Sat Mar 23, 2024 11:33 pm by globalturbo
A Fateful Encounter
by TS Caladan
“I don’t believe it.” Jim stood in front of his computer’s monitor and hardly believed what was displayed on the screen. He received an email response from one of his mass-mailings, but it wasn’t from an ordinary guy. He prayed it wasn’t a lie, a gag or a prank from an idiot who somehow learned of his love for one particular ‘rap star.’
The message from the rapper simply read: “I herd yur a big fan o mine. If you agree, I’d like to take u 2 dinner @ yur convience…rite back WHEN. Peace. dmz.”
He started to laugh. “DMZ, the DMZ…emailed me a minute ago. Wow. I know everything about you, man…David Mason Zimmerman, better known as DMZ.” Then he also said aloud, “I have to tell Doug; he won’t believe it either…what luck! Of all the people…” Jim was ready to Twitter and Blog and Facebook MAYBE THE WORLD that he actually received a reply from a famous person, one of his favorites. “Yeah, if it’s true?”
Jim started to type a new email to his friend. Before he hit ‘send,’ a ‘(1)’ appeared in his mailbox. He immediately went to it thinking it could be DMZ, and it was.
It read: “There is 1 condision, Jim. You can’t tell ANYONE! We see yur blogs, tweets and FB – if you wanta dinner with me plus my untourage – cant tell a soul BEFORE. After…yes. Agreed?”
The last thing Jim wanted to do was write too much back and scare away this cool opportunity. “Agreed and THANK YOU SO MUCH. How’s Friday evening? And can I take photos? Can I bring someone? You know where I live?”
The final response was: “Agreeed. But must be alone. Tomorrow we’ll pick u up @8.”
Jim’s apartment was quiet and still. He thought, that was so strange. D had to have found me through the blogs. I’ve reached so many and received tons of replies. Who knew controversy sells these days? He must like the anti-government articles I’m putting out. And I could have blown it by telling Doug. How’d he know I was about to tell someone? Maybe I’ll say something to Doug, anyway?
Jim did not email his friend; he phoned him and asked him to stop by his apartment. He excitedly felt he had to tell someone.
The next day, eight O’clock arrived. A black limousine pulled into the driveway next to the apartment building. Two, large, strong, white guys got out of the limo and marched up the stairs.
Jim was nervous with excitement. He thought he had everything and exited the door. He turned to what he thought were bodyguards and said, “I’m all ready.”
Both smiled and one only said the word, “Cool.”
They walked down the steps. The ‘guards’ got into the front and the big, back door of the limo opened and invited Jim in. Without hesitation, the young man entered the lavish backseat that contained…
“DMZ! Wow, what an honor, sir.”
Both star and fan were all smiles as they shook hands. Each were dressed appropriately for the occasion. The night approached and a ‘Blood Moon’ hung over the ‘City of Angels.’
Jim felt the richness of the seats and took in the plushness of an environment he was unfamiliar with. He dove into a rant on how much the rapper’s music meant to him; how long he’s listened to him and the two LA shows he attended.
DMZ stopped him. It appeared as if the ‘star’ didn’t want to talk about the records, performances and songs. It seemed (to Jim) as if the guy tracked for superstardom was a ‘normal dude’ and it was more about the moment like they were old friends. Maybe it was simply about having a good time tonight?
The limo turned north on an undisclosed freeway. Passengers could not see out of the dark windows in the back.
“I have to ask, why me? My online work, I’m assuming?”
“Yo mang, we noticed ya. My friends are fans.”
“What? You trippin’, man! You guys wanted to meet me?” Jim was amazed and only now remembered his phone. He snapped away with the ‘selfie’ plus his personal idol. “It’s cool, isn’t it?” he asked with an unsure look on his face.
“Yeah, yeah, mang…shoot away,” David Mason Zimmerman said and smiled with large, white teeth.
When the small photo session was over, the rapper offered Jim drinks. For some reason, Jim refused and wanted to wait until they had dinner.
Almost automatically, DMZ pulled out a folded piece of white paper.
Jim was sure it was cocaine. It was the weirdest thing when DMZ unfolded the paper. The powder was green.
The rapper snorted some of the pile up his nose with a black straw. His grey hood fell back as his body jerked as if from waves of ecstasy. He relaxed with an even larger grin on his face and offered some to Jim.
Jim refused and said, “I’m not up on the latest…green ice.”
DMZ casually stated, “It’s safe crack, pure, nuttin’ bad.” He snorted the powder once more and went through similar ‘pleasure’ movements. The pile and paper were placed on the seat that hardly vibrated. “We had some questions…”
Jim was thoroughly bewildered and oblivious to what happened around him. “I’m…thrilled. You keep saying WE. Your friends will be at dinner, I take it, yes?”
David Zimmerman answered, “That’s where we are going: a special late night restaurant I know.” He looked at the powder and once again offered, “You sure? It’s cool.”
After a hesitation, the blogger did not refuse this time. “Okay. Just a taste.” He tasted only a bit on his tongue from his fingertip and felt no pleasure. The green dust tasted like nothing. “Wait…this, this isn’t working. I felt nothing.”
“If you are taking, and it is called Green Ice, strange that you knew…if you are taking it for the first time, there is a delayed effect. Get ready in a few minutes, Jim.” David smiled with big teeth. The ‘star’ pushed a button which made the divider-window lower. Now the two suited, muscular, white guys were seen. He only nodded to them and the dark glass divider raised.
“Ha, ha! Al-righty, then…hey, D. What’s the place called, we’re going to? You said it’s Okay to tell the world about this after, right, you said after?”
“No problem,” David answered. “The place is called ‘Pandora’s Room,’ ever hear of it?”
Jim played dumb and replied, “Hm…no.”
“Mind if we…I mean, do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
“Guy, I would be ecstatic to answer anything you…people want to fire at me all through dinner. Ha, ha, ha…I mean, you know…for all you FANS and all. Ha, ha!” After he calmed down, Jim asked, “But first, what the hell happened to your rapper accent? You almost sound like an English gentleman.”
Now Mr. Zimmerman laughed, “Ha. It’s kind of an act…my act.”
“NO!” Jim’s mouth dropped.
“Yes.” David’s face grew serious. “We want to know how you know of Elysium?”
“What, the movie?”
“No. The platform, the main colony in high orbit?”
Jim was stunned; this was too real for him. “You mean, that’s true? YOU BEEN THERE?” His eyes enlarged.
Zimmerman responded coldly and factually. “I will be there for the first time very soon…only one more job to do.”
Jim heard bizarre words as a sickening feeling suddenly churned inside his stomach.
“Another question we have for you…”
The known blogger that Time Machines had shown will become hugely popular with uncontrolled Pod Casts in the future, had a sharp headache that also engulfed him. The submissive word, “Sure” eeked out of his mouth. Jim’s eyes closed.
“Well, there are many…like about Kubrick, Schneider, Beliek, Montauk, Bode’s Law, the whole Black Hole/Quasar-thing, Big Bangs, light-speed and prehistoric History, Tesla/Atlantis, the Grid, the Lizards and how you know what’s going on under the ground right now? Oh, and we have to ‘clean-up’ after your friend, as well.”
Agent David Zimmerman, aka the famous DMZ (soon to be more famous) realized his greatest fan was psychic. Jim had no secret connections. David’s temporal orders were to stop a popular revolution against the New World Order or delay its downfall for a little while longer…
By this time, the fan slumped in a ‘ball’ on the floor of the limo. Jim was dead.
~ After I wrote this, my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, it was…
Rafa Nadal.
Thanks to Tray for permission to share
by TS Caladan
“I don’t believe it.” Jim stood in front of his computer’s monitor and hardly believed what was displayed on the screen. He received an email response from one of his mass-mailings, but it wasn’t from an ordinary guy. He prayed it wasn’t a lie, a gag or a prank from an idiot who somehow learned of his love for one particular ‘rap star.’
The message from the rapper simply read: “I herd yur a big fan o mine. If you agree, I’d like to take u 2 dinner @ yur convience…rite back WHEN. Peace. dmz.”
He started to laugh. “DMZ, the DMZ…emailed me a minute ago. Wow. I know everything about you, man…David Mason Zimmerman, better known as DMZ.” Then he also said aloud, “I have to tell Doug; he won’t believe it either…what luck! Of all the people…” Jim was ready to Twitter and Blog and Facebook MAYBE THE WORLD that he actually received a reply from a famous person, one of his favorites. “Yeah, if it’s true?”
Jim started to type a new email to his friend. Before he hit ‘send,’ a ‘(1)’ appeared in his mailbox. He immediately went to it thinking it could be DMZ, and it was.
It read: “There is 1 condision, Jim. You can’t tell ANYONE! We see yur blogs, tweets and FB – if you wanta dinner with me plus my untourage – cant tell a soul BEFORE. After…yes. Agreed?”
The last thing Jim wanted to do was write too much back and scare away this cool opportunity. “Agreed and THANK YOU SO MUCH. How’s Friday evening? And can I take photos? Can I bring someone? You know where I live?”
The final response was: “Agreeed. But must be alone. Tomorrow we’ll pick u up @8.”
Jim’s apartment was quiet and still. He thought, that was so strange. D had to have found me through the blogs. I’ve reached so many and received tons of replies. Who knew controversy sells these days? He must like the anti-government articles I’m putting out. And I could have blown it by telling Doug. How’d he know I was about to tell someone? Maybe I’ll say something to Doug, anyway?
Jim did not email his friend; he phoned him and asked him to stop by his apartment. He excitedly felt he had to tell someone.
The next day, eight O’clock arrived. A black limousine pulled into the driveway next to the apartment building. Two, large, strong, white guys got out of the limo and marched up the stairs.
Jim was nervous with excitement. He thought he had everything and exited the door. He turned to what he thought were bodyguards and said, “I’m all ready.”
Both smiled and one only said the word, “Cool.”
They walked down the steps. The ‘guards’ got into the front and the big, back door of the limo opened and invited Jim in. Without hesitation, the young man entered the lavish backseat that contained…
“DMZ! Wow, what an honor, sir.”
Both star and fan were all smiles as they shook hands. Each were dressed appropriately for the occasion. The night approached and a ‘Blood Moon’ hung over the ‘City of Angels.’
Jim felt the richness of the seats and took in the plushness of an environment he was unfamiliar with. He dove into a rant on how much the rapper’s music meant to him; how long he’s listened to him and the two LA shows he attended.
DMZ stopped him. It appeared as if the ‘star’ didn’t want to talk about the records, performances and songs. It seemed (to Jim) as if the guy tracked for superstardom was a ‘normal dude’ and it was more about the moment like they were old friends. Maybe it was simply about having a good time tonight?
The limo turned north on an undisclosed freeway. Passengers could not see out of the dark windows in the back.
“I have to ask, why me? My online work, I’m assuming?”
“Yo mang, we noticed ya. My friends are fans.”
“What? You trippin’, man! You guys wanted to meet me?” Jim was amazed and only now remembered his phone. He snapped away with the ‘selfie’ plus his personal idol. “It’s cool, isn’t it?” he asked with an unsure look on his face.
“Yeah, yeah, mang…shoot away,” David Mason Zimmerman said and smiled with large, white teeth.
When the small photo session was over, the rapper offered Jim drinks. For some reason, Jim refused and wanted to wait until they had dinner.
Almost automatically, DMZ pulled out a folded piece of white paper.
Jim was sure it was cocaine. It was the weirdest thing when DMZ unfolded the paper. The powder was green.
The rapper snorted some of the pile up his nose with a black straw. His grey hood fell back as his body jerked as if from waves of ecstasy. He relaxed with an even larger grin on his face and offered some to Jim.
Jim refused and said, “I’m not up on the latest…green ice.”
DMZ casually stated, “It’s safe crack, pure, nuttin’ bad.” He snorted the powder once more and went through similar ‘pleasure’ movements. The pile and paper were placed on the seat that hardly vibrated. “We had some questions…”
Jim was thoroughly bewildered and oblivious to what happened around him. “I’m…thrilled. You keep saying WE. Your friends will be at dinner, I take it, yes?”
David Zimmerman answered, “That’s where we are going: a special late night restaurant I know.” He looked at the powder and once again offered, “You sure? It’s cool.”
After a hesitation, the blogger did not refuse this time. “Okay. Just a taste.” He tasted only a bit on his tongue from his fingertip and felt no pleasure. The green dust tasted like nothing. “Wait…this, this isn’t working. I felt nothing.”
“If you are taking, and it is called Green Ice, strange that you knew…if you are taking it for the first time, there is a delayed effect. Get ready in a few minutes, Jim.” David smiled with big teeth. The ‘star’ pushed a button which made the divider-window lower. Now the two suited, muscular, white guys were seen. He only nodded to them and the dark glass divider raised.
“Ha, ha! Al-righty, then…hey, D. What’s the place called, we’re going to? You said it’s Okay to tell the world about this after, right, you said after?”
“No problem,” David answered. “The place is called ‘Pandora’s Room,’ ever hear of it?”
Jim played dumb and replied, “Hm…no.”
“Mind if we…I mean, do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
“Guy, I would be ecstatic to answer anything you…people want to fire at me all through dinner. Ha, ha, ha…I mean, you know…for all you FANS and all. Ha, ha!” After he calmed down, Jim asked, “But first, what the hell happened to your rapper accent? You almost sound like an English gentleman.”
Now Mr. Zimmerman laughed, “Ha. It’s kind of an act…my act.”
“NO!” Jim’s mouth dropped.
“Yes.” David’s face grew serious. “We want to know how you know of Elysium?”
“What, the movie?”
“No. The platform, the main colony in high orbit?”
Jim was stunned; this was too real for him. “You mean, that’s true? YOU BEEN THERE?” His eyes enlarged.
Zimmerman responded coldly and factually. “I will be there for the first time very soon…only one more job to do.”
Jim heard bizarre words as a sickening feeling suddenly churned inside his stomach.
“Another question we have for you…”
The known blogger that Time Machines had shown will become hugely popular with uncontrolled Pod Casts in the future, had a sharp headache that also engulfed him. The submissive word, “Sure” eeked out of his mouth. Jim’s eyes closed.
“Well, there are many…like about Kubrick, Schneider, Beliek, Montauk, Bode’s Law, the whole Black Hole/Quasar-thing, Big Bangs, light-speed and prehistoric History, Tesla/Atlantis, the Grid, the Lizards and how you know what’s going on under the ground right now? Oh, and we have to ‘clean-up’ after your friend, as well.”
Agent David Zimmerman, aka the famous DMZ (soon to be more famous) realized his greatest fan was psychic. Jim had no secret connections. David’s temporal orders were to stop a popular revolution against the New World Order or delay its downfall for a little while longer…
By this time, the fan slumped in a ‘ball’ on the floor of the limo. Jim was dead.
~ After I wrote this, my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, it was…
Rafa Nadal.
Thanks to Tray for permission to share
