The Lord of the Matrix

Chapter 6:  No Points for Second Place.

Five years ago…

	Life—the force that lives without discrimination in who it chooses—rumbles across those chosen in times a past.  It twists to the deeds of selfishness—of evil.   With the newborn life on this mountain, they will die.

	The slanting scales of right and wrong overflow.  The sun burns like a fried egg on a black sky.  Rain falls on and through them.  Oxygen dissolves and a quiet suffocation gives praise; life will kill life.  Mountain peaks tumble across nature.  Buildings implode and explode.  Streets dissolve to dust, then to reminisce.  Through him is everything.  The Matrix shines with a brilliance Azoric described as, “the kind accident victims talk about.  I’ve never seen anything so bright, yet I saw Backstabber without fault.  He flew and like the soft white wings of an angel cradling a soul on its long, fear filled journey, the Matrix called to me—to everyone.”  

	Those who survive The Merging can not believe what they see.  By the power invested in the Matrix—every universe, galaxy, system, planet, molecule condenses to one world.  The debris melts and hardens into mountains of dust and rock.  Perimeter walls surface, watch towers erect, and in the center, all land raises to His glory, His vision, His palace.

The Present…

	Raven hunches along these mice infested, grim tunnel ways in search for light.  The same light that brought this darkness.  The light of life.  She hopes to salvage what Backstabber has discarded.  One of these tunnels will lead her to the light she seeks.  And in case it doesn’t, a satchel—at her waist—holds drawings detailing every fluctuation and crack in the Palaces underground passages.  It has taken years to map this portion.  She doesn’t worry about the rest.  The Matrix is near—she feels it.

	The main shaft stands three stories tall with exactly twenty tunnels starting or ending—Raven knows everything about this tunnel.  Boiling water flows through gray pipes along the walls.  Condensation gathers between rusted bolts.  Lonely echoes from fallen water drops.  She wipes sweat from her forehead, her clothes stick and her hair waves.  Here she can stand but is cautious to be silent.  The person following her should learn such practices…  Raven rolls on her side, pulling a knife and hurling it into the dark.

	Whooooooosh…

	Raven snatches the knife midair—by the handle.

	From the shadows—a voice.  “I thought we talked about this.  What do you think you are going to do?  Even if you find it…”

	“We did talk about this.  It ended with you saying I shouldn’t come back here and me saying, tough.”

	Poverty has crafted Raven’s once supermodel exterior to a well oiled machine.  Her arms, legs and abs pump along their ligaments.  A sleek collar has developed out of her dirt smudged shoulders.  No longer the slack holding up Azoric—he fights her from taking on what no one person can handle.

	“We can’t be risking our lives like this—especially you.  Even Duo couldn’t…”  The sentence dies.  “What matters is this.”  His hand feels her hardened belly.  Pregnancy has not distracted her thirst for the Matrix—it has intensified it.  How can she explain it?  She can’t, and leans into the dim, off her heels and in his arms.  She hides the uneven round tattoo which blackens her left eye and eyebrow.  He caresses the disfigured skin.  He doesn’t feel it any longer.  In many ways he finds it beautiful, a rare medallion, her eye the precious center stone—then he remembers who gave it to her and its beauty becomes his rage.

	Lights flicker and flash, the darkness of the tunnel fades under a florescent spotlight.  Raven squints and stays, her head on Azoric’s chest.  His arms wrap around her, protecting her.  She stares at the wall—helpless and weak.  How unsuspecting their attackers are; she reverses her grip on the knife.

	“Stop, both of you—don’t move!  By the orders of Backstabber, you are under arrest!”  Commander V-man steps into the light while his guards scale a metal ladder to the main shaft. “By stars—I can’t believe it!  It is two members of the Fellowship, Lord foodmart will be pleased.”

	“V-man, I will say it only once.  Let us pass.”

	Sweat shines off of V-man’s brutish and lapping forehead.  The skin of his neck folds over the pressed collar of his military uniform.  A sharp crease has been measured (to a tenths accuracy) and runs down his pant’s leg.  Simply breathing causes his starched shirt to crack like a days-old glazed donut.  How dare he order me?  “You’re not getting away this time.  You are coming with me.”

	“V-man, I’ve warned you before and this is my final heed of caution.  If you choose for violence to crown a victor, then wager I must and fight we shall.”

	Raven spins and tomahawk chops the knife.  It shatters the spotlight, igniting beams of electricity among weeping sparks.

	Azoric tugs on her arm.

	Raven tugs back.  “No.  Through the killing fields.  It is the only way we will lose them.”

Lord foodmart spreads his legs and arms like a snow angel upon plush pillows soft as clouds.  A smile breaks the lining of his lips.  This is so much better than being in the Fellowship.  Next to him, laying seductively—one of his many mistresses cuddles the bounty next to her bounty and slips foodmart skinned grapes over the drama of the Real World on MTV.  Her days are spent in her shimmery gold bikini and heels, serving her Lord, oiling her skin and fake baking to keep her illustrious native tan.  What was I thinking?  Oh yeah…this is so much better than being in the Fellowship.

	“Oh, come on—Annesa, it couldn’t be more obvious.  What an idiot!  That Walla Walla bothers me even more.  This show used to be cool—its so fake now.”

	“Tell me about it, oh master.”

	“Well, okay, if you really want to hear it.”

	From between white columns V-man marches across the floor.  He dawns his official uniform, which cracks to the percussion of the weighed down medals pinned to his chest.  Commander V-man stops at the television monitor.  foodmart does not object, as V-man obstructs a pimple on Cara’s forehead and drowns out the needless whining of Kyle’s lovesick woes.  In Commander V-man’s opinion: that boy needs to straighten up and get himself some.  It does a solider good.

	foodmart waves Commander V-man out of the way.  “Lord foodmart, I am hear to report excellent news.  We are in pursuit of two members of the Fellowship.”

	“Who?”

	“Azoric and Raven.”

	foodmart’s hands circle in a mysterious—somewhat massaging—repetition.

	“Lord foodmart, I’ve noticed you do that every time Raven is mentioned.  Do you mind if I ask why?”

	“Not really.  A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, she had this thing for me.”  V-man raises an eyebrow; even foodmart’s mistress yawns into a slumpish stature—outstretching her arms and purring into a sly smile before chewing a sweet tangerine.  “Oh yeah—that girl had a fire in her.  I played it smooth and cool.  Didn’t let her think she was getting to me.  However, as things go, I got bored with her and let second in command Azoric have her.  After all, back then, I was a big shot in the Fellowship.  Yep, everybody depended on me.”

	“Shall I alert you when they are captured?”

	“Please do.  You’re dismiss—.”  V-man has already left.  “Tasha, do you think it’s right he leaves before I dismiss him?”

	“I don’t know.”  She throws her hair and arches her back, pawing her way to foodmart.

	“You know, you’re always so nice to me Tasha.  If there is ever anything I can do for you, let me know.”

	“Well, you could—oh, never mind.”

	“No, what?”

	“I could really use a foot massage.”

	foodmart springs to his knees.  “You may find this hard to believe, but us Lord’s are quite crafty at such things.”

	Foodmart’s fingertips caress her filled thighs, the dip in the back of her all-things-normal knees and jingles a silver chain anklet…where his hands freeze.

	“What’s the matter?”

	In the battle of feet verses stiletto heels, Tasha has lost.  Calluses pollute the top of her foot, creating valleys of tough skin.  Her toes have fallen out of alignment and fungus paints her warped toe nails.  On the bottom of her right foot grows a spinning green life form—with a egg white center. What is that?  Geez…of all things that Backstabber destroyed, you think left one of those bloody lagoons around.  “Oh my God, I can’t.” foodmart second glances the foot. “Its not you baby…yeah it is you.  It really is you.”

After The Merging, Backstabber ordered all survivors be judged.  Those deemed worthy gained citizenship in Backstabber’s society, living in eternal spoil.  Those deemed unworthy worked as slave labor or faced the killing fields.  Despite judging foodmart as worthy; Marrin was turned away.  It didn’t shock her.  She had accepted the love of another.  She let it give her life; death hardly tempted her now.  foodmart had started feeding again, she hadn’t.  I hate to say it but that moron was right.  Vampires feed—why wasn’t I?  If a vampire stops feeding, can she be a vampire?

	She stands on a large rock upon rolling hills of knee high red grass.  She doesn’t come here to look-on the kingdom of Backstabber—even though the red has become majestic.  She ponders the mystery beyond…

	Zor tickles along her side.  “Gotcha.”

	Marrin laughs and pushes Zor away.  “Jerk.”  

	She steps away but is drawn back by the bouquet of sunflowers he offers her.  They cuddle for a moment—hard to believe his place could be the romantic setting to their fairy tale.

	“Whatcha looking at?”

	“That.” She doesn’t need to point.  Zor knows.  He looks often enough.  “Why do you think it is like that?”

	The mountain range from Steve Bateman’s world remains bathed in the light of two suns.  The red drabness of Backstabber’s world fights to swallow the mountains into evil, yet its efforts fail.  The red disease dissolves around flourishing blue skies, budding trees and flying birds.  Popular rumor tells that it is an illusion to further break the slaves.  

	Marrin disagrees.  It can’t be meant to break us, all it does is give me hope.

	“You’ve asked me that a million times.  I don’t know what it is.”

	“Do you think that is where he is?”

	“For the millionth time, no.  We saw him die Marrin.”

	“You remember that day?”

	Zor exhales.  “Yes, I remember.  I was there.”

A lonely woman hunches her shoulders, tears land with a hiccup.  She tears a tissue into sixtieths—going for twenty-fourths.  Her hands tremble, just like her…breasts…breaths.  Her toes are nails down, arching at her knees…stockings…mocking his lust.  Her hair has the appeal of Marilyn, with the…fluff…lush fall of a prom queen.  A button down Casmir hides the low… whoa…cut of her flower print dress.

	“What do you think I should do?  In your professional opinion.”

	Punkr acknowledges her pleas with a fatherly nod and replaces his pipe.  He levels it above the table—debating the best placement.  Right, left, no right, little more right…ahhh…there, that should do it.  Behind his swivel chair, the Ivy League degrees of Dr. Larry Palmer hang from the wall.  Too bad for Dr. Palmer, he died during The Merging.  

	It would be a shame to let such a good practice waste…

	Punkr sets a chair next to her.  He lowers his voice and adds a whisper; like Hollywood movie stars.  “I think it is obvious my dear.  He is controlling you.  You can not let yourself be controlled.  You let yourself be controlled now…you’ll let yourself be controlled forever.”

	“Oh…you are so right doctor.  What should I do?” she weeps.

	“I think you should put this man in his place.  Go out with someone else.  Make him realize how important you are.  And if he doesn’t come around—his loss.”

	“I’d love to doctor.  But where am I going to get a date?”

	“Well…I don’t usually…”  Punkr breaths in—falsifying an internal debate while turning his eyes to the ceiling, as if consulting the divine for an answer.  “I think your situation is tragic and in need of urgent attention.  I would be happy to escort you to dinner…say Friday night, around eight?  Totally professional…we just won’t tell him that.”

	“Oh, thank you Dr. Palmer!” She falls into his arms, crying on his shoulder.

	I love therapy…

	Sometime later…

	Speckled fingernails—worth more than your life—belonging to small hands tap his shoulder.  Punkr snores and bats the hand away.  The innocent girl with a four button too low, long collar shirt and plaid skirt, steps back.  She lays her pigtails over her shoulders and bends at the waist to whisper in his ear.  “Excuse me?  Excuse me, Doctor Palmer?  Doctor Palmer…gee, I sure am sorry to wake you like this.”

	Punkr opens his eyes to see what the Matrix could not craft—but three thousand dollars and an excellent surgeon made up for…

	“Oh my…”

	She sex-kittens across the floor, pouting her bottom lip.  Her fingers brush against the frail skirt.  This thick, over accented, horse-radish southern voice knows what its says.   “I’m sorry.  Maybe you recognize me?  My name is Britney Spears.”

	Do I recognize her?  Before the days of the Matrix…  Punkr straightens his sport coat and thanks the Maker—Steve Bateman, not Backstabber—he was out of clean boxers and wore briefs.  He puts the pipe in his mouth, it doesn’t disguise his gawking.  “Of course, I’ve heard of you Miss Spears—some kind of musician, right?”

	“Yes, a musician.  I’m here for counseling.  See, my relationship isn’t working out the way I thought.  I wanted to see the best psychologist.  Then I found out that you are…sorta—the only psychologist.”

	Roses…

Raven grabs hold of Azoric and leaps out of a drainage pipe.  They fall onto a hill of bones.  The Morrigans have kept an impressive collection of their kills.  Hundreds, possibly thousands of bodies could be constructed.

	“This way.  They don’t know these fields as well as I do.”

	“I just hope you know them better than the Morrigans.”

	Azoric averts his eyes from the carnage.  Whole arms, rib cages and skulls litter the landscape like rocks along a dirt path, or sand by the water.  They are all dead because we lost to Backstabber.  At the end of the day, we accepted the responsibility of universes and it is our fault.

	Raven is also overcome by how massive the holocaust appears in daytime.  Much the same in all directions—death.  Death to any being not aligned with the Backstabber.  Her ankle slips through a break in the bones and she falls onto someone’s jagged elbow.  The injury sounds of ripping skin and splattered blood.  The bone rips deep, slashing whatever blocks its path, through her uterus and destroying the life she holds so dear…

	“Alright, I think we lost the guards.  Do you know where we are?”

	Raven slides off the bone, closing the split in her skin.  Not as bad as she first thought…  “That hurts.”

	Wind roars tornados or red dust.  Azoric shields his eyes and removes his shirt.  He covers the wound, pressing the bleeding.  Emerging from the storm, four legged figures take shape.  They growl, licking their lips and smacking their choppers.

	Azoric moves Raven behind him.  She rolls on her side and coughs sand.  He squints and pulls out a two foot long flat plank of metal.  He hits the release clip and two sections break out.  They crown and a cord spring loads on either end.  Side slots open and an arrow feeds itself.  Azoric secures it and draws it at his enemy.

	The Morrigans side-step away.

	Azoric releases the arrow, a Morrigan howls before collapsing, its brain’s spilt.  Another arrow feeds.  He fires once more—dropping another.  The lead Morrigan circles his neck.  The others crouch, blocking escape.

	Two arrows left and Raven isn’t looking good…

	Another arrow feeds.

Rekiski looks out of his mountain cave—his home since before he can remember.  Although what he remembers is not the truth.  This world came by the will of Steve Bateman, morphed by the Backstabber to a place of hate.  However, it does appear the legends were wrong.  While the Matrix carries the essence of Mylene’s splendid imagination—it is not her.  It can not do what she did.  Backstabber can not rid the world of all his mothers beauty.  The final remains of Mylene—all the good left in the universe exists on this mountain range.

	An interesting wind whispers across the west.  The old man scratches some blockage in his ear with a joint-locked pinky.  He leans into the breeze and it whispers again.  The animals, the spirits, the rocks, the air…they stop to listen.  

	“Yes, yes I hear you!  I hear you and you are right!”

	The old man bangs his staff on the ground and about-faces.  There sleeps Steve Bateman’s fallen solider.  The poor boy, he could handle the terminal, perhaps even the glass casing—not the Matrix.  One touch damned Duo to coma.  In five years, he has not  moved from this spot.  Yet, his muscles have not atrophied, his hair growth or his teeth decayed.  The cape aids its owner, blanketing the young man and awaiting the day he awakens.

	“Never thought I’d say this.  But you were right old boy…you were right.”  The cape doesn’t respond.  “Ignore me, will you?  Well, that is going to be harder to do now.  Say, Duo?  Duo?  Don’t you think it is time you woke up?”

Punkr does not cover his yawn.  Couples therapy…great.  Finally alone with Britney Spears and she drags this along lame-o.

	“And look at him, just look at what he is wearing.”  The seventies body suit fits Justin’s every boyish appeal.  Sequences and gemstones sparkle along seams and shoulders. His eyes hide behind a flamboyant pair of sunglasses.  “It is so pre-apocalyptic.  How am I supposed to maintain a career with this guy on my arm?”

	Justin gasps.  “I wore this in a video for Elton John.  When did you ever do a video for Elton John?  Hell, at least I wear clothes.”

	Punkr straightens and shakes off his drowsiness.

	Britney gives her trade mark little girl smile, tongue against teeth.  “Oh, you see, eventually I was wearing so little that there was no way anyone could make fabric capable of staying on.”

	“Exactly, since eighteen she has worn only body paint.  She can prove it.”

	Britney proves it.

	Punkr curiously examines his eyeballs.  The delicate lens and bright cornea.  The squishy texture and moist circumference.  He pops them back in their sockets, also cranking his jaw in place.

	Britney relines her legs…cuddling her breasts in elbows.  Now that Punkr knows her dirty little secret, he can’t imagine why he didn’t notice before.  Her thighs pivot with fine delicacy and her chest dances along shallow breaths.  No handles peek over the waist of her pants or skin curl over her bra strap—and it did wonders for panty line while eliminating the out-dated thong substitute.  

	“I can see why you never did that in a video.  Any if you don’t mind me saying Miss Spears, it is very nice.”

	 “Thanks.  Still, we’re not here to talk about that.  We are here to talk about what I feel.”

	The combined internal monologue of Justin and Punkr: What’d she say?

	“I mean, he spends so much time with his boyfriends.  He hardly has any time for me.  And a woman has needs, know what I mean?” Punkr swallows…needs?  “Not to say I am a woman—but I am certainly no girl nor am I innocent.  Sometimes he drives me crazy and makes me feel like I am last to know things.  I know I am so lucky—I am a star, but sometimes, I need a moment that is mine.”

	“How am I suppose to talk with her?  Every time she speaks it sounds like her record catalogue, which as you can see isn’t McCartney on Ice.”

	“Excuse me, but I don’t remember Bob Dole paying you five million for a night in the—oh wait, did I say Bob Dole?  I meant Pepsi.”

	Punkr waves her silent before she ruins even more of the usually respectable music scene.  “Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. And I have good news, I can help you.  I just need to reschedule my Friday.”

“Alright this is getting on my nerves.  Where the hell are we going?”

	They walk along hallways throughout the castle parameter.  The ceiling extends to the sky, long murals decorate the wall.  Backstabber has used the MatrixShop Version 6.0 to digitally place his face on history’s most famous photographs.  Brandy Chastain’s winning penalty kick and shirtless celebration are captured with the marvel of Backstabber’s playboy smile and pretty boy eyes.  Renditions of The Beatles, Let It Be, show Backstabber in various states of shave and his impeccable fashion sense winning us all over.  Seven time Mr. Universe Arnold Schwarzenegger stares in disbelief as Backstabber bench presses two school buses—one for each arm.  

	Apollyon walks like Frankenstein with forward arms and locked kneecaps.  His eyes behind a blindfold.  Sixty guides him along—twice letting Apollyon crash into a wall.

	“Will you have some patience?  And don’t take off that blindfold.”

	“Owwwffffff.”  Apollyon plants into another wall.

	Sixty pounds his belly and laughs.  “No, don’t remove it!  I swear, Backstabber said you had to have it on.  I’ll stop joking.  Turn right.”  Apollyon smacks into another wall.  “Did I say right?  Cause I meant left.”

	“Listen doofus, if Backstabber isn’t waiting at the end of this little trip—you’re in for it.” 

	They reach the end of the hallway.  Sixty knocks in two doors and disappears into the dark.  

	“You can’t outrun me.”  Apollyon cracks his knuckles and removes off the blindfold, ready to give a first class, Angel of Destruction beat-down.

	“SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!”

	The room lights.  Backstabber, the Lords, and many of the castles citizens stand around a table of prepared meals.  Bottles of fine wine—from the old world—have already been opened and many of the chemically inclined guests have taken to the drink with roaring hilarity and an embarrassing cling to their partners, shirts untucked and straps hanging off shoulders.  The layered cake towers to the chandeliers with hundreds of candles—no one knows Apollyon’s age.  Backstabber decided Apollyon would prefer a candle for every space fortress he has hijacked.

	“HAPPY BIRTHDAY APOLLYON!”

	“Aww…you guys, you didn’t have to do this.”

The last arrow loads.

	After all these years, this is what it comes down to.

	Morrigans lay with arrows in their necks, sides and hides.  Six of them still circle him.  Azoric draws the arrow and hopes to scare them.  It does little good.

	Raven lies near unconscious.  The blinding pain keeps her eyes from closing...her body from succumbing. “Don’t fire it.  It is all we have left.”  If it weren’t for the baby she’d have told him to run.  In her condition, they’d never move her before Commander V-man’s and his thugs caught up…if not for the baby.  If not for that in six months she will symbolize the Matrix for one life—she will pass her life.  She must believe.  “There has to be a way out of this.”

	“I don’t know.  We’ve been in bad situations but the Fellowship bailed us out.  Now…its just you and me.”

	“And me.”  A laser blast rips one of the Morrigans in two.  A single sparkle shines off of the silver tipped rifle.

	“I don’t believe it…”

	“Believe it.”

	The Morrigans clear out.

	The mysterious stranger yanks on the saddle and her horse gallops up to them.  She holsters her rifle in a leather pouch, her right arm is inked in black tattoos much like Raven’s face.  This stranger’s reveals her face from the shadow of a hood…

	“Fields…  Why are you here?”  

	It is all the strength Raven has.  She falls over…blackness.