Child of the Delta (Rise of the New Egyptian Space Empire)

"Why did you join the Imperial Fleet?"

It's a rude question; it will get you punched in the face.

"Shut his power-suit off! Shut it off! Shield recruit! Shield!"

No one in my science fiction has anger management issues. No one. That nameless no one, being Homer Milton Dante. I hated the name that my mother, Lilith, insisted I called myself by, Emil, because she refused to let my father have the honor of having a Michael James the Third, like she originally promised, the Satanic bitch that she was. 

I should not talk bad about my "always was a Christian" mother . . . yet at someplace, you have to question her unseen to quote the Gardnerian Book of Shadows, which I inherited. From her, and my aunt. My exposure to my aunt was astral, so it had to be Mom. Yeah. 

My military slavery date was thirteen slash eighteen of October 1983, because the army recruiter was available only certain days. On the thirteen, a Friday that year, I seem to remember, I did a divination with ordinary cards, because Sagebrush Small Town America (population 5000, senior class of 1984 . . . 84), came to the conclusion that I would be safer, if I gave her a promise that I was leaving town. And that I would be safer in a nation where people were "actively trying to kill me" because at least there, I would be allowed to shoot back. 

For those readers new to my horrified universe, as a writer of science fiction, humorous ministry, and goldfish journalism, I suffered my teenage in a cult ran by my mother. In our joint defense, our beloved Victoria Josphine was murdered my freshman semester in high school. As a family, we had already lost the business and her favorite house; unbeknown, at the time, she lost my "half-brother's" possible father slash "should have been his godfather." 

Multiple business losses complicate things--five owners went under--I am unsure who was screwed first . . . but I think we were conned . . . says the son and godson of two of the players involved in that little mountain business consortium meltdown back in '78. 

And we all ended up with tax problems. Well, my mom did.

But anyways, I don't know if an actual affair happened between my mother and this one mountain business owner, or not. Either way, at the time, Lilith was really into Sun Sign Astrology. So by the time that I entered the cult, one of the goals was to survive . . . 

 . . . and someday, write a column as a Sun Sign astrologer. 

Anyways, faulty brain. Try again. At one time, a career of Sun Sign Astrologer was okay, in my family. Then a murder happened. Suddenly, I was a Satanist; and the reason that the murder happened. Open game anytime, my mother, the Good Christian, was having a bad day. If you ever see me assume the Sign of Suffering Cross, had to accept beatings. 

At least, once a month. 

It droves Khari nuts. She catches me by surprise, and I just do it. Hands away from my body. 

You can almost hear me scream. 

"I am complying with orders. I am offering no resistance. I am behind the Yellow Line."

Sadly, the other night, at Khari's event, I wanted to give the beat-down to another inmate who was upset that he did real time twice (maybe three times--he switched to "code," I think to lose the civilians) for moving "Raw Brown." Wait, did I just hear a drummer say that he should be given a Free Pass to Misbehave towards All Women and Children because he is a renowned Drummer and the Original Fire Spinner. That the Security and Event Planners of Bear Fest are wrong to drag their feet to accept your plea?!?

"Sir, why is there a power-suit alarm in the lower deck recreation lounge?!? Why is it a Red Alert? Sir, why are we running? This is a really big gun. Shoot to kill?!"

I so wanted to take the heavy Martial Arts Security Grade "I just beat the crap out of Prisoner Brother Unworthy Are You Violating Your Oath Donald Judas Trumpet Whatever Number I Want To Call You Today"--those sticks, and hit them with those weapons.

I didn't. Because Edgar reminded that I was running a Child Friendly event. 

That power-suiting up and beating the shit out of this self-entitled drummer was not correct operating procedure. But damn it . . . I am going to have to cancel all the events. 

Because of that asshole. 

I made a joke about being a drug dealer.

"You can't make a joke about being a drug dealer. I did real time for moving real time."

Then he rattles off where back East, how many times, how failed the system is.

And all I want to do is scream, "And your entitled ass, is the reason that my brother suffered a unfair punishment under minimum sentencing for users because peddlers like you thought that the law should not apply to them. Let me drum on you, motherfucker, in the name of my brother, prison-style!"

If I can't make a joke about being a drug dealer, for selling some Persian catmint and some high quality mugwort (looking to a quality choke cherry harvest--maybe a couple of wands); what is Mister Entitled Made Me Feel Unsafe going to say when he learns that my main character, Homer Milton Dante, went to prison, for stealing a loaf of bread?

Stealing a loaf of bread.

Oh, I can't make jokes about being a drug dealer.

My main character is a Bread Thief. 

With a power-suit.

I blame my Black Grandmother. My mother, doing whatever she was doing, started to send me to the Good Black Elderly neighbor, who would feed me, as soon as sister was old enough to be carried over. Black Grandma, also introduced to Star Trek, because she thought it was good for me. 

Star Trek in 1973--Black Grandmother--Good for me.

That Black Grandmother recently saved my life. No, seriously. Dead, but still saved me.

Oh, you laugh. After Khari completed the last kiln firing in 2024, we dropped it off at Spiritways . . . then I passed out for 48 hours. Yeah, 48 hours. Around Thanksgiving.

Oh horror, thanks to Colfax construction, all that pottery, including six brand new chalices, is still sitting there from Yule. Poor Nancy. Double glad that I gave her for Christmas--oh, yeah, the six hundred I brought on Tarot was the only money I kept out of the fraudster's hands. I owe her an "originally priced $360 Inner Order Golden Dawn" course, even if I unwilling to explain to Khari why I fully that way. 

Khari made such a big deal of six hundred Tarot purchase.

And in that moment, we (me and my ghost wife) lost the Golden Dawn Event Center.

I overheard her, bitching to one of her friends--which made me cancel my Tarot business. Because it poisoned the cards. Six hundred worth of cards because she thought I should have spent the money on a computer. Joke being the other money in the account, got drained by fraud. The Tarot investment, it was a business investment in the GD Event Center (at POP [point-of-purchase]) turned out to be a fireguard; let's not joke about that.

Anyways, in the brief time, that the Golden Dawn Event Center did exist--long enough to get me to agree to live in a RV for a summer to remodel a kitchen in "Khari's Image"--I got an estimate on our "Thanks to my father's eyes, looks wrong to me" roof.

Thanks to my Black Grandmother, that is. 

You laugh. 

No, I don't know whether it was just the aftermath of having only a single frame from that 48 hours, or the entire weight of 2024 repeatedly trying to kill me, or Richard actually dying; but I was definitely malfunctioning by old benchmark readings.

I found myself admiring the darkness of this canvaser's skin. This young black man had a skin color that my black grandmother would loved. Or my first mother-in-law (while she was a white--he was dark--Tameeka's folks were). So, I drifted outside, talking to this kid, against my normal "I don't talk to sales people unless I am in the market" mode . . . because of the brief existence of the Event Center (a $600 investment), I am in the market for a roof. 

So I am telling this kid about my history in the Five Points with my dad; how we would do a roof, and how I doubted that a single roof in the neighborhood could truly pass code.

Because nine-to-one, they were all put on by the owners, in a mad dash--hopefully to avoid passes by the building inspector---because that was what me and my dad were doing.  Oh, I was betting that Daniel, the about-to-go into foreclosure' Home Depot-ed the last layer. Honestly, I had no idea how much I was underestimating the damage.

Turns out the roof was trying to kill me. 

That lingering cough that I could never get rid of--fucking roof.

Oh, and I now I hate roofers. 

Because everyone in the neighborhood has a new roof.

Therefore, I am reminded that I am going to live through that next Great Denver Blizzard, and my Daughter would be coming home, demanding answers. 

Guess I can delete a few blog entries--thanks Entitled Prisoner Drummer. 

Why do you write science fiction? And not discuss it at the parties? How can I?

I can't make a joke about being a drug dealer when I am trying to open up a Herb Shop to help support my wife's pottery sales. I have to wonder, if I can advertise a Kid Friendly event without a Professional Security Guard and/or Deep Insurance because I just found out that someone went to a prison that Edgar, a New Yorker, wants to instantly ban him for. Unlike the rest of the crowd, I might not be a civilian; I might not mention how close I came to being behind bars. Do I have anger management issues? Well, I was worried about myself?

I cannot talk about my science fiction in front of you, Little Drummer Boy, because on the Night of Ascension, the Seven Queens of New Egypt climbed their thrones, and vaporized criminals like you. 

Murderers, sex offenders, terrorists, soldiers and spies of the Last Caliph; anyone that the Seven Queens did not shield died when the atomic weapons fell on Egypt. They would not have saved you, Little Drummer Boy; no, if you somehow survives, a hunt would have been called--the lions would have hunted you to the ground, drug runner, for sport. 

I can't do Kid Friendly because Homer Milton Dante, a bread thief, wanted to slam that man's face in the fire. I will see you in Hell, you mother fucker, you don't think you deserve punishment--you do. I am an Anubis--I will give you punishment--I will teach these ladies how to bind your ass with butterfly webs, spiders, and hieroglyphic runes, mother fucker. You ruined my wife's event, you righteous son-of-bitch, you Little Drummer Boy, I am part of the Department of Infernal Corrections--Egypt Division--Welcome to Nightmare City, Motherfucker. 

You closed my Herb Shop, cancelled all my $360 Inner Golden Dawn classes, my version of the public Open Full Moon Wiiccan/ pagan events, just because you don't should have real time for moving real heavy drugs. Well, I just cancelled my whole life, returning to the Delta, because your self-righteous attitude. Godforms, 24/7/365--welcome to the Research Log, Little Drummer Boy, hope that you find this. 

Or not. 

I don't care.

I am insane.

How bad would your last transmission be?