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Saturday, May 6, 2017

Jack Heart - Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head - Part III

[Source] It all came to an abrupt ending in the summer of ninety-six. On the weekend of my birthday we were with Joe and Laurie and we had taken their camping trailer out on the beach at Smiths Point. Laurie’s Joe was friends with the government security lady. He had the keys to her condo, which he spent a lot of time in when she was away. He was very different from military Joe and although he wasn’t a big man; right beneath his warm and friendly veneer there was something menacing about him, much like myself at the time but with Joe there was an undertone of malice.

He was the only one who would answer me back. One night in the courtyard round about the second or third keg I was accusing them all of being aliens, haranguing all of them for being Wyrdos, M too. None of it was unusual. I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard; leastways not to the perpetrators. As if he had been waiting for it Joe says to me “you’re always accusing everybody else of being an alien. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the alien.” Then military Joe immediately jumps to my defense denying for everything he’s worth that I’m an alien and aggressively admonishing Joe for saying such a thing to me. There were about a dozen other people out there listening to this bizarre exchange intently. Afterwards no one said a thing for the rest of the night.

Joe and Laurie had a three foot Iguana that had the run of their place and M and I had a three foot Savannah Monitor named Gizmo that I had bought as a hatchling before I went away in 1990. Gizmo lived under the couch; usually…

Joe and Laurie also shared our appetite for cocaine and sex; both were very much fueling the two day party at Smiths Point that July weekend. The night on the beach was one of the strangest of the many strange nights I have known. Around sundown a couple of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the surf line, which was about the length of a football field down from the camper. No sooner had I remarked to Joe about how low they were flying than another appears in the west heading east along the beach no higher than a couple of hundred feet. Joe stepped out from the camper and walked down a ways toward the beach so his silhouette was clear in the light of the setting sun and started signaling toward it like he was hailing a cab. By then I could see it was a brand new Apache gunship painted gun medal black with no markings. It veered up the beach straight at us and settled over our camper so close that the sand from its prop wash was stinging my face. All the while Joe was acting like it was a joke. He continued to signal the pilot who if he could roll down the window was by now close enough to spit on him. After about thirty seconds of this the gunship rose to about four hundred feet and took off to the east.

I don’t remember it getting dark but I was probably in the camper doing something obscene with M. When we came out there was a firework display on the bay side of the island and a lot of boats had come in close on the ocean side to watch. The barrier beach is less than a thousand feet wide at Smiths Point so they had front row seats, along with us and everybody else who had a camper on the beach. About a quarter mile offshore, all lit up, was a boat that was close to three hundred feet. It dwarfed the eighty to hundred and twenty foot party boats that were out there. The water is no more than twenty to twenty five foot deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that big in that close to a Long Island beach. I could not see what kind of boat it was. But it was there and then it was gone, I didn’t see it coming in or going back out. When the display was over we went inside the camper to resume our explorations into the outer perimeters of cocaine intoxication and human orgasm.

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