BAJA CLAVIUS
By
Madeira Desouza
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY
Madeira Desouza on Smashwords
Baja Clavius
Copyright © 2012 by Madeira Desouza
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products or brands referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks or brands is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
The cover for this eBook was designed and created by the author, Madeira Desouza.
BAJA CLAVIUS is the third and final part of a time travel trilogy that was written by Madeira Desouza. Part one is LOST COWBOY MOON TIME and part two is DARE NOT ASK THE DEAD. All are available free of charge on Smashwords. Visit the author’s website www.MondoMacho.com for more information about both works and to see the author’s original illustrations.
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Dedication
To S. Bear. You’ve heard me tell you this so many times. Here is one more time: I love you very much, baby.
* * * * *
Most people live like they don’t have a timeline. – Steve Gleason
* * * * *
I am once again seated completely naked inside a thick, translucent blue glass-enclosed chamber—a time machine—that I piss people off by calling the “Giant Blue Hockey Puck.” The odd shape of this blue glass chamber reminds me of a standard ice hockey puck. Somehow, not everyone who works here sees the resemblance. Instead of the familiar three-inch diameter and one-inch thickness, this chamber is more than twenty-five times larger to enable a seated adult to fit comfortably inside. It still looks to me like a giant blue hockey puck. I don’t care what others think.
The eerie blue color comes from the rare element named Lunar Blue that was discovered deep beneath the surface of the Moon in Twenty-One Ninety. All schoolchildren learn that time travel became possible after scientists in China combined Lunar Blue with liquid diamond and the gasses of two other Earth elements. My planetary history teacher would be very angry with me if she knew that today I couldn’t recall the exact recipe that became so infamous.
Because I don’t care at all about planetary politics, I never spend any time thinking about the historical fact that the Moon initially was controlled by China dating back to the Twenty Tens. Yet, I realize that the Chinese are directly responsible for me sitting here in the nude inside the GBHP waiting for my mission to start. Nearly two centuries after all the other nations on Earth turned their backs on investing in the exploration of the Moon, China could do whatever it wanted on the lunar surface. Nobody could see what the Chinese were doing, and, more importantly, nobody could stop them from doing whatever they wanted. It was that country’s explorers who dug deep into the lunar crust and discovered what we now call Lunar Blue.
We now know that the Chinese government perfected time travel shrouded in secrecy within a huge facility in and around the city of Nanchang. My teachers explained to me as a kid that as a nation, China experienced great pride when the worldwide announcement came in Twenty-One Ninety-One that the Chinese learned how to use time travel as a weapon. Later that same year, however, China fell into irreversible panic and chaos when over one and a half million people were killed in a nanosecond in Nanchang because of technical problems at that once-secret time travel facility. The well-known historical outcome of the mass casualty event called the Nanchang blue inferno was the end of efforts by anyone ever again to attempt time travel.
Yet, here I sit in a working time machine on the Moon. Citizens of planet Earth were told after Nanchang that time travel technology could never function on the planet because the gravity is too strong. The conclusion most planetary residents chose to make was that time travel had been rendered technically unfeasible by the lessons of Nanchang. That conclusion is completely wrong.
The countdown has started as I wait for my mission to start. I have thirty seconds to sit here and squirm as I think about what I am about to experience. I truly hate how time travel starts because it physically hurts so much. Being naked is required by the science of this crazy device. A human body cannot travel in time if anything is touching the skin. I never get accustomed to sitting on chilly glass with no clothes on waiting for the familiar feeling of getting beaten up each time I start a new mission.
But, I love the work that I do. I became a time travel agent because a military consortium of nations (including leadership provided by the United States, Europe, Canada, Argentina, Colombia, and Brazil) pooled their financial and scientific resources to set up the top-secret base on the Moon. Those clever scientists in Brasilia who discovered the solution that lunar gravity cannot interfere with time travel technology will never be known by the public. Time travel to repair the timelines of the past is the biggest secret ever kept from the people of planet Earth. This is the secret that I guard with my life on every mission.
I feel the thicker-than-water translucent white liquid rushing up from the floor of the chamber with the pressure of a fire hose. I have learned to cup my hands over my cock and balls as a safety precaution. And, of course, I know how long I will need to hold my breath inside the chamber as the chilly and pasty liquid engulfs me violently. The thickness of the muscles on my chest and back absorb most of the energy of the impact. But, no guy likes protecting his manhood with only his hands while worrying about extreme physical pressure exerted by that disgusting white liquid as it ricochets off the curved blue glass walls of the GBHP and flushes him spinning downward like being inside a toilet bowl portal back to another time and space.
* * * * *
I am back in Nineteen Ninety-One again. I am seated in the Bullhead office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Why am I back in Bullhead? I thought my mission here was completed.
Two young male agents with very short hair who look like they had just left the National Football League walk into the small conference room where I am seated. Both wear black trousers and white long-sleeve shirts with dark grey ties. The Caucasian agent with green eyes does all the talking at table in the office conference room while his partner, an African American guy, just keeps his intense dark brown eyes focused on me at all times.
“Your personal trainer,” the handsome federal cop with green eyes said to me. Three simple words. Heavily significant words. “Carlo Zarelli,” Agent Green Eyes says to me. “Also known as ‘Carlo Zee.’”
My memories are confusing me. I remember that Carlo died in Mexico because I let him go into a pharmacy alone. Yet, I also have another memory. I also remember that I accompanied Carlo into that Mexican pharmacy and that he and I both escaped with our lives. Which memory is Agent Green Eyes referring to? How much trouble can I possibly be in?
“Very complicated,” I reply to Agent Green Eyes as he stares at me. They must have some minimum standard for masculine appearance and demeanor that each agent must meet before being allowed to do field work. This agent exceeds the standard. He is young, but successfully intense in how he established his commanding presence. I wonder how anyone could hope to lie to this man. What do I say to him?
Agent Green Eyes turns to his partner and says quietly, “You should go on ahead.” The African American agent nods and quickly leaves the conference room. I was just beginning to wonder who would be the good cop and who would be the bad.
“Your personal trainer, Carlo Zarelli, is a person of interest.” Just ten words, but they convey intensely complex meaning to me.
“Why, what has he done?” I ask although I do not really want an answer.
Agent Green Eyes leans closer to me as his grin morphs into a half smile. How confident he must have been that he will allow himself to smile while maintaining control.
His large right hand reaches out and grabs my left wrist. I feel physically threatened, but also just a little aroused. I try to pull away, but he is very strong. I definitely can feel the pressure of my cock growing inside my blue jeans.
So, I say to Agent Green Eyes just one word: “Drugs.” He releases my wrist and I quickly get to my feet in that office conference room.
“Don’t go,” he says to me as he motioned for me to sit back down in the chair next to him. Was that a request? Or a command?
“I am not under arrest, am I?” I ask him.
He shakes his head to indicate “no,” and points to the chair where I had been seated. So, I sit back down like he wants me to do. I start to imagine what Agent Green Eyes would look like naked.
“Naked,” I say aloud without thinking.
He reacts with genuine surprise. Now I am stuck. I had not wanted to say that. What do I say next?
“Pardon me?” Agent Green Eyes asks with a cocky grin.
I know that I am doomed. So, I just start talking to the FBI agent. “You know how helpless a guy will feel when he’s totally naked?”
“Uh, no,” he responds. “You think the FBI would use interrogation techniques like getting a guy totally naked? You think I would do that?”
“Shit, no,” I quickly say.
“We had this training,” Agent Green Eyes tells me. “Had to give presentations in front of others. Very threatening. I’d rather have to deal with being shot at in a simulations using live ammo. But, they wanted us to learn how to stand up in front of a group and speak. So, they said we should imagine everyone in the room was naked.”
“So, this is how my taxpayer dollars are being spent,” I say to him with a big smile.
He sits down in the chair right next to me and makes direct eye contact with me. He is examining me, evaluating me. “You changed the subject rather skillfully,” Agent Green Eyes says to me.
“Didn’t think you’d notice,” I lie to him.
“Tell me about your trip to Mexico,” he says to me without smiling.
“You already know. I assume that’s why I’m sitting here today,” I admit.
He nods at me, but says nothing. What do I say next? Do I tell him Carlo died? Do I tell him Carlo lived? Which story is the truth for Agent Green Eyes in this timeline?
“Let me give a hypothetical example,” I say to him. “Just bear with me, okay? I’ll tell you everything you want. Let’s suppose that I tell you that, yes, I accompanied Carlo on a drive down to Mexico. Let’s further suppose that I tell you that he and I walked across the international border and that Carlo went into a Mexican pharmacy alone where he was shot dead.”
Agent Green Eyes smiles at me. “Uh, no,” he replies. “That’s a wild story. You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“You don’t like that story?” I ask him, hoping that he will say something to let me know which of my competing memories is the correct one for this timeline.
“Hate it,” Agent Green Eyes says. “Too quick a resolution. Let me give you an alternate version. Let’s suppose that I tell you we know you crossed the international border with Carlo Zarelli because we followed you. We do not have jurisdiction to follow suspects into Mexico, so we could not observe what you two did while you where there, south of the border. Hypothetically, we can reconstruct things. Carlo Zarelli and you walked to a Mexican pharmacy. There, the two of you purchased steroids with the intent of bringing them back here to Bullhead to sell to your pals at The Bullhead Gym.”
“You had us under surveillance at the gym?” I ask him, hoping to buy myself some addition time so I can determine how to answer him.
“I follow up on all leads,” Agent Green Eyes tells me. “That’s my job. I’m assigned to find out what’s going on at the gym.”
“You’ve been to that gym? You work out there?” I ask him.
Agent Green Eyes laughs as though he is very amused with me. “Very good at deflecting. I’ll give you that.” But, he suddenly stops laughing. “Tell me what happened in Mexico,” he says forcefully.
“I did not buy illegal drugs in Mexico,” I respond confidently. “You should be asking Carlo these questions, not me.”
Agent Green Eyes stares at me with a puzzled look on his face. Is he surprised at my confidence? Is he wondering why I would be crazy enough to suggest that he question Carlo if Carlo is dead? I don’t wait for his response. I just stand up from the conference room table. I extend my right hand to him. He stands up and takes my hand as I expected he would do.
“I enjoyed meeting you,” I say to him as we shake hands. He will not release my hand. When I try to release his hand, he grabs mine tighter.
While holding onto my hand, Agent Green Eyes says, “You never met a gay FBI agent before?” Then, he releases my hand.
“Not really,” is all I can think to say to him.
“I know that you and Carlo Zarelli got involved with one another,” he says in a matter-of-fact way. “Sexually,” he adds quickly and then he waits for my response.
“Is there some federal law against gays that I’m not aware of?” I ask him.
“No,” Agent Green Eyes says quietly. “They know I’m gay. How could I be an agent if being gay were against federal law?”
“I’m confused,” I say to him as I sit back down in the conference room chair.
He sits down in the chair immediately to my right and says, “You’re not under arrest. We have no evidence of wrongdoing on your part. Carlo Zarelli, on the other hand, we have many questions about him and his actions.”
“You should be asking Carlo these questions, not me,” I repeat to the agent.
“No idea where he is,” the agent says to me. “We lost you guys at the border. I saw you at the gym. I know you work out there with Carlo Zarelli. So, I invited you to meet here. We don’t know where Carlo Zarelli has gone. Cannot find him anywhere around Bullhead.”
“I don’t think I’ve been much help to you today,” I say to Agent Green Eyes. I am still not completely sure which of my memories about Carlo is true for this timeline.
“I’m good at observing, investigating,” Agent Green Eyes says to me. “Then, I make conclusions. You are a gay man. So what? So am I. You got involved sexually with Carlo Zarelli. So what? A hot looking guy like that? Your personal trainer? Not surprising you got sexually involved with him. I don’t care about that. I care about the laws that Carlo Zarelli may have broken.”
“Keep observing and investigating,” I suggest. “I cannot provide any shortcuts for you. I honestly don’t have any answers for you.”
I get to my feet with considerable effort as my confusion about conflicting memories swirls in my brain. The agent stands up next to me. “Back east, I was married for over a decade. To a woman,” I hear myself tell him. “Always thought that I was straight.”
“Past tense?” he asks.
“You’re right,” I admit to him. “Just a little strange hearing this from an FBI agent. Got to admit I fooled myself for years. Now I seem to have discovered a knack for being drawn into the orbits of macho guys.”
“Try to stay out of trouble,” Agent Green Eyes says as he reaches out to shake my hand again. I hesitate, but he insists. So, I reach out and we have a handshake of normal duration this time. I can feel the very strong warmth his hand gives off as he shakes mine. I hate to let go of his hand, but I need to reach for the conference room doorknob.
* * * * *
As I walk down the street away from the Bullhead FBI office, I am expecting to be jerked upward into the sky, which is a familiar sensation for me. I am expecting that I will materialize naked inside the GBHP on the Moon. I am expecting to be out of Nineteen Ninety-One and returned home to my own timeline.
But, none of that happens.
I walk to the city park not far from the FBI office and sit down at one of the wooden picnic tables. It’s so hot today. Arizona weather can be unforgiving. Am I stuck here in Nineteen Ninety-One? I’m supposed to be resourceful. That’s what my training was for. Sometimes, I get inserted very directly into a specific moment in the past. I find myself fully clothed appropriately for that point in the timeline. I often must respond to someone in the middle of a sentence and make it seem completely seamless. Other times, I end up naked in some past time. That’s when the resourcefulness is most needed. How else do you think a naked man appearing in the past will always be able to find clothing and shoes? The agency just cannot tolerate time travelers walking around in the past in the nude. Might attract too much unwanted attention.
When I originally landed here in Nineteen Ninety-One in Bullhead for a previous mission, I do not remember meeting the FBI agent with the green eyes. Am I suddenly in some alternate timeline? Did the GBHP send me to the wrong place and time? Are any of the people that I met here in Bullhead from my original mission that are actually living here now? Is Carlo dead or alive?
Where is my truck?
I reach down into the right pocket of my blue jeans. That is where I find a key ring. I recognize that this key ring contains what looks like keys to my Ford Explorer. I must have parked it somewhere around here. The sun has just passed over the Newberry Mountains to the west of Bullhead, and I feel a sense of urgency to locate my truck before it gets too dark.
Then, I can suddenly see my truck parked way over on a side street on the opposite end of the city park. I would have chosen to park some distance away from the FBI office. I walk over to where I parked my truck. I am pleasantly surprised to discover that one of the keys actually opens the driver’s side lock.
It feels comfortable to driving this truck once again. Since I am back in Nineteen Ninety-One, this old Ford Explorer is once again brand new and I enjoy driving it through Bullhead.
I easily locate the place that I called home when I was on my original mission to this timeline. I had invited Carlo to live with me at no cost to him. It was a living space with no foundation. Literally. Nobody in that neighborhood in Bullhead at the corner of Zircon and Quartz had any foundation. We all lived in aging trailers that were very cheap to rent. The locals euphemistically called them modular homes.
Living inside these metal boxes in the desert is possible only because of swamp coolers mounted on the roof that keep the inside from turning into an oven and cooking you until you are dead meat. In the Arizona desert near the Colorado River and the Nevada state line, the nighttime lows in the summer hover around 80 degrees, so the swamp coolers must be kept running almost continuously as a sort of life support system.
I easily locate the silver box I had rented on a month-to-month basis for some ridiculously low price. It’s an awful place that seems perfectly unsuitable for human inhabitants. But, I know I will be safe there if only I can get inside.
One of the keys on my key ring allows me entry. The swamp cooler is still running, providing a familiar scent of desert air mixed with stale humidity. At least the air temperature inside is sufficiently below the threshold of 80 degrees that can keep you awake all through the long night. As I step inside, the familiar sounds of the floor creaking like it is about to disintegrate welcomes me. There are also comforting scents of unwashed clothing and desert sand throughout that old, beat up trailer. How powerful it is that scents can conjure up memories!
I can instantly remember many nights I spent with Carlo in this aluminum box—nights of sexual adventures about which we never told anyone else in Bullhead. He would do whatever I told him to. He would put on or take off any clothing. All I had to do was tell him what I wanted. But, where is Carlo now? Did I leave him dead in that Mexican pharmacy? Or, is he going to walk in here at any second? Exhausted, I stretch out on the old sofa at the front of the mobile home just to rest my eyes for a few minutes.
* * * * *
When I awaken in the morning, I am still fully clothed and reclining on the dusty old sofa in that mobile home in Nineteen Ninety-One. I feel disappointed. I reason that if only I were to close my eyes tightly, I might materialize back inside my faithful time machine on the Moon. Instead, I fall back to sleep on that sofa.
When I awaken the second time, I can see no light coming in from outside the windows of the mobile home in Bullhead in Nineteen Ninety-One. I must have slept the entire day!
I walk outside to my truck. When I look up at the night sky, I can recognize the stars and planets are all where they should be for someone who happens to be in Arizona in the late Twentieth Century. What is happening to me? Why am I not being returned home to the Moon? Am I stuck here permanently in the past?
I spend six days all by myself without having any interaction with another soul. I don’t want to see anybody. I don’t want anybody to see me. I don’t shave or shower. My body odors become unavoidably obvious to me, especially mixed with the scent of the swamp cooler.
Fortunately, there is canned food in the mobile home kitchen to keep me nourished. I cannot get used to the bitter taste of the water in this century. But, I need to learn to drink the local water here since I may be trapped in this timeline.
On the seventh day in isolation, I finally decide to shower and shave. I even find clean underwear and other essential clothing that fits me. I have realized, however, that there is no indication that two men have lived in this place. My memories tell me that Carlo has lived here with me. The physical evidence tells me that I have lived here all by myself.
On Day Eight, I load up several cardboard boxes of my belongings into my truck in that most perfect time in the desert just before sunrise when the skies are deliciously pink. I need to get out of Bullhead. I hate it here. I feel that I may die here miserably unless I leave quickly.
I fill up my gas tank by the Bullhead airport on my way out of town if only to test whether my credit card is valid. I wonder how much access to money I have here in this timeline. Can I just keep using my credit card? Will anyone notice the records of any purchases that I may make? Do I need to get a job to start bringing in money?
Getting from Bullhead to Phoenix requires a short trip on the celebrated old Route 66, which was long ago relegated to songs that nobody sings anymore. Then, you ultimately reach Kingman, which was given immortality in the lyrics of one of those songs. Outside of Kingman on Interstate 40, I see a hotel that seems somehow familiar. Why would foggy memories of a hotel off the interstate in Kingman remain in my mind? Did I stay there? I cannot remember having stayed at that Kingman hotel.
On the four-hour drive from Bullhead to Phoenix through the two-lane back roads of Highway 93, I have sufficient time alone to think about what is happening to me. Have I been abandoned here in Nineteen Ninety-One? Did I do something wrong while on a mission? Is being stranded here in the Twentieth Century my rightful punishment? I can remember Carlo, the sexy FBI agent with the green eyes, and his African American partner. Three people! I must certainly have other memories of interactions with other people here in Arizona.
One of the boxes in the back of my Ford Explorer contains three-quarter inch videotape cassettes—the long-abandoned standard of a bygone era. My own block printing on the box says that the tapes contain work samples of mine from when I was news anchor on the Providence television station. Of course, were it not for that box of videotapes, I would have no memories of ever having worked as a news anchor in Rhode Island.
I use the videotapes to get me in to talk with the news director of a regional cable television news channel in downtown Phoenix. After he watches a few minutes of four three-quarter inch videotapes with me in an editing booth, he offers me a full-time job. Right there on the spot! Of course, I have no choice but to accept the employment offer and establish residency in the Valley of the Sun.
* * * * *
Weeks pass as I distract myself with my work at the regional news channel where I am on the air as a news anchor. I think that I must have spent time in the past on a previous mission here in Phoenix. How else can I explain to myself that I know my way around this valley so well? I eventually earn sufficient respect to be given assignments as a field reporter and producer. I am happy to get away from the studio environment. I get to travel in a small white van with two other guys—one who shoots the video and the other who records the audio. One of my first segments is to cover the first Arizona casualty of the United States war against Iraq that began in the year Nineteen Ninety.
"His name was Michael Zuñiga. Age 19. From Bullhead," my voiceover explains while on the screen his father, Juan, holds a color photograph of his handsome soldier son. In that photo, Michael Zuñiga was age five, wearing a white cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and carried a toy gun.
"He was a playful little boy," the proud father's voice explains as the image dissolves from that of a five year-old cowboy with a toy gun to a muscular 19 year-old masculine man with short-cropped hair posed for a photograph will seated on a motorcycle. "He grew up to be a good man who stood for what was right," the father's voice continues. "He loved his motorcycle. Rode it like a horse. Like he was a cowboy," said Juan Zuñiga.
"He joined the Army," my voiceover continues. "The Army has provided details about what killed Michael Zuñiga," I say in my stand-up.
"He never got to fire a shot in Operation Desert Storm,” I say as the camera slowly zooms in on me. “Private Michael Zuñiga was crushed when the bunker he and others were building in the desert sand caved in on top of him. Others survived. Michael Zuñiga did not."
The official Army photograph of Private Michael Zuñiga fills my television screen in the cheap apartment that I call home in Henderson, Nevada. Michael Zuñiga stands proudly in front of the American flag and he looks so strong and masculine in his Army uniform. His nametag “Zuniga” is plainly visible on his chest. The camera slowly zooms in on that Army photograph.
My voice-over continues, “He is the first casualty of the Gulf War from the state of Arizona. We remember Michael Zuñiga for being a young, red-white-and-blue cowboy who rode an all-American Harley. He went to Iraq, where his life was taken from him. So, it is that today we salute you, Michael Zuñiga, by putting your brave face on television and praising you for your service. Your youthful spirit stormed that desert, bolstered by the patriotic duty you felt so strongly beating in your heart. We may some day forget the rationale rendered by politicians for why we went to war in Iraq. But, let us never forget your name, Michael Zuñiga. No matter what.”
The number of phone calls received by the regional news channel in response to my Michael Zuñiga tribute stuns the network brass. The video is replayed several times and is fed to CNN. I feel proud of my work, but I cannot separate from the emotions.
While I am in my Apache Junction apartment after viewing another replay of the tribute on CNN, I finally manage to stop crying while crouched down on the bathroom floor with a fluffy white towel covering my head. I want to block out all sensation. All the young man wanted was to prove himself. He wanted to be a warrior. He wanted to serve his country. What a terrible waste of a man’s life.
So, while I lie on that bathroom floor with a white towel loosely wrapped around my head, I feel lost in my overwhelming grief. But, oh what a soft and reassuring white light! I feel enveloped by the apparent power of white light and I feel comforted. I start to believe that my own military service also has ended. I miss living at home on the Moon. I long for the excitement of missions back in time. But, I now have to accept that I am Ted Avila, an Arizona television news reporter and producer. The memories of being a time travel agent eventually fade like I knew they would. Perhaps the agency did this to my brain deliberately so that I would not remember. Yet, I feel a sense of sweet revenge. If this was, indeed, a deliberate attempt to erase my memories with technology and medical science, the erasure certainly was not entirely successful.
* * * * *
In Nineteen Ninety-Five, the bombing of a federal building in Oklahoma City takes one hundred sixty-eight lives. How strange I feel for being alive in this timeline to experience all of this as though I belong here. I receive a subpoena in Nineteen Ninety-Six to come to Washington, DC so that I can testify before a Senate subcommittee investigating a broad subject defined by two words—domestic terrorism—that were seldom used together before that violent era in United States history.
Law enforcement officials started connecting the dots about what they called "underground activity" in small towns in Arizona and Nevada in the early Nineteen Nineties leading up to the Nineteen Ninety-Five bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. Their leads point them to men, whom law enforcement people considered to be gun activists, living in Mojave County, Arizona and in Clark County, Nevada.
Federal law enforcement agents uncover details about several men in Bullhead, Kingman and Las Vegas who were more than just a little whacked-out. Some were genuinely extreme right-wingers who fantasized about overthrowing the United States government with an armed militia. Others were hapless and underemployed young men on various violent quests of the day under the leadership of aggressive alpha males who worked out at local gyms.
My name shows up on a local FBI report about gym members during that time period in Bullhead, so I presume that is why I am called to testify before United States Senators. My first visit to the national capital region is memorable for reasons other than politics. I get caught up in what becomes known as the blizzard of Nineteen Ninety-Six. There had never before been this great of a sudden snowfall covering such a large part of the Eastern Time Zone. Not only is Washington, DC crippled by over a foot and a half of snow that falls overnight, the same is true for all the major cities along the eastern corridor of Interstate 95 up through Boston.
I am stuck in downtown DC, which is immobilized due to the unexpected arrival of heavy, wet snow. I cannot leave my hotel near the FBI headquarters on E Street. Being stuck in a hotel unexpectedly is both unpleasant and confining. All I want is to get back home to Arizona. But, there is no way anybody can travel around the DC area due to the extraordinary snowfall. The deep snow makes it necessary to shut down many businesses, schools, and even the federal government in the DC area. This sudden change in the weather means that the Senate subcommittee hearings on domestic terrorism are brought to an abrupt halt. Yet, I am unable to leave because the hearings will surely start up again in a few days.
I pass the time in the hotel gym working out and enjoying the sauna to ease the symptoms of cabin fever. On one of my visits to the basement gym in the hotel, I am just walking into the shower wearing only my gym shorts when I come face to face with a memory.
Standing there in that shower in front of me is the muscular, young FBI agent with green eyes that I met a few years ago in Bullhead. He and I are the only ones there in the early morning. Seeing him naked coming out of a gym shower is a pure delight for me because it fuels the fantasies I had about the agent back when I first met him in the Bullhead FBI office. I quickly memorize every inch of this man before our eyes meet.
“Hey,” he says to me as he stands there in front of me outside the shower stalls with a complete absence of modesty. I can tell by the way he chooses to stand there that he knows I am deliberately looking at his naked body. I also could sense that he enjoys my attention.
“In Bullhead, you told me you had a thing for macho guys,” he says directly and without hesitation while looking directly into my eyes. Later, he is wearing only bright white briefs when he opens the door to his hotel room to let me in. I feel overdressed in my cowboy boots, blue jeans and red T-shirt with the word “Phoenix” in bright yellow across my chest. He waves me with a gesture to welcome me into his room.
“I was called here to DC for the subcommittee hearings,” he says right away.
“Me, too,” I reply as I walk over to one of the windows in his room. “Your room has a much better view of the blizzard than mine.” As I gaze down the four stories to the deep snow in the street below, I hear him close and lock the hotel room door.
“Stuck here,” he says to me as I keep looking out the windows in his room. “Never been in so much snow before.”
“Me neither,” I reply as I turn to look at him, watching him walk up to within a few inches of me at the windows.
“I like your T-shirt,” he says. “Still think back to Bullhead even though you left?”
I remove my T-shirt and hand it to him. “Forgetting Bullhead,” I hear myself say to him. “Just not possible. Somehow, I’m sure Bullhead refuses to be forgotten.”
He gently tosses my T-shirt to a nearby chair and suddenly we are hugging each other. I want the feeling of our bare chests touching to last forever. But, I know we must end our long hug if we want to experience other sensations.
I run both my hands down his muscled chest to the impressive bulge in his briefs. As I rub and caress him, he squints with pleasure. “You still in Bullhead?” I ask him as I reach up and hug him. He nods and exhales, but keeps squinting and says nothing. As I pull his body closer to me, I can feel that he is getting erect. So, I move over to the chair where my T-shirt is draped. I pick up the T-shirt and toss it aside and gesture for him to sit in that chair.
Once he is seated, I work my fingers on his bulge to make him get thicker and harder. His green eyes are locked in an intense connection with mine. His pupils are enlarged. I delicately slip off his briefs over his erection but only take his underwear down his legs as far as his ankles. Then, I push my lower body closer to him to spread his legs so that his ankles will stretch his briefs apart. I grab his balls gently with both hands. By that point, he is breathing much faster—just like I expected would happen.
He tastes so intoxicatingly masculine inside my mouth. I pump and suck him until I caused the desired reaction. His entire body trembles with spasms like a major earthquake. He shouts out as I keep sucking all that he has to give me.
I step back to watch him sit in that chair as he recovers from his orgasm. I feel a strong sense of power and accomplishment while I look at him staring up at me with those vulnerable green eyes.
He exhales and says, “Wish you and I had connected back when you still lived in Bullhead.”
“Yeah,” I reply, “Me, too. I’m better off in Phoenix now.”
“You got a subpoena from the Senate subcommittee because of me,” he says as if to indicate that he is genuinely sorry.
“Apology accepted,” I reply. “I don’t know anything. Can’t see how I’m in a position to contribute anything meaningful to the subcommittee. You know that as well as I do.”
“Maybe it was my way of getting to see you again,” he says playfully.
“Doubtful,” I answer. “You’re a federal cop. You could’ve tracked me down in Phoenix. I have a very visible job. Easy enough for someone like you to find. I would have sucked your cock like this every day if you had traced me down in Phoenix.”
He exhales again as he gets up from the chair and pulls his briefs back on. “My loss,” he says to me as he walks up to be near me while I stand by his windows.
“So, you gonna tell me about Bullhead?” I ask.
"Never found any evidence that Carlo Zarelli was selling steroids in Bullhead,” he answers. “If that’s what you want to know.”
“We’re not getting out of this hotel because of the blizzard,” I tell him. “You and I are stuck here together. Millions of people across this entire region cannot go anywhere. You may as well tell me what you can. Maybe I’ll work my magic on your cock again.”
I can see that he has gotten completely hard again so quickly.
He motions for me to move to the king size bed in the room. I walk ahead of him and sit down on the bed to remove my cowboy boots and socks. Then, I stand up and remove my blue jeans so that I stand there by his bed completely naked for him.
He removes his briefs after standing next to me fully erect by his bed in that hotel room. Then, he pulls back the covers on the bed and gets in. I follow him into bed and he pulls the covers up over us to our chests. I reach down and grab onto him under the covers.
He has some difficulty talking because his breathing is erratic, but I hear him tell me: “Some in the FBI think—. Guys like Carlo Zarelli—. Involved in guns and violence. In Arizona and Nevada.”
"Impressive,” I say to him. “How solid you are, I mean. Not this outdated crap you’re giving me. I know all this already because I saw that in Time magazine.” I let go of him and move my face close to his.
He is surprised by my response and admits, “Carlo Zarelli and other bodybuilders that you met at that gym in Bullhead could have been connected with guys from Kingman and Yuma linked to the Oklahoma City bombing.”
“Well,” I say to him. “Was that so difficult to say out loud?”
I feel him reach out and grab me with both hands under those covers. He has such strong hands! “Carlo Zarelli disappeared,” he says as his strong hands play with me, owning me. “We lost him. Gone without a trace. Oh, God! You’re unbelievable,” he shouts to me.
“Don’t stop,” I tell him as he inserts two fingers from his right hand into me. He continues to talk while his fingers work inside me with great skill. “Some ex-Army guy,” he continues. “From New Orleans. Blond hair. Gun activist. Follower. Not a leader. Found shot in the head in the Nevada desert. Outside Las Vegas. All this talk about bodybuilders and violent neo-Nazi terrorists with Mohawk haircuts has made me so want to fuck you right now, man!”
My eyes grow very wide and he stops fingering me. He removes his right hand from under me. I say to him, “I don’t know anything about neo-Nazi terrorists or Mohawks.”
He frowns uncomfortably with a strongly obvious embarrassment and flips over onto his back next to me in his bed.
“Oh,” is all he could say. “Not supposed to talk about that.”
I reach over and grab his thick neck with both my hands and say to him, “Roll over on top of me, federal cop.”
He does what I tell him to do. While he is deep inside of me, he whispers to me as he pounds me hard, “Macho guys. Bodybuilders. Cowboys. In Bullhead. Wacked-out guys.”
“I so love it when you talk dirty to me,” I say to him as he keeps thrusting into me.
He is having difficult talking as his breathing becomes more intense. But, he says, “They shot pictures. No shirts on. Losers. Out in the desert. We have all that in evidence. Posing with their fucking handguns.” As he says the word “fucking,” he starts to release into me. “Ah, fuck!” he shouts as he begins shooting into me. His powerful body shudders so amazingly on top of me in that hotel bed. But, then he exhales and just lies there as I enjoy his full weight on me.
“Why didn’t you guys connect the dots?” I ask him as I can sense he is drifting off.
“What” he asks me, struggling to remain awake as he slides off of me and lies next to me, facing me in the bed. “Don’t you stop with the questions?”
“All that intel. Evidence,” I say to him as I gently rub his face, which coaxes him towards slumber.
“You’re wrong,” he says as he opens his eyes wider. He is not going to fall asleep now. I can just tell. We will still have more time together in this bed. I can just tell. “You saw outside the hotel windows,” he says to me. “Snow over three feet deep outside right now. Totally natural. Yet, impossible to cope with. Overwhelming. Millions of pieces of evidence were collected by local and federal investigations after Oklahoma City. Overwhelming. Impossible to cope with. Technology doesn’t help, either. Technology couldn’t help us connect the dots. It didn’t predict the impact of this blizzard, did it?”
“Apparently not,” I answer.
He says, “Technology can’t keep the streets passable. Plows clear the way by noon. Wind blows most of the snow back. Buried again before sunset. Same with us. We were overwhelmed. Evidence is like this snow. Buries us deeper and deeper.”
Three of four days in that Washington, DC hotel with Agent Green Eyes helps distract me completely from my memory problems. This man is just so captivating. It is so easy for us to get lost in each other’s bodies with such intense sex that we have little need to talk. When I tell him the nickname that I chose for him, he admits that is what his fellow agents call him. I never learn his real name. And I don’t care.
When the hearings on Capitol Hill finally are restarted, I am required to maintain perfect attendance. I do not know if I will actually get called to the table to testify, but my written instructions are clear: I must be present each day of each session and be ready to answer all questions the Senators may ask of me.
The hearing room looks exactly like I have seen on CNN. The dark colors of the wood panels, the high ceilings with classic old-school lighting fixtures, and the thick rugs that seem to date back to Abraham Lincoln’s time all contribute to a very intimidating environment. For me, it is an unpleasant experience to be required to attend the hearings because I feel so out of place.
I am seated off to the left of the main testimony table on the day when Matthew Lejeune is questioned. He looks very handsome in his obviously borrowed suit and tie. He is in his early twenties and yet this man gives off a sense of confidence and strength. His muscular frame is hidden under the business attire that looks like a total mismatch for who he really is.
Matthew Lejeune is responding to a question that one of the Senators has asked him: “Yes, sir,” he says with apparent sincere deference. “My twin brother, Mark Lejeune, was found dead in the Nevada desert. Shot in the head.”
“You and your brother lived together in Arizona?” the Senator asks. “After you both moved there from New Orleans?”
“No, sir,” Matthew Lejeune replies. “I live in Sedona. Mark lived in Bullhead. We were identical twins, but beyond the physical resemblance, we were very different. Made very different choices in this life.”
“Your brother got involved with guns and radical ideologies,” the Senator says.
“That is correct, sir,” Matthew Lejeune replies. “I never understood why Mark liked guns. And all that neo-Nazi crap. But, he was not a bad man. He had a good heart.”
“Mr. Lejeune,” the Senator says, “We have seen the photographs of your twin brother. Lots of pictures. With other men who were also bodybuilders like him.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew Lejeune answers. “Mark was a real gym rat. Took care of his body. Worked out like a fanatic.”
“Well, Mr. Lejeune,” the Senator says, “His fanaticism spilled over into what you call ‘all that neo-Nazi crap.’ We have photographs of your brother with other men out in the desert with all manner of guns and flags with swastikas.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew Lejeune replies as he lowers his head in apparent shame. “I didn’t want to have a whole lot to do with Mark. I was bothered by the life he chose. I stayed away from Bullhead completely. Mark was especially into all the casino nightlife. And gambling, too. He had a real problem with gambling. I think that is what brought him down, sir.”
“What do you mean?” the Senator asks Matthew Lejeune.
“Mark owed a lot of money,” Matthew Lejeune answers. “He told me that. The other men at the gym pressured him. Gambling debts, sir. All that kept Mark pretty tight with those guys. I warned him. He just never really listened to me.” As Matthew Lejeune finishes his sentence, he turns his head slightly and comes into direct eye contact with me.
His deep blue eyes grow wider in response to seeing me. I frown at him because he seems to recognize me, but I do not remember ever seeing him before today. I watch him run his thick left hand through his short blond hair. It seems to be a gesture that he has perfected to draw attention to his good looks.
I cannot remember ever having felt so attracted to any man. Matthew Lejeune is too perfect, too tempting. He has the look of a man who just a few years ago successfully left behind the innocence and immaturity of teenage life. Yet, he is not yet physically worn down or wounded by adulthood’s inevitably rough lessons. He and I are locked in eye contact. Time, itself, seems to slow down.
When we both are walking outside the hearing room in the hallway far from the lights, cameras, and microphones, Matthew Lejeune says to me, “You don’t remember me. It’s so clear to me now. You don’t remember anything that happened.” I focus on the sound of his footsteps on the marble floor because I do not know how to answer him.
As we walk down the hallway to distance ourselves from that hearing room, I feel like he is correct. Other people pass us in the hallway, yet my focus is entirely upon Matthew Lejeune as I walk to his right. I feel like I should remember something that obviously is hidden from my consciousness. “You’ve seen me on TV in Phoenix, right? I have a very visible job. Easy enough for you to have seen me.”
“No, sir,” he says as if he is still back there in the hearing room giving testimony to United States Senators. “That is not correct.”
“So mysterious,” I reply, trying to get him to open up with me as we keep walking down that hallway with marble floors in Washington, DC.
Matthew Lejeune stops walking. In response, I also stop. He and I again turn to face each other. We make eye contact that seems more intense that the eye contact strangers usually share. He frowns at me as if he is puzzled with me. After what seems like an eternity, he nods and smiles politely at me. “Can we go outside?” he asks me.
“There’s a lot of snow out there,” I reply. “Plus, it’s windy and cold.”
“True,” he says. “But, no microphones out there. No cameras. Nobody to see us or hear what we talk about.”
“So mysterious,” I repeat to him. “But, I will listen to what you have to say.”
Because we have come from Arizona, we do not have winter coats that are obligatory in DC. So, when we are outside the Congressional office buildings, our bodies are unprotected from the bad weather. Even though it has stopped snowing and the skies are bright blue, standing outside is unpleasant because of the wind speed and very low air temperatures. Matthew Lejeune points to a vertical metal structure that indicates a subway station is within walking distance. “You want us to take the Metro?” I ask him.
“It’s warm and dry down there, underground,” Matthew Lejeune replies.
Once we are riding an Orange Line train together, our body temperatures start to return to normal. “What hotel are you staying at?” he asks me directly as we stand holding on to the overhead bar on the Metro train that helps us keep our balance as we speed far beneath the streets of Washington, DC.
I smile at his question as though he is coming on to me sexually. I reply, “If we get off at Federal Triangle station, we can walk. I’m staying near the FBI headquarters.”
Matthew Lejeune does not smile at me. His face looks very intense as though he is examining me from afar trying to determine whether I am friend or enemy. We ride together in silence until Federal Triangle station. “Let’s sit here for just a bit,” Matthew Lejeune says to me as we leave the Orange Line train with other people. He motions towards the granite benches that are positioned at intervals along the train platform.
“You want us to sit on those uncomfortable stone benches?” I ask him.
“For just a bit,” he repeats and then he walks ahead of me to the first granite bench that he reaches. He sits down at one side of the bench and puts his right hand on the bench to indicate that I should sit next to him. As soon as I am seated to his right, a Blue Line train arrives at the station platform. Several people exit the train and walk past Matthew Lejeune and me at the bench. Once the train has moved on from the station, he says to me, “I’m not trying to freak you out. Just listen. You’ve had some kind of memory loss. We’ve met before, but you obviously do not remember.”
I look into his eyes and I know that Matthew Lejeune is 100% correct. Yet, I do not remember him. “How do you know I have had memory loss?” I ask him.
“Well, for one thing,” he replies, “You told me when we met that you had temporary amnesia.”
“When did this all happen?” I ask him.
“Five years ago,” Matthew Lejeune explains. “You said you’d had some heavy emotional trauma. Bad divorce.”
I look him directly in his eyes again, but say nothing.
“You don’t remember being married,” Matthew Lejeune explains.
“And here I am thinking that I’m gay,” I say to him with a chuckle.
“Not what I meant,” he says. “You are gay. So am I. So what? We’ve covered all this before. Five years ago.”
An Orange Line train arrives at the station. Once again, several people exit the train and walk past Matthew Lejeune and me at the bench. After the train has pulled away from the station, he says to me, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for us to be here together like this.”
“In this Metro station?” I ask. “This bench is awfully uncomfortable.”
“Together,” he says, “As in you and me being here in Washington, DC.”
“I was just getting up the courage to ask you back to my hotel room,” I say to him.
He smiles and nods at me. Then, Matthew Lejeune says, “I think maybe your memory loss is preventing you from recalling those old cowboy songs about time travelers and mind readers.”
What a strange thing for him to say to me. I just sit there looking at him, trying to figure out what he meant. But, I say nothing. Matthew Lejeune also says nothing. He crosses his muscular arms as though he wants to signal to me that we need to keep from having any physical contact. A Blue Line train arrives in front of us. When the doors nearest to Matthew Lejeune slide open, he quickly gets to his feet and walks purposefully into the train while I remain seated on that granite bench. He does not turn around as the doors slide close and the train pulls away from where I am seated in the Federal Triangle station, crying.
* * * * *
I regain consciousness as I feel thicker-than-water translucent white liquid being pumped quickly downward through a grate in the floor of the blue glass chamber. I know that at long last I have returned to the Giant Blue Hockey Puck on the Moon. The dripping liquid from my nose and chin makes me feel very annoyed. Immediately after the rapid purging of the liquid from the chamber, my lungs are joyful at the availability of sweet oxygen. A low-pitched whooshing sound accompanies the vertical splitting of the GBHP into two equal sections, enabling me to stand up and walk out completely naked into the launch center of the lunar base. Something is wrong. I feel lightheaded. My body feels like I have lost weight. I am somehow lighter. I am sure I will soon topple over because I am too dizzy to think properly or walk normally. The whooshing and beeping sounds of the technology connected to the GBHP being to diminish.
My frequent mission partner, Vincent Wauneka, walks up to me carrying the obligatory thick blue robe for me to wear. He is wearing the traditional blue and grey uniform for off-duty agents along with black military boots. He smiles at me as he points playfully to my cock and balls while handing me the robe. “I expected to see you at full attention when you first saw me,” Vincent says. “You don’t find me fuckable anymore?”
“Just help me get food,” I say to Vincent as I put on the blue robe.
“Thought you might say that,” he replies as Vincent points towards an entrance to a corridor off to the side of the launch center. He motions for me to walk in front of him down the corridor. I know where I am going. I keep walking past two or three open corridors. Then, I arrive at a fourth open corridor that I recognize as the crew quarters. I can see other men—all around the same age as Vincent and me. Some are barefooted and wear blue robes. Just like me. Others are dressed in off-duty uniforms and boots similarly to Vincent.
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