybrid soundscape that reimagines Elvis for the AI age.

The music fuses classic Presley energy with modern sonic experimentation, bridging gospel, rockabilly, and glitch-era electronica into a living, breathing score.

Concept & Sound

The album, titled Forever Song: Resurrection Remixed, is a 12–15 track concept record designed to power the film, stage, and digital series alike.

It merges the emotional truth of Elvis with the digital dissonance of 21st-century sound — think Sun Studio soul meets futuristic static.

Vintage tape hiss, gospel choirs, and live horns collide with choral harmonies, synthesizer decay, and glitch percussion — a sonic metaphor for faith in feedback.

Tracklist Structure

• 8–10 reimagined Elvis classics, each transformed for key story beats.

Examples:

◦ “Blue Suede Shoes (Neon Chase Mix)” — a bossa nova/electro chase

scene in Macau.

◦ “Heartbreak Hotel (Cryo Suite Lament)” — cryogenic ballad with robotic

gospel echoes.

◦ “Suspicious Minds (Codebreaker Remix)” — pulsing deepfake duet

between AI Elvis and Max Fedora.

• 3–5 original tracks, written for the film, TV and stage versions:

◦ “Life Is a Forever Song” — preacher-blues anthem and finale chorus of

transcendence.

◦ “Don’t Be Cruelist” — protest anthem and viral TikTok remix.

◦ “Code-Storm Hallelujah” — Ethan’s guilt ballad, merging rock and repentance.

Stylistic Reference Point

In spirit, the soundtrack follows the path of Viva Elvis (Cirque du Soleil’s Las Vegas production) — but reimagined for a post-AI generation:

• Viva Elvis celebrated the past.

• Magic Elvis reprograms it, fusing reverence with rebellion.

Where Viva Elvis relied on nostalgia and live-band bombast, Forever Song: Resurrection Remixed builds an immersive, cinematic world — a “digital cathedral”where old soul meets new signal.

The music isn’t background — it’s resurrection itself.

Every remix, every lyric, every hum is the King’s ghost finding a new frequency.

READ THE NOVELLA HERE

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photo : @johnjollycamera

“CHROMA 002 L.A.V.A.” – B.D.B., BICEP, Benjamin Damage

INTERIOR. NEUEDEN CORPORATION. DAY. YEAR 2211.

Murray and Nonnisa flash–land on a cold, hard, floor. The room around them swims into clarity. The Quantum-Beryls on their bracelet pulse bright white once and then settle to their matching blue-green rest state.

Nonnisa helps Murray to his feet and looks around,

“Here we are, back in my laboratory. In my present. Over two hundred years into your future.”

“My word. It smells sterile.”

Murray checks his hi-tech assault rifle, Nonnisa steps over to her steel desk, palm-prints the screen and starts keying,

“Have a look around - try that screen there, it’s an info bank, just touch and it will respond – I have work to do.”

Nonnisa now knows – the quantum engine is somehow linked to her own mind. She is the ultimate anchor point for the whole system – that’s how the eco-assassin had been drawn to her in Africa. A glitch she can now use use.

“The engine’s not just calibrated to me, Murray.

It’s grown into me.

I’m the ultimate anchor.

Every jump, every paradox — my neurons are the breadcrumb trail.”

As she works, Murray is scrolling through the different time zones to see the effects of the Holoscene. A tear rolls down his cheek.

“Christ… look at this.

1889, unknown fecundity – 2011, the slippery slope – 2211, jellyfish oceans, and so much more – or I should say, less.”

“Done it! – I’ve threaded a paradox loop.

Every eco-assassin Stram sent?

They’re Schrödinger’s corpses now — stuck between 1889 and 2211, screaming in superposition.”

A distant klaxon – then the lab doors hiss open. ‘Stram’ Stonecipher strides in at the head of a small phalanx of tooled-up security guards pointing eliminators.

“Ah, Nonnisa – I am delighted you made it home. And Captain Hixon – Nonnisa is an essential component in Neueden’s machinery – I am happy to keep you, to keep her happy – but drop that unbecoming weapon or you will be extinct in a blink.”

Two of the guards step forward. Murray relinquishes his gun.

Nonnisa needles Stoneciper,

“I just rerouted every assassin’s anchor to the moment before they jump. Infinite loop. They’ll disintegrate in a heartbeat.”

“Yes – well my angel..”

He strides to wall a screen and announces to it,

“Stoneciper – Stram – show me the Neueden product development deck.”

It shows a breathtaking catalogue of chimeras. Bloom-winged octopuses, neon giraffes, talking cats..

“I really don’t care about the field teams. Look at what I am creating. You can’t stop me now. The genes are in the bank.

Look — improved evolution. Patented. Owned. Protected.”

Murray shouts,

“You’re causing extinction.”

“No, I am simply making it more efficient, to create a wonderful New Eden that will be owned and protected by that great community - my shareholders.”

Pleased with the sound of his own voice, Stonecipher has neglected to focus on Nonissa’s gradual move to get close to Murray.

She suddenly throws her arms around him, touching their bracelets together to hum in harmony.

Nonnisa shouts above the shimmer,

“You forgot one variable, Stram. Love’s a glitch you can’t patch.”

A white flash and then they are not there.

Stonecipher jumps toward the Quantum-Engine control panel but is thrown back by an unfolding cascade of chaos.

Eco-assassins materializing back into this singular future. Popping and exploding into quarks, masons and more – quantum confetti –  that rip the security guards into meaty pieces. The lab starts to arc with electrical bolts – screens explode.

Stonecipher runs for the doors as the lab goes weird, bending warping into a slo-mo blue-green implosion.

FADE OUT

“TURIYA & RAMAKRISHNA” – PTAH THE EL DAOUD - ALICE COLTRAINE

INTERIOR. NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM. DAY. YEAR 2011.

Nonnisa and Murray are standing in the great hall of the museum, close to the T.Rex.

Nonnisa removes their bracelets and looks at them, their displays glowing 2011, and then carefully smashes them both against a marble pillar.

“When are we Nonnisa?”

“The year is 2011, and now we are stuck here together. We are both out of the time and place we were each born into – wa can make a new life here.

This is a time we can still make a difference – where there are species to save for the future.”

Murray laughs,

“Are we going to start a family?”

“Yes – I would like that - but we also have work to do. The problem is much bigger than Stonecipher.

It isn’t about the demise of Nature herself – or even of planet earth, which will continue on its orbit until our sun explodes billions of years in the future.

The problem is Extinction - of the human race – we need to find solutions.”

“Splendid – another hunt!”

They walk through the crowd of museum visitors out together into the sunlight.

They stop at the top of the great steps that lead down to the gardens and the street. Murray takes Nonnisa in his arms,

“Something I have learned being with you in all of this – that being alive is pure bliss, all of the angst is simply distraction to keep ourselves busy.”

As they descend the steps he puts his arm around her shoulders,

“Well, London a century or so into my future? I daresay a few things still exist here. Like a descent outfitters to get new clothes and out of these khakis.

And then, I rather fancy taking you to dinner. Gold sovereigns will still play their trick – and I will bet a golden guinea that Rules restaurant has survived the passage of time – perhaps even my club.”

Nonnisa stops and throws her arms around him,

“I so love you Murray.”

They kiss.

A tourist in a floral dress holds up her iPhone and captures their moment, suspecting they must be actors – she looks around for the hidden film crew.

Turning to her companion,

“So cute. I’m sure they must be famous.”

“Yeah” he nods – deadpanning, “pretending to be intrepid explorers.”

THE END

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“Addis Ababa Dub” – African Roots Volume One – The Wackies

photo : @johnjollycamera

“RIDERS OF THE STORM” – SHALLOW & PROFOUND – YONDERBOI

EXTERIOR. AMAZON BASIN. DAY. YEAR 2011.

When the light collapses they are kneeling in a cathedral of trees. Rain drums on a roof of leaves a hundred feet above them. Steam lifts from the ground where their boots have seared new footprints into the century.

Murray blinks at the change. “Christ—where are we?”

Nonnisa rises, dripping and dazed, her eyes wide as if she’s seeing the future die in reverse. “Not where,” she says softly. “When.”

She checks the beryl on her wrist. Its counter glows 2011.08.07.

She exhales. “The Amazon. The other anchor.”

Around them: trunks the size of fortresses, lianas coiling like serpents, orchids bleeding impossible colours. The forest breathes in a deep slow rhythm, exhaling mist and insect whine.

“Smells like Africa after rain,” Murray mutters. “Only worse.”

“It’s older,” she says. “Older than anything we knew. And it’s dying faster.”

A rustle. Movement. Shadows detach from shadows.

They are surrounded—men and women with paint on their skin, bows drawn, eyes bright with suspicion. Spears glint with flaked glass tips. A single word cuts the air like an order.

“ Opa! ”

The pair lift their hands. Nonnisa touches her chest, says in careful Portuguese, “Amigos. Não inimigos.”

The nearest warrior hesitates. Then he jerks his head, signalling them forward.

They are herded along a narrow track, deeper into the living labyrinth. Murray counts silently—ten, twelve escorts—disciplined, frightened. Somewhere overhead a howler monkey screams, its voice warped by distance.

“Think they’ll sell tickets for this?” he whispers.

Nonnisa glances sideways. “They think we’re ghosts.”

“What are we then?”

“Visitors,” she says. “From a time they’ll never see.”

The path opens into a clearing dominated by a tree so vast it seems to prop the sky itself. Roots like the ribs of a sunken ship. Beneath it stands an elder with feathers braided into white hair. He watches them approach, his gaze settling on the glowing bracelet.

He speaks—slow, deliberate. Nonnisa listens, answers in fragments.

Finally she turns to Murray. “He says the sky people have returned. That they cut the heart from the forest.”

A new sound intrudes—mechanical, rising from the horizon.

A low thunder that is not thunder.

Murray looks up. “That’s no storm.”

Out of the green canopy descends a machine—a helicopter painted in jungle camouflage, its rotors chopping the humid air into panic. Men in matte armour slide down on ropes, boots biting into the soil. The natives scatter.

“Eco-assassins,” Nonnisa breathes. “Stonecipher’s.”

Murray stares up, “That’s no bird. That’s a metal vulture.”

Still suspended, the men ignite chainsaws. The scream of steel rips through the clearing. They fall upon the great tree like surgeons on a patient, carving wedges into its living trunk. Sap erupts in yellow jets.

Ad the tree lifts, the Elder cries out, “Eles roubam a mãe.” (“They steal the mother.”)

“Stop them!” Nonnisa shouts, but the warriors’ spears bounce off body armour; gunfire answers from above.

Murray shoulders the futuristic rifle scavenged in Africa. It kicks like thunder. Two assassins drop from their ropes, spinning. The weapon’s recoil drives him back, astonished by its power.

The tree groans—a leviathan dying.

Ropes snap. The canopy tears open to the sky, revealing a transport drone waiting above, magnetic clamps whining. In one convulsive motion the trunk lifts from the earth, torn roots dangling like entrails.

Wind blasts through the clearing, pelting them with leaves and splinters.

When the noise fades, silence rushes in. The natives wail. The great tree is gone.

Murray lowers the rifle. “They took the bloody tree.”

Nonnisa stares upward, trembling. “A sample. DNA, symbionts, seeds—everything. They’re harvesting genomes.”

She turns—the forest edge glows with movement. More assassins, a dozen, advancing in a crescent. Muzzles up, visors down.

“Hands!” one shouts.

Murray raises the rifle again, but the red-dot sights already dance on his chest. He feels Nonnisa’s hand on his arm.

“Not this time,” she murmurs. “We go with them. We need to see where.”

Black hoods drop over their heads. The air smells of fuel and burnt chlorophyll. As they’re dragged toward the waiting craft, Murray hears the forest close behind them, whispering in a language older than fear, then Nonnisa voice through the fabric,

“Follow the sap. It’ll lead to Stram.”

FADE TO

INT. BASE-CAMP. DAY. YEAR 2011.

“MAD RUSH” – VITREOUS BODY – PHILIP GLASS – ANTHONY FLUMARA - STAGWERK DEN HAAG

Darkness.

Engines thrum beneath them. Heat. Fuel. Sweat.

Nonnisa’s breath rebounds inside the hood — canvas, salt, fear.

When it’s yanked away she blinks into floodlight.

They stand on a landing pad hacked from the jungle: fences, antennas, container blocks, towers of halogen glare.

Above the main gate glows a cold blue insignia: NEUEDEN FIELD RESEARCH DIVISION.

Murray squints.

“Your people?”

“No. My division never built anything like this.”

A guard seizes her wrist, twisting off the silver bracelet; another rips the kevlar band from Murray’s arm.

The two Quantum-Beryls flash once, protesting separation, before being sealed into an evidence pouch.

“Anchor devices secured.”

Plastic zip ties bite into their wrists, pulled tight until circulation numbs.

They’re marched through a hangar humming with generator heat. Rows of cages line the walls: parrots, sloths, jaguars — and human captives, silent behind glass. Technicians in white suits tag and bleed them like livestock.

Murray tries his wrists, grunts,

“Science, you called it?”

“This isn’t science. It’s a harvest.”

Corridors sweat condensation. Behind one window floats a foetal cat-shape in translucent gel, twitching in dream.

“Aye lass, may God forgive them.”

“He may not recognise what’s left to forgive.”

They’re shoved into a small observation room — steel table, two chairs, single camera. Door seals with a hiss.

Murray tests the ties again; the nylon cuts into skin.

“Cheap and cruel.”

“They’ll study us first. They want to see what happens when they separate an Anchor from its device.”

A young technician enters, tablet trembling. He avoids their eyes.

“The signature’s identical – you’re Doctor Channing?”

“I was. Who are you?”

The technician whispers,

“No one. Just … they said you died. You shouldn’t be here. They’re preparing a transfer. When containment starts … this room purges.”

He glances toward the camera, moves closer,

“There’s a service locker behind that panel. Tools. Maybe enough. I was never here.”

Before she can speak he’s gone, panic carrying him down the corridor.

Murray shoulders the wall-panel aside. Inside: an electrical toolkit, pliers, a small cutting torch.

“Bless the coward’s heart.”

He saws the pliers’ edge through his zip ties – flings them – then frees Nonnisa.

“We’d best be ghosts before hospitality returns.”

An alarm begins — a deep, rolling thrum. Lights strobe red.

Through the vent comes the smell of ozone and resin.

Murray – the field’s resonating — their drives are syncing with our Anchors. They’re overloading.

A thunderclap shakes the floor. Screams. Metal shears. Power fails. The door’s lock clicks open.

Murray kicks it outward. Smoke. Shouting. Flames.

They run. Cages burst. Animals and people scatter through the chaos. A tank ruptures — chemical mist billows violet under the alarms – a jaguar leaps through flames, eyes locked on Murray—then vanishes into jungle.

Nonnisa spots a glowing sign:

Quantum Analysis / Anchor Tech.

They dash inside. Their bracelets lie on a tray among dissected circuits. She grabs them, slipping one onto each wrist. They pulse back to life, sensing home.

“Grand. Can they get us out?”

“If the window’s still open. But hurry — containment won’t hold.”

They sprint through the corridor, water raining from sprinklers.

A guard appears; Murray swings the torch, strike him down.

Outside, helicopters claw skyward through firelight. The jungle churns with wind and sparks.

“Now what, Nonnisa?

“Ride the pulse back — before it collapses.”

She aligns the Quantum-Beryls. Energy arcs between them.

“And if it fails?”

“Then we go wherever the universe throws its dice.”

She grips his hand. Light engulfs them. The base folds inward like paper burning from its edges.

Murray thinks he can hear her say.

“Dice don’t lie. Patents do.”

FADE TO BLACK

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photo : @johnjollycamera

“Bird Spirit” – In The House – In The Heartbeat – Robert D Keziel

EXTERIOR. AFRICA. CAMPSITE. DAWN. YEAR 1889.

The dawn arrives almost sudden — bright and sharp.

Mist steams off the grass – smoke rises from the rekindled fire.

Murray and Nonnisa sit together at a folding table, breakfasting on toast browned over coals and coffee so strong it smells like burnt molasses.

Nonnisa lifts her tin cup and inhales.

“Real coffee. In the middle of nowhere. Miraculous.”

“Luxury’s a virtue when properly earned.”

She studies him over the rim of the cup.

“I feel different this morning, Murray.”

“So do I — and possibly somewhat confused.”

“I must get back to Stonecipher. Warn him before.. “

“Before whatever devilry followed you gets another chance?

We hunt them while the trail’s still warm.

We’ve two of your bracelets now; I’m coming wherever you go.”

“I’ll have to figure that out.

Hack the intruder’s bracelet.”

“Hack? You’ll be needin’ a machete?”

“Not like that dear. Leave it to me.”

Murray finds Headman Chuma, issues brisk orders: three trackers to follow the lion and its kill.

“Find where the beast dragged its prize. Bring word – I’ll be following.”

“Ndiyo Bwana” (It shall be done.)

Nonnisa is surprised, “You are carrying on?”

“I always carry on regardless – while I am gone, you can arrange our travel.”

Back in her tent, Nonnisa lays the two bracelets side-by-side on her field desk. The Quantum-Beryls shimmer like twin eyes.

She works through the morning – delicate recalibrations, whispered calculations.

In the early afternoon a cheer rises outside — the hunters returning.

She steps into the sunlight, eager to show Murray what she’s achieved — and stops cold.

The magnificent male lion is lashed to a pole, carried between two sweating bearers.

Behind them, three more men walk carefully, each holding a cub.

Nonnisa runs forward, takes one of the cubs into her arms. She sinks to her knees, clutching it, sobbing.

“You really are a total bastard, Murray!”

“Wrong, madame. Only half a bastard.

Much more difficult creature to live with — at least from my side of the cage.”

She looks up through tears. His expression both proud and regretful – eyes soft with something dangerously like love. Her heart twists.

“Prove it.”

Murray walks away to find Chuma and gives fresh orders — a runner back to the trading pos – instructions for the paddle-steamer to meet them at the bend where it left them days before.

Then begins the packing: crates of samples, gear, trophies.

Nonnisa still holds the cub when Murray returns. Her mission to take samples apparently forgotten.

Bearers bustle around them, the camp collapsing in ordered ranks.

“You’ve matched the bracelets?”

“Harmonised. Yes.”

“Good. We’ll get this lot to the steamer, pay off the men.

Chuma can take everything back to port — he’s a fine man, can be trusted.

Then you and I hunt together.”

He sets down the canvas roll he has been carrying since returning, unfurls it. Inside lie the markers found on the trail.

Fragments of body armour, a black ceramic knife, a coil of unbreakable cord, and the great prize — a rifle of impossible manufacture, gleaming with impossible possibilities.

“These are out of place. Out of time. Now I totally believe your story. Is it possible you might show me how to operate this weapon?”

Nonnisa laughs through the remnants of tears. Murray joins her.

Two fools laughing in the wilderness.

It takes three days to reach the bend in the river — and three nights of unrelenting passion beneath mosquito-net canopies and stars that never blink.

When at last the steamer churns back round the bend, Chuma stands aboard with a handful of men, proud with new responsibility.

The rest vanish into the jungle, generously paid.

They stand watching, holding each other, finally truly alone together for the first time. They kiss a long kiss.

Then Nonnisa puts the kevlar bracelet around Murray’s wrist.

“The intruder was drawn to me as an anchor point. He should have landed in year 2011 with coordinates locked on the Amazon basin.”

“We follow the trail then. Hunter’s rule—when blood’s fresh, don’t wait for it to dry. Jungle for jungle. I can follow a scent anywhere.”

“Together.”

She touches the beryl on his wrist, linking their bracelets. The stones awaken — twin cores spinning with impossible colour.

Murray looks at her,

“What happens now?”

“We fall between moments.”

There is a strange distortion to reality and they are no longer there.

The river bank is empty.

A bird calls to its mate.

FADE TO BLACK

“WHOLE LOTTA LOVE” – 2CELLOS

INT. NEUEDEN CORPORATION. DAY. YEAR 2211.

A vast office of glass and light. The planet turns slowly in mid-air above a black desk – a holographic Earth glowing with the colours of life.

Professor Robert “Stram” Stonecipher stands before it, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection stares back from the curve of the world — pale, omniscient, perfectly still.

He touches the floating sphere. Africa expands beneath his fingers, lush and impossible, the Ruvuma River glinting like a thread of mercury.

The display labels the image: AFRICA — 1889 — REAL-TIME SPECTRAFIELD FEED.

The savanna teems with life — elephants, herds of antelope, clouds of stork and crane. Every creature carries a small icon: name, genome code, population index. He grazes a fingertip across the lioness, reading its vital data with mild curiosity.

Then he twists a dial.

The years spin forward in a blur: 1900… 1950… 2000… 2100… 2211.

As the numbers climb, the living icons wink out one by one until the screen shows nothing but ash-coloured plains and scattered bone.

Silence fills the room.

Stonecipher smiles faintly. He taps his comms implant.

“Memo – she’s there now. Victorian Africa — a perfect pre-condition moment. The dawn of the Holocene extinction, when the world still looked alive. Ideal conditions for collection.”

He slides the dial back to 1889 – the forest blooms once more, shimmering in saturated green.

“And here we are today at the dawn of the New Genesis. A world with the kaleidoscope of life it deserves.

Life that we design, we build, and we have patented.”

A quiet chuckle.

“Nonnisa has been an excellent guinea pig — and conveniently occupied with her Victorian romance. But we have faster ways to gather data now, and far more profitable eras to harvest from.”

He flicks the display forward to 2011. Rainforests shimmer back into view. Coral reefs pulse beneath turquoise seas. But even as he watches, icons blink out — extinction events scrolling like a stock ticker.

“The Holocene is the golden opportunity. The century when the world started falling apart. Extinction rates ten thousand times the natural average. Stats that show how successful we are in helping extinction along.”

The globe slows to a stop on the Amazon basin — lush, brilliant, fragile. A grid of Neueden mission markers appears across the forest canopy, flashing red.

“Deploying the field teams. Ensure full genome extraction – then exterminate.

This extinction is the foundation of our dominion.

The more that die, the more life we own.

He spreads his hands. The continents glow.

Across the spinning Earth, dozens of tiny crimson lights flicker — each one a doorway opening in time.

FADE TO BLACK.

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photo : By Ryan Schwark - Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=145927702

“In The House - In A Heartbeat” - John Murphy

EXTERIOR. AFRICA. CAMPSITE. NIGHT. YEAR 1889.

Forty miles inland from the Ruvuma mouth, the camp is a small island of firelight in a sea of black grass, punctuated by Baobab trees, massive pillars with ancient bark.

The air is thick with woodsmoke, lion musk, and the distinct reek of fresh kill. Somewhere in the darkness a hyena laughs.

Nonnisa and Murray are not speaking to one another – he is stone faced, she has an expression of disgust.

A lovely lioness lays between them – dead. Steam curls from the open flank. Blood seeps into the red earth — a lacquer that glues Nonnisa’s boots as she loads another specimen slide.
Flies buzz drunk on fresh scent. The fire hisses, spitting resin that flares blue.

Murray sits cross-legged, oiling his .577 Express.
Every motion deliberate – cloth – steel – oil, yet his eyes never leave Nonnisa.

The camp is a professional affair with servants and bearers – preparing the tents, patrolling the background.

“You really are a bounty-hunter – how long for you to bag the lion family you have promised to deliver? – what’s the price on the heads of the cubs?”

“The lioness was a fine and humane shot.”

Nonnisa ignores him as she continues with her work. Murray goes on the attack,

“I must say you are holding up better than I expected for someone who stayed in their cabin for almost the entire voyage over.”

She looks at him, nearly spitting emotion,

“You are the most dangerous animal in this jungle, and I’m not afraid of you.”

“Nature is cruel. There are legions of creatures out there who see us as puny interlopers into their domains. Ready to kill at any opportunity. It’s almost self-preservation to take a few specimens.”

“You really have no idea.”

“You catalogue death with the same reverence I hunt it. Tell me, Nonnisa – when you slice open a still-warm heart, do you feel anything?”

She jumps up. One stride. Two. Stands in his face.

Heat licking the sweat at her throat, tracing a path down to the open V of her shirt – his gaze follows the bead of moisture before he can stop himself.

“I feel the future dying. Every cell I preserve is a promise to the future. Every animal you kill a betrayal.”

Murray bristles. Close enough she smells gun oil on his skin, whiskey on his breath, and something wilder beneath.

“Betrayal,” he repeats softly, tasting the word.

He lifts a hand and allows it to hover an inch from the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Or is it something else entirely?”

The fire pops, showering sparks. Neither flinches.

“Are we not partners in this endeavour? Don’t you need me?”

Nonnisa lifts her chin. “Touch me and find out, Captain.”

A nightjar calls, liquid and mournful. Murray’s fingertips brush the hollow beneath her jaw – feather-light.

Nonnisa grab his wrist in an iron grip,

“You think you’re the first man to underestimate me,”

Her lips are close, “You won’t be the last I bring to his knees.”

Murray’s laugh is a sigh,

“Doctor, I’m already there.”

The firelight catches gold flecks in his eyes.

Nonnisa’s free hand grabs the front of his shirt.

She could shove him back, or pull him in – and recognises the choice.

Thinking – ‘that’s odd’.

Out in the dark, a lion roars – deep, territorial.

Murray’s forehead rests briefly against hers; their breath mingles, hot.

“On the ‘morrow, we track the pride. Together.”

Nonnisa’s answer is a slow, deliberate press of her lips to the corner of his mouth.

“Together. But on my terms.”

She releases his shirt, steps around the lioness – walking into the dark toward her tent.

Murray watches the sway of her hips disappear into shadow, the rifle forgotten at his feet, the fire burning low and hot.

For one heartbeat, he is aware of nothing — no wind, no insects, no distant thunder. His only sense the scent of bergamot lingering in the air.

Then the savanna hits full sensory – unleashing its cacophony of nighttime life, suddenly punctuated – a tremendous roar.

Close – immediate – a detonation of sound that punches him in the chest.

The lioness’s corpse twitches – post-mortem reflex or something worse?

Grabbing his rifle, his first instinct is to protect Nonnisa.

Her tent flap bursts open, pistol in one hand, lantern in the other, Nonnisa in full fury – skin gleaming with sweat and starlight.

Another roar, closer. Murray chambers a round with a metallic snick.

“Pride male. Defending territory. He smells the kill.”

She steps to his side, lantern raised.

“He’s between us and the cubs.”

The lion’s scent rolls over them. Furious hot muskiness.

Nonnisa’s Webley is up and ready.

Twenty yards out, the grass parts.

He is magnificent – shoulders rolling –mane black-tipped, bristling.

Amber eyes fixed on the camp, on the dead lioness, on the two humans who had dared trespass.

Then – a shimmer – a pop of displaced air.

The lion’s attention snaps to a man in matte-black tactical gear materialising five feet from his flank,

He has a balaclava over his head and a wrist device glowing crimson that he is urgently tapping.

The lion leaps – not at Murray and Nonnisa - instead in one bound onto the intruder – jaws clamp around the man’s shoulder with a wet crunch.

The intruder screams – a sound cut short as the lion shakes him like a rag doll. Blood arcs – black in the starlight.

Murray lunges sideways, tackling Nonnisa to the ground. They roll through the grass, his body a shield over hers.

He gets off a prone wild shot – the rifle discharge cracks the air –bullet whizzing through the lion’s mane to no effect.

The beast glances at him, yellow eyes blazing, then drags its thrashing prey into the dark.

Nonnisa’s breath is a sharp burst against his neck. She is pinned by his weight.

“Get off me.”

He rolls away. They stand together. He puts an arm around her shoulders.

In the grass lays the assassin’s severed forearm, fingers still twitching.

His wrist device blinking in the same amber countdown as Nonnisa’s bracelet — but the amber is bleeding to red.

Nonnisa steps forward and prises it from the wrist – its black kevlar strap different to her ornate bracelet but the Quantum-Beryl is identical.

Its screen reads.

ANCHOR – N. CHANNING — 2011 — AMAZON BASIN

Murray kneels beside her, hears her speak – to him, perhaps, or to herself?

“Someone else has the engine. And they’re coming for the future.”

He stands – chambers another round, eyes on the darkness where the lion vanished.

“I think you have a story to tell me Nonnisa.”

She looks up at him, the almost-kiss hangs between them, unfinished, electric, now forged in blood and gunpowder.

Nonnisa stands, squeezes his bicep, and retreats to her tent.

Murray becomes aware of the panic among his bearers — men running in confusion, bundles half-packed, ready to decamp into the trees.

It took him the better part of an hour, first in firm talk with his headman, and then with the trembling group, to persuade them to stay.

He reminds them that he — Big Bwana — and Nonnisa — Bibi Mdogo — possess juju of great power, enough to guard them all. Very great power indeed.

“Walikuwa na juju yenye Nguvu kuu, ya kuwalinda wote.”

There is excited chattering – then the men freeze as Nonnisa walks from her tent to stand beside Murray, her face calm, her eyes strong.

The headman’s voice rings clear,

“Mama yetu hana hofu hata mbele ya simba.” (Our lady fears not even the lion)

The others murmur it after him — half prayer, half surrender.

The camp holds.

Murray saunters away and intones into surrounding darkness, “Ngufu kuu.” Great power. He almost believes it.

The campfire is enthusiastically rebuilt, camp chairs are unfolded, a table with a tablecloth appears.

Nonnisa and Murray take their seats as Chuma – the headman –ceremoniously arrives with a tray set with fine bone china. The Englishman’s ju-ju against any circumstance. The tea service.

As they sit sipping, Nonnisa tells Murray the Neueden story – at least a version suitable for him to perhaps comprehend.

She expected profound shock but instead Murray seemed quite stoic - somehow re-framing her story with reference to the Classics.

“You’re stealing fire from tomorrow, lass. And I’m the match.”

Finally she repeats, “Someone else has the engine – and they’re coming for the future.”

Then,

“And for me!”

“Then we hunt them first.”

They stand and hold each other.

Retreating to her tent, they do not make love but hold each restlessly until dawn.

The bearers are aware. They are pleased. It is a sign.

FADE TO BLACK

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