GALLERY artefact #014
picture by Kristan Morrison - 2013 - Sydney
LIBRARY artefact #010
OLD FOX DREAMING Part 3
Now, as it was, he'd promised Tony Abbott a gift from his collection but there was no way the Old Fox could be conned into handing his latest pet PM a priceless invisibility belt or functioning jetpack. The purely decorative but otherwise useless Captain Atom headgear was a neat and appropriate compromise.
But as he reached out to take the helmet from the case, the Old Fox felt the hairs of his neck prickle to attention. Then, an unexpected hand alighted on his shoulder like a heavy bird on a fragile branch.
A sideways glance revealed a flash of jewelry; Burnished silver, a bas relief head, tiny rubies in the eye sockets of the embossed face, framed by an all-too familiar modernist crown. Captain Atom's magic ring. Irony, coincidence. What were the chances?
"Agent Larry Lockhart, FBI" a man's voice interrupted. "You and I need to talk."
"I wouldn't say another word unless you can afford it", the Old Fox warned without turning, "As of today, I own the dictionary, which means anything you have to say belongs to me. And this conversation is private property."
"Funny, it looks like my property," the voice insisted. Well, that was all he needed to hear -
The Old Fox spun on his axis, squeezing the button trigger of the atomic pistol to describe a neatly cauterized hole through the ribcage of the startled Fed. But it was too late. Larry Lockhart's final exhalation came in the form of a word found in no known dictionary. Three syllables, beyond the power of the Old Fox to commodify: Ex-En-Or.
In the crash bang wallop of the ensuing ground burst, Larry Lockhart was edited from the known universe and replaced by his monstrous, magnificent, atom-powered brother.
Captain bloody Atom.
Six foot six, wrapped in crackling scarves of decaying cosmic matter. Cloaked in a searing scarlet bodysuit that accentuated the contours of each shifting, massive muscle group. The retina-scorching danger signal of the suit barely relieved by acidic yellow gauntlets, belt and boot cuffs. Accelerated pulse, heart rate and blood pressure, like a triple shot of espresso.
The baritone seemed treated, filtered, as though more than one man was talking.
"Type One string theory needs one dimension of space and nine of time to make it work. I've been collaborating with a team of indigenous law-men to re-establish Australia's original nine dimensions of time, to go with the three of space we already have.”
The air got hotter as the Captain retrieved his helmet and slid it into place. Framing his unnaturally handsome face as he accelerated the atoms around his body, as he freed time from its chains, and then shredded it in all directions at once, like dry ice released from a canister.
"Basically Fox, you're fucked."
The Old Fox shut his eyes.
"Gotcha." said Captain Atom. And the whole can of worms went troppo.
The Old Fox blinks. On the surface of the moon is an eternal present tense, where wire frame law men, their fluid limbs picked out by neon dots and lines, are dancing through stark, white clouds kicked into life by naked feet. All upside down, like bats in luminous Mo-Cap suits above the planet Earth's turquoise immensity. Where Australia floats, like a scorched autumn leaf in a blue-white pond. Tiny flashing quartz crystal oscillators can be seen through matte black skin, sucking in energy from all points in time and space and thought. Piezoelectrical charge accumulating in bone DNA, jazzing up protein structures. Where blood drips from ripped, nail-less fingers, to leave vivid garnet pixels in the bonedust, as a message to us all.
GALAP!
The clever men chant words the Old Fox neither understands nor owns nor ever will -
XAM!
SHAZAM!
CEI-U!
TAARU!
KIMOTA!
EXENOR!
KAJI-DA!
Angelic Tourettes. Enochian abracadabras.
The Old Fox tries to run, tripping on a stair 252, 000 feet deep, to fetch up outside the Opera House, disarmed and delirious. Half-built, it's only a blueprint, already a ruin, and all at once - a kaleidoscopic tortoise gang bang, where a barbarously accented voice barks eleven-dimensional jibber jabber. Where lightning brothers wrestle in a blizzard of sparks across the rooftops of New Albion in the drifting, millennial firework smoke.
Where spectral ships of the First Fleet unload a cargo of aggressive smallpox, linear time, horny rabbits, post traumatic convicts, and their shock-eyed jailers, into Australia. The world's end and its first beginning, twining into knots like a barrel of singing rainbow snakes, as William Buckley staggers from the bush and surrenders himself to Max Rockatansky and Barry McKenzie. Beyond Chunderdome.
And Thor waltzes with Wolverine on the road to Gallipoli. Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, dragged up like Tina Turner, sings "I am what I aaam...", and leads the savage charge of the Cars That Ate Paris down McQuarie Street. Phar Lap, nothing left but bones and rumor, three to one favorite in the apocalypse sweepstakes. The Flying Doctor leading sightseeing tours to ogle stripped-off schoolgirls in the billabong, to witness dreamy Botticelli angels vanish into the heat haze at Hanging Rock.
Steve Irwin hunts Crocodile Dundee through blazing Martian fields under blowtorch skies. Tingha, Tucker, and Auntie Jean sing us all home across the wibbly, wobbly Milky Way. The whole kaleidoscopic mash-up directed by Baz Luhrmann to a catastrophic soundtrack of bullroarers, car horns, and the voice of thunder yelling 'All Over Red Rover' 'til the sky falls in.
And this too must pass.
And all this will pass.
And it will never end...
Nine-dimensional time is like that.
Reciting the cricket scores as a protective mantra, the Old Fox drops to his knees, gathers up torn and yellowed newspapers that announce his birth, his marriages, his alliances, and his obituary also. They tell him he's been dead for years, but not yet born.
The super-heroes rise from their graves of bleached newsprint and form a team, a Justice Squad, to face the villain down…
The Old Fox opens his mouth but lost for words, no sound comes out.
The fists of retribution fall.
Wish I could hear this delivered live again, complete with cello accompaniment. It’s nice to have a little tribute piece to my country from the great man himself.