The Journal of Caleb Rabbatem
March 3rd, 2013
Solomon Islands, Blue Mountain Region, Maine.
Time: maybe four hours later.
What do you know, maybe Freddy Beaumont wasn’t bluffing about being a bad ass- though he was more a pain in my ass in retrospect. That man is pushing all my hard-to-push wrong buttons. Or was. I’m almost certain I snuffed him out. Just call me one of the Ninja Assassins. I slither through the shadows on a mission of bloody revenge!
I have watched way too many bad films since I’ve immigrated to America…
I thought I’d write some more, because I’m still lying outside the mine recovering, and it’s really boring. Not because there’s nothing to do or reflect or catch up on. But because I crushed my Ipod in that battle against Freddy Fucking Douchemont. I need my music to do anything productive, man.
I keep thinking of Seriah without the distraction. I’m spilling blood wanton style for my sister. First in Port of Spain, now in the middle of Filth-infested northeast America. I screwed up once and it’s not going to happen again. I don’t know where her soul has gone, but the deeper I go down the rabbit hole, the more I hold out hope that I could see her again.
Maybe not a good idea. I’ve encountered so many ghosts now that I respect hauntings as part of my daily routine. But every single one of them is…twisted. I’m talking deformed and downright mean. I’ve already died a few times in their phantasmagorical, slimy, ecto tendrils. Only the violent or unjust deaths come back. Seriah was both. I think it’d be too much, seeing her in that state.
I want another chance to see her, I don’t want to see her at all. Caleb, my man, you are thoroughly mind-fucked.
Ami and Kyra Dexter showed up with supplies a few minutes ago. Beef jerky that tastes like dust. I’m too hungry and it does its job. I’m sure we’ll be setting sail to more darkness battling sometime soon. Hooray, yippee, shoot me in the head and plug up the anima wells so my corpse doesn’t come shambling back to life with a shit eating grin.
No, I feel for the broken Wabanaki tribe, I really do. Their culture is dying, their grip slipping on their ability to ward off the darkness, they’re relying more on people like me. The brand new…brand of warriors. It must be a shitty thing knowing your gig is up, that you’re washed up; That your gods knocked on your door and sent this man or woman to replace you. But I don’t care about their individual fates. I can’t fix their goddam laundry list of problems. My own trumps theirs. I’m selfish that way.
Well, maybe not Kyra’s. That poor kid is stuck in the middle of this shit way too young. But I think I’m just fond of her obnoxious ass because she reminds me of my sister.
Maybe that utter egotism is why the Lumies had such a hard-on for me. That, and Dedbeat was playing at underground connections like a hooker plays a John. The Dedbeat, the man with fire in his eyes that you pumped full of .357 and mysteriously showed up right back in your face a few days later dressed for Halloween. You should just give him the 10k you owe him already, man.
That’s just my wet dream. The Dedbeat plays the gangster part, but a gangster he is not. He’s a mortal man, a good recruiter of warm, human bodies who can wheel and deal the info.
Tell me I didn’t just refer to my ‘supe alter ego as a separate person. Pausing to think about it, it does make sense. Every day, it makes more and more sense.
But then doesn’t that make Caleb the mortal man and The Ded the alt universe?
After all, the Ded loves his flair. And this world of Gaia engines and myths-come-true is nothing but flashy, bangy flair.
time and date unknown:
What…just happened? There had been a voice in my head, man. Ami & Kyra did their good deed, or was it my good deeds or just Kyra’s whining, and the tribe was hugging and laughing again. The laughing might be stretching it. I drank their Kool-Aid and suddenly I’m all rising up in this failed-expedition-to Shamballah-whammy ice cavern. Where the hell did those wacky Wabanaki even send me?
I tried not to think about whom that voice belonged to. It wasn’t The Eye or whatever that emotionless, meme-spewing debriefer agent is called. I don’t pay attention to these things. They’re all means to an end.
But I thought anyway, and god (unintentional pun there), what was he- I say that from vocal context only- telling me? That history was an accidental design of the quests for godhood? That…gods are mortal men who become The Chosen? That The Chosen become gods?
That sounds incredibly stupid. And, come on, I’m not naïve. It can’t be that easy.
I liked the sound of it though. Godhood, mmm mmm good. If absolute power corrupts, then, oh yeah, corrupt me.
So I drank some more Kool-Aid. This one was even wrapped up in a box with a little pink bow. Happy birthday to me.
You and I might someday be on equal ground, Shango. Then we’ll dance on that broken moonlit plane. Is that thing even a moon?
Wouldn’t you know it, though. The Kool-Aid was of the cosmic death cult variety that time.