William Doonan

I write books and stories.

The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Eight

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June 16, 2011

Cupertino, CA

Administrator http://www.admin.blogspace9.ex

On behalf of the senior management team here at Blogspace9, I’d like to congratulate you on your progress thus far.  When we began this experiment, pairing scientific investigation with social media, we were certain that the excitement of discovery would bring a resurgence of interest in exploration, research, and communication.  And we weren’t wrong.

Your excavations have already attracted more then 700,000 unique visitors to this domain.  We’re quite pleased!  But we’d like to take a moment to remind you of your contractual obligations.

The central premise of Blogspace9 is that nine authors is optimal for the telling of any story.  Any more muddles the text.  Any fewer fails to deliver enough points-of-view to allow unfettered consideration of phenomena.  Therefore, it is necessary for you to  include more of your personnel in this endeavor.

Furthermore, a cursory read of your communications suggest, to our security analysts, a need for additional safety provisions to be put into place.  Therefore, in order to protect our investment, and in concert with section 6.2.11 of the grant application submitted by Drs. Lane Cavalcante and Cyrus Sanderson, we are sending a risk analyst to designate new security parameters as we move forward.  A package has been sent to him at your address in advance of his arrival.

 

June 16, 2011

Magdalena de Paz, Peru

Castillo http://www.bellisima.blogspace9.ex

You know, the whole point of having a generator is to be able to generate electricity.  I can appreciate that we’re off the grid, stuck out here between the cane and the ocean, jammed up against this god-forsaken pyramid that nobody doubts is a demon-spewing hell mouth.  What I can’t understand is why the generator so consistently and regularly fails to generate.

We buy fuel.  We pour the fuel in the tank.  The generator turns on,  and half an hour later, for reasons unfathomed by god or man, turns off.  I swear I’m close to my breaking point.  I can take the cold nights, the biting winds, and the relative deprivation.  I’ve gotten used to the cold showers, the relentless sexual harassment, and the shuffling zombies or whatever they are that prowl at night.  But could someone please just fix the damn generator so that we can have predictably cold beer and a warm lap top?

My name is Kim Castillo, and I fell in love last night.  Please understand that the two previous ranting paragraphs are more a reflection of my normal self than an indication of my current mood.

By way of introduction, I am an archaeologist working on my Ph.D.  Cyrus is my advisor, which is my I’m down here slaving away on his project.  I was originally supposed to be the lab director, but we never got it together to put up a lab.  So I do a little excavating, but mostly I process the documents that Laney and Leon dig up.

Laney tells me that I have to write something interesting, and there’s little enough in my young life that has been more interesting that the last 24 hours, so I’ll tell you about them.  I’ll start with last night when the lights went out.

There was a knock on the door.  Big deal, right?  But here’s the thing; nobody knocks on the door here.  We don’t get visitors.  Ever.  And nobody comes or goes at night due to the shuffling zombies that nobody will acknowledge.  So I have to admit that we were all a little alarmed by the knocking.

Next thing you know, Leon lunged for the door.  Leon is a drooling cretin on a good day, but he’d taken to wearing these two pirate guns, or whatever they are, that came in the mail.  And on his way to the door, he tripped on something, and one of the guns fell out of his pocket and snapped, or whatever it is that guns do.  It didn’t have any bullets in it, but if it did, it would have shot one.

Cyrus was wearing that light-up headband, so he came over and took the guns away, put them on the shelf and went to open the door.  Meanwhile, Laney and I were lighting what candles we could drum  up.

A car drove away just as the door opened, leaving a man standing outside with his bags.  Erdulfo sped out to the yard, furious that the gate was open, and got it closed while Cyrus waved the guy inside.  I swear I almost melted.

The guy was maybe five and a half feet tall but I swear he was the best looking man I’d ever seen.  He had black hair and black eyes.  He wore a black leather jacket and matching boots.  “Forgive my tardiness,” he said, “I only arrived in the country today.”  His accent was Castilian.  My dad’s family is from Spain, so I can tell.

“Can I ask who you are?”  Cyrus had that headlight shining on him.

“Yeah,” said Leon, sounding like the rare true idiot that only Leon can channel.  “What’s your business here?”

The man took out a cigarette, and with his other hand, struck a match against the zipper on Leon’s fleece jacket.  I didn’t know that was even possible, but I guess it is.  And it was about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.  I swear, if that guy hadn’t been holding a lit match, I would have jumped into his arms and made myself his.

“The young lady requested assistance,” he told Cyrus, lighting his cigarette.  “And I am here to provide that assistance.”

“What young lady?” Leon demanded.  “And what kind of assistance?”

He pointed at Laney.  “This young lady.  And my work is of a protective nature.  I keep people safe.”  He snapped his fingers, and Erdulfo went out to carry his bags into the house, as if that was the most natural thing in the world to do when someone snapped their fingers.

“Wait a minute,” Laney said, “are you saying that Blogspace 9 sent you?”

“That is correct.”  The man turned to Cyrus.  “You’ll forgive me.  It was not possible to bring my weapons on the plane, so they had to be delivered by other means.”

Damn it, the lights are flickering and now the generator is coughing, so that means I have to wrap this up.  I’ll tell you the rest later, but I’m going to keep writing now until I lose the router power.

“Who are you?” Cyrus asked him.

“Segovia,” he said,  “Osvaldo Segovia.  And I believe you have my guns.”

I won’t lie.  Once everybody got themselves sorted out, once the lights were out, I tiptoed across the cold tiles of that great hall, and I tapped three times on Osvaldo Segovia’s door.  When he opened it, I stepped in without waiting for an invitation.  He was wearing a silk robe, as was I, and I swear his was shorter.

He grinned at me, a thin cigarette between his lips.  He took me firmly by the arm, spun me around, and then smacked my bottom as he led me back into the hall.  Just before he shut the door in my face, he bowed and clicked his heels together.  I didn’t know that heels actually made a clicking noise all on their own, without shoes, but they do.  I went back to my room, but I didn’t sleep much that night.

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Written by williamdoonan

December 18, 2011 at 11:49 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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