DEFEAT. 037 – Stranger Aeons

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]

[cue soundtrack]

Cliff stood outside of the bus for an additional moment. His cohorts, having already boarded and begun drinking, urged him onto the mammoth transport. But there was an electricity in the air that made him want to linger. An elusive vapor swam about and Cliff wanted nothing more than to breathe it in forever.

But alas, he had to heed his friends’ calls. After all, it was a long ride to Copenhagen and the sooner they got into the bus the sooner they could get out of it. The partying — the booze, the drugs, the women — it was all a well-designed escape. While many fantasize about touring the world, sharing their art, they don’t consider the means of transportation. Too many people, cramped into too small a space, traveling too far.

Far from ideal and even further from comfortable.

But it was worth it. Every single second of struggle, every instance in which discomfort and uneasiness reigned supreme, the countless arguments and tiffs, all the nonsense was erased from existence on a nightly basis. Walking onto the stage. Hearing the intro tape. Feeling the crowd surge as they waited for lights to hit. And then performing — this eradicated the very molecules of personal turbulence.

It was the goddamn dream – living to express ideas, bearing one’s soul to others, knowing that your perspective is appreciated.

As Cliff climbed into the bus he was nearly knocked backward by the stench of alcohol. The refreshing late September air had been fully expelled and was now replaced with the fumes of Jägermeister and Absolut. Hell, if he weren’t such a trusting man, Cliff would’ve sworn that even the bus driver reeked of booze.

On most evenings the musician wouldn’t have so much as batted an eye, chalking up the bath of ethanol-cologne as another perk of being on tour. But now he couldn’t help but feel overpowered by surreality. It was as though he was beginning to transition into something greater, floating above his body and perceiving the scene from an entirely new angle.

An angle not of the first four dimensions.

Enveloped by this heightened sense of something else, Cliff made his way towards the rear of the bus with resolve. He walked past his bandmates without exchanging a word. But he wasn’t snubbing them and they knew as much. As was customary, Cliff spent the first hour on the bus reading and the other three respected this. They understood just how deeply Cliff loved literature and gave him sixty minutes of seclusion before destroying the barricades and inducing total bedlam.

Unless, of course, they grew impatient and convinced him to party sooner.

But even through their drunken eyes, each could see this was not a night in which Cliff was to be called upon prematurely. He looked not as though he were about to sit down to read some riveting fantasy, but to study philosophy. And in way, he was.

During his teenage years, Cliff had wandered about completely lost. Like most, he hadn’t gone astray but simply had never found a course of discovery to call his own. He was adrift in the Sea of Epistemology and would’ve been glad to receive even a life preserver of Truth. But right when all seemed lost, when it looked as though he would never have any means by which to consider the purpose of life on Earth, a dark freighter parted the waters and invited him to join the crew.

Captain Lovecraft took a liking to the youth, pleased to meet someone who would entertain his notions. His beliefs were murkier than the water they sailed, his theories darker than the ever-thundering sky. But they resonated with Cliff, tugging on heartstrings that would otherwise go unmassaged. He found solace in the captain’s suggestion that human perception is so limited that it can only account for the faintest fraction of reality.

According to the captain, this might mean that there are cosmic, transdimensional monsters headed to Earth simply to gorge and destroy. But it was comforting to think that there’s something else out there.

And thus Cliff spent his hour of solitude revisiting these sentiments. Turning them over in his head. Wondering. At the conclusion of his time, which he knew was coming to a close because the singer and the drummer were no longer even attempting to stifle their nightly argument, Cliff felt himself begin to read aloud. Words somehow carry more meaning when they are uttered, if only in hushed tones.

He whispered, “But he was still content, for at one mighty venture he was to learn all. Damnation, he reflected, is but a word bandied about by those whose blindness leads them to condemn all who can see, even with a single eye.”

+++

The night raged on, as did the usual drinking and laughing and partying. But even in the midst of deviant indulgences, moments of genuine humanity could be found. At one point Cliff draped a blanket over his winsome drummer. The Dane was so inebriated that English would no longer come to his tongue. Needless to say, unconsciousness soon followed.

At another point, Cliff and the frontman quietly confided their joy of performing together. Up until the previous show, a wrist injury had kept the frontman from playing guitar on the tour and relegated him to the role of mere singer. But now that he was back on double-duty, Cliff’s basslines were once again married to their perfect rhythmic counterparts. It would have been a universal misstep for these two to not have reconvened one final time.

But it was in the final exchange of the evening that the universe recalibrated itself. Cliff was preparing for bed when he noticed that the bunk he had hoped to occupy had already been filled with by someone else’s gear. “Hey, whose stuff is this?”

“It’s mine,” the lead guitarist confirmed. “Why, did you want this bunk tonight?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal.”

A twinkle appeared in the guitarist’s eye. An idea with unfathomable consequences had come to him. “Why don’t we play for it?”

“Play for it?”

“Yeah, we’ll draw cards. Whoever pulls the higher card gets choice of bunk.”

Cliff considered it, but really just wanted to appease his friend. “Seriously? I’ll just give you the bunk. I don’t want to the decision to be made by a deck missing half the cards. I’d rather we work it out for ourselves.”

“Oh, c’mon,” jovially groused the savant of six-string, “it’s a lighthearted solution to our little dispute. It’s not a matter of life and death!”

“All right, all right.” Cliff knew that the logic was sound.

Yet, it still didn’t feel right.

A deck of cards was produced and both took a turn drawing. “Cliff, you go first” someone from the peanut gallery suggested.

Cliff flipped over the card to reveal an ace of spades — only three cards could even tie. His opponent privately inspected his own selection then admitted defeat by tossing it aside. “Well, what’ll it be?”

Seeking vengeance for even being roped into the game, Cliff grabbed his gear and declared “I want your bunk!”

“Fine, I’ll probably sleep better anyways,” the guitarist kidded, trying to save face.

And saved he would be.

+++

Cliff wasn’t sure what time it was, but it couldn’t have even been seven in the morning. The total blackness of the night, the darkness of unknowing, was still enveloping the tour bus. But dawn’s rays of sun, the light of understanding, were beginning to shine upon the Earth. He had awoken just in time to see this.

Everything felt as though it had found its proper place, so with a sense of contentment Cliff pressed his face into his pillow. And as he exhaled, Cliff could’ve sworn that he tasted that same elusive vapor he had breathed in the night before.

A new day was being birthed.

The tires screeched. Everything and nothing happened at once and forever. Such a spinning occurred that an upright landing would have been impossible. Physics would not allow for any sort of graceful maneuver.

Yet Cliff found himself on his feet , fully clothed and manning the wheel. His face was once again caressed by the soft hands of the sky. But this time it wasn’t a Scandinavian September that brushed back his hair – it was the sea breeze of ethereal exploration.

He was steering the dark freighter through the aeons.

Captain Lovecraft looked on approvingly.