Brought to You by Secret

"The old man was called, in the language of Persia, Hassan-I-Sabah, and his people were called the Hashishin. He had caused a valley between two mountains to be enclosed, and turned into a garden, so large and beautiful his people believed it was Paradise. And there was a fortress at the entrance, strong enough to resist all the world. Now the old man caused those of his young men whom he had chosen to be his Hashishin, his assassins, to be given a potion which cast them into a deep sleep, and to be carried into the garden, so that when they awoke, they believed they were in Paradise. And there were damsels and young girls there, who dallied with them to their hearts' content, so that they had what young men desire. Thus it was that when the old man decided to send one of his assassins upon a mission, such as to have a prince slain, he would send for one of these youths and say, 'Go thou and kill, and when thou returnest, my angels will bear thee into Paradise; and should'st thou die, nevertheless, I will send my angels to carry thee back into Paradise.'" --from The Travels of Marco Polo via Turner

"Prove you're not a robot" -ReCaptcha

"Look, you've got to try this. Trust me, you'll love it." My friend practically dragged me up to the counter where a number of handguns were laid out.

"Fuck you." Came the standard greeting of the service sector, from the red-haired woman behind the counter, whose attention we had attracted. Ubiquity has dulled the fight-or-flight frisson this phrase, and most profanity, used to carry. "How can I help you?"

"OK. Let's do this. Let's shoot some guns." I managed to lather up some superficial enthusiasm for the idea of gun-shooting. And why not? I had nothing to lose. At the very least, trying to be enthusiastic was something with which I could occupy myself for the time being.

My friend handed me a revolver. Carbon alloy. Knuckle duster grip. I opened the cylinder. Not loaded. "Where are the bullets?"

"You ever fired a gun before?" said the counter lady, "you sure you know how to do this?"

I clicked the cylinder back into place. "Sure, like this, right?" I pulled the hammer back, aimed it straight at her heart, and pulled the trigger click

"Bang," I said.

She was unimpressed: "before I can let you shoot any guns, you have to memorize three poems."

"Poems?"

"Poems." She slump-sighed slightly, suggesting that my blankly bemused response was nothing new to her, and offered me the boiler-plate. "It's a safety precaution required by law. Studies have shown that familiarity with poetry increases empathy and reduces the likelihood that someone will use a firearm in the commission of a violent crime."

I looked at my friend who assured me it was absolutely worth it.

Before I knew it, the red-haired bitch had gathered up a stack of forms and I was following the truculent, competent swish of her retail-sector haunches into the complex of corridors and glass-windowed offices, store-rooms, and workshops at the rear of the store.

"Have you ever even read a poem before?" she asked over her shoulder, in a way that would suggest that she could no longer contain her irritation and resentment toward me.
  
I tried to think of a poem. "Two roads," I said as I followed, "converged... in a... holy... wood?"

"That's pretty good. Let's see how you do with these."

"Fuck you," I said.

"Fuck. You." she said, loudly, in the other direction.


* * *

I went into the room I was supposed to go into. They strapped me into a big dentist's chair surrounded by all kinds of apparatus. A round-faced, bored-looking man in glasses unceremoniously inserted an IV needle into my arm.

"What is this?" I asked.

He said, "just relax" and flipped some switches. Machinery hummed and the chair, which was connected to a pneumatic lift, rose nearly to the ceiling until my face was level with a machine that looked like a TelePrompTer crossed with an eye-exam machine from which a microphone-tipped tendril extended toward my mouth.

Glowing green text began to scroll down the screen.

     nasia of swine may be a one- or two-step process. A one-step pr
     ig permanently insensible and results in death. A two-step proce

     rs the pig insensible, but requires a secondary step to achieve its 
     d step is typically achieved by exsanguination or pithing (see pa
     tant to understand the di erence between the two processes. 

Before it had finished scrolling he asked me. "What is this about?"

"...Euthanasia?"

"NO. Read it again." He started it over.

Heat and sickness surged inside. They were pumping something into me.

* * *

I was sick and weak.

I couldn't tell how much time had passed. It could have been days. I couldn't turn my head, or look away from the screen, but the steady stream of God-knows-what chemical kept me awake in a never-ending near-dream of scrolling green text.

     n dioxide (CO2) replaces oxygen in the
     and causes rapid onset of anesthesia
     subsequent death due to respiratory
     t. Although unconscious, pigs may
     ience involuntary vocalizations and
     ents when carbon dioxide is used 

     ctly. 

"What is this about?" he asked.

"Fuck you is what it's about." I felt hollow.

"Read it again."

"Pig... fucker..." I spat.

"Again."

"...monster... trucks." I felt something stir in me.

He perked up, "what?"

I was surprised too. I tried again, "superhero characters."

The battery-acid flow immediately switched to pure milk- and-honey, flooding my veins: a huge handsome sigh, an untying, a tangle of knots sliding gently undone, leaving my perspective transported into psychic weightlessness; the state of ataraxia; vitality and awareness blooming out of every branch of my nervous system. The chair had come completely off its track and was floating in midair before I realized that it was my intent that had broken it free. I could go wherever I wanted, do whatever I wanted. Laughing and hollering out of the euphoria that was building like a buzzing storm in the core of my body, "Do the Dew!" The whirring from the machines picked up. "I'm the Best a Man Can Get!"

As I began the joyful work of dismantling every piece of machinery in the chamber, using only the musculature of my will, I was dimly aware of the operator's voice reporting excitedly into the intercom, "...you'd better get down here... he's having a bit of an, ah... reaction?"

What are my values? I wondered as I regarded the technician who was currently getting in touch with his inner prey-animal, glancing at me intermittently with increasingly terror-stricken eyes as he jabbered into the intercom. And I couldn't shake the sense that this was all part of "the experience" so to speak.

I chambered my intention and struck home, as if with a pulsing, distorting sword mounted on the fulcrum of my mind. A sudden crack and a shower of sparks sent the young man sprawling, as the circuits and plastic casing of the intercom box withered into bitter smoke.

* * *

Later, I stood with the red-haired woman in a vast warehouse. The rapture that had possessed me during the poetry test had become dormant again, but I found the formerly diffident whelp of gunlust, the urge to get my finger on a trigger, to hold the deadly weight of a pistol in my hand, had grown into a slavering, growling hound within whatever span of time and distance separated me from our first meeting.

"Before you can shoot a gun, there's just one more thing you have to do and that's learn how to use a knife."

We were standing on a big rug that had all sorts of medieval weapons on it. I shrugged and stifled the childish pout my face wanted to fall into. How many other frustrated young men have been ensnared in this fashion, I wondered.

"Time for another poetry session? Well I don't like your sense of aesthetics, lady. Final Solution, sponsored content... what's my next lesson -- are you going to have me -- cutting people up? in the name of Pepsi-Cola...?", I near-spluttered.

Calmly, she intoned, "Do you want to shoot a gun or not?"

I sighed and nodded. A gentle knot of tension passed through her body and the rug started scudding along the concrete floor, carrying its metal and human cargo easily along with it.

I happened to have a super-advanced Swiss Army knife in my pocket. Might as well get started, I thought. I pulled it out and used the built-in blue silk handkerchief option to wipe the sweat off my face.

"What's to stop me from putting an axe into your back right now?" I said. "Fear of punishment?"

She ignored me and navigated our terrestrial magic carpet through a portal-like opening, and into a long, winding corridor.

I wasn't satisfied. I was an important person, or at least I had been before I became imprisoned here. "I'll tell you what. I have a lot of irons in the fire, you know. I can't go down for just..." I grabbed her shoulder. She turned suddenly, and I noticed that she was beautiful. 

Her eyes were clear and wide, and brilliant blue. Her long kinky red hair was thick and healthy, and only slightly frizzy. Her skin was fair and freckled. She was soft like a girl, but well-built, athletic-seeming.

She was strong enough for a man, but fully a woman.

My heart quailed and a single jangling chord resonated through my whole body, "one... person..."

     Who are you?

     My name is Sophia

     Where did you come from, Sophia?

     Somewhere else


The little mind-flames leaped up again and reached toward her.

"Isn't it wonderful," she said, as I touched her hand and she smiled, "to go from young and beautiful, to transparent and free?" We lay down among the cutlery.

"Yes. It's wonderful", I said and held her close to me, breathing in her scent that was as a fresh as a spring morning.

Scorching awareness began to coalesce into a single stream that flowed into her vastness. We started to go transparent. The rug kept cruising along.

"There's so much living to do," she said. We had nearly disappeared. "So much living."

We rolled on, transparent.