Entry IX--In The Flesh (Part 2)

But not so far out that I hesitate asking her:

“Ms. Cabal, I’m just curious—with all your wealth and media contacts, why haven't you ever made a movie, isn't cinema a medium that reaches a helluva lot more people than any book every could?”

“It's a legitimate question, Darwin, and one I have considered with great sagacity over the years. While it is undeniable that, in general, a film will wider audience than books, most studio releases are too compromised, because there is simply too much money involved.

“It is the rare film which reveals truth, and is not merely some watered-down Hollywood triteness.”

Feel presumptuous in saying this, but it just comes out: “Don’t you have enough money to make a film that wouldn’t be so...compromised."

Ms. Cabal shoots me a look with those eyes which cuts right through me…

Stammer through a failed attempt at apology, “Not…that I’m…counting your money.”

She ignores my pathetic plea and answers the original question: “While I do have the funds to support such a venture, that money is marked for other purposes.”

Not sure if I should ask what those “other purposes” are, so I don’t. When in doubt, punt.

“Most of the best films currently being released are adapted from novels. Several of the novels from my house have been made into successful, critically acclaimed motion pictures.”

“Guess the best I can hope for is a sincere documentary, eh?”

She smiles slightly, acknowledging my tepid attempt at humor, before continuing, “A book is still taken more seriously than any film. Just because something is more popular does not mean it is more significant—you should know this as well as anyone, Darwin."

Nod and recite in monotone: "Just because something's popular doesn't mean it's right and just because something's right doesn't mean it's going to be popular."

Got that from a high school gym teacher. Either that or a stale fortune cookie, I can't recall.

Ms. Cabal's smile grows wider, "Precisely, Darwin. As I was saying, a book will ultimately have a deeper impact than a film on a given culture—particularly with those whose opinions truly matter.

"And I need not remind you that more people have read the Bible then have seen any motion picture."

No, she needn't remind me of that. That's what I get for doubting my own medium.

She senses that I'm at a critical juncture in my thought process: "Ideas are more powerful than even you realize, Darwin--ideas truly do shape the course of future events. We have to harness those ideas that truly matter and distribute them to our advantage.”

And here I was thinking she just wanted to make a profit off of me all this time.

Ms. Cabal returns to her meal, finishing in silence, but I don’t know if that's due to hunger or really that she wants me to carefully mull over everything she just told me.

And mull it over I do, just picking at my pasta. I actually am hungry, but it’s all too much for me to take; being in her presence, the inspirational words she just laid on me...and need I mention what her heel was doing to me earlier?

Catch myself watching Ms. Cabal eat. Funny, it's like she doesn't need the food for sustenance, but more that she just savors the taste of the greens of her salad. It's the experience of dining that dictates her actions, not some base animal drive like a growling stomach.

That's for lower creatures, like me.

But I'm probably reading too much into that and creeping myself out with my obssessive tendencies, so I bury my face back into my dish and try to remember how long it's been since I've eaten.

Just as soon as I make some progress with my pasta, am distracted when she re-opens her laptop and studies it for a couple of minutes before addressing me:

"Two weeks from Friday--"

I jump in: "Ms Cabal?"

"Don't interrupt me, Darwin. Two weeks from Friday you are to arrive at my office at precisely noon. Don't worry about lunch, we'll order in. You are to bring a draft of the opening essay as well as a completed outline for the entire book. At that time you can sign your contract."

Okay, I think it's safe now for me to respond: "Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Do you have a literary agent--or an attorney, Darwin?"

She asks that as if she knows my answer. "No, Ms. Cabal."

"Would you like to have some representation present when you sign your publishing contract? I am acquainted with many excellent agents and attorneys I can refer you to."

Now it's my turn to cast a gaze right into her eyes: "That won't be necessary, Ms. Cabal. I trust you implicitly. With my life."

My boldness in submission, along with the dramatic flair of the last line I uttered has her eyes sparkling in appreciation.

Then, as if to assure me that my, er...faith in her isn't misplaced, she adds: "I intend to be very generous with you, Darwin, provided you provide the book I seek. If there is a fortune to be made off of this book, you will have it. I already have mine. Also, by cutting a deal directly with me, you will avoid the paying fees to an agent or attorney, which means more money for you."

Not complaining.

And since we're on the subject, Ms. Cabal finds it appropriate to ask: “Do you need any money, Darwin?”

Dammit, why did she have to ask so directly? Why couldn’t she just hand it over?

Because that’s not her style. She's going to make me squirm to get it.

Have no other choice but to admit:

“Yes…I need money, Ms. Cabal.”

“Why did you hesitate in answering? There is no shame in needing money, Darwin. It takes money to live in this world, even humbly. Not everyone can be an heiress to a high-tech fortune, some of us are struggling writers."

Just as that comment felt like getting jabbed in the gut by the sharp end of an umbrella, she pokes me again:

“How much do you need?”

Another direct question I wish she didn't ask and I'd rather not answer...

But she’s right, I shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all-she’s paying me to write a book. This is just part of the advance.

“A few hun—no, maybe a…thousand dollars?”

She flashes me a glare of disappointment that I still can't summon the guts to come flat out and just tell her exactly how much money I need.

Without batting an eye, she reaches into a compartment in her briefcase and pulls out a leatherbound checkbook

“I will make a check out to you for two thousand dollars, because you are trying not to come across as greedy, despite the fact that such humility is completely unnecessary in my presence."

She’s right, of course. Gotta play it straight with her at all times. She sees through me, and not just with those penetrating eyes.

She hands me the check but I don't even look at it, not going to blow it by checking the check like making sure she signed it or didn't put last year's date on it. Fold it and slip it into my shirt pocket.

Two thousand dollars. $2000. Either way you spell it out, it looks good. It's the single largest payment I've ever received for anything I've ever done in my life.

Materialistic bastard that I am, already getting distracted thinking about how I'm going to spend. Can pay off all my bills, get ahead on my rent, fill the house with food, go out drinking—

No, scratch that last one. None of this is going for booze. I don’t do that anymore, remember?

Can't go out sober anyway. I have a fucking book to write, anyway—my nights are occupied until July 10.

My silence reminds me of how rude I've been in hesitating to: “Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are welcome, Darwin,” she replies as she returns the checkbook into her briefcase before looking me dead-set in the peepers once more before informing me:

“Understand, Darwin, that this money has nothing to do with your advance for the book. As I said, we will discuss that in two weeks at my office." She gestures at my shirt pocket: "That is merely a donation, because I want you to devote your full attention to writing the outline and the draft of the first essay. I do not want any monetary concerns to distract you.”

Nod slightly, feeling nervous, like she just purchased me on the open market, “I…understand.”

“Do you, Darwin?” she challenges. Writing a truly great book is paramount. Nothing else matters in your life while you work on Bye Bull."

She lowers her voice considerably--yet still loud enough for me to hear and says, "Nothing else matters, not even your balls--do you hear me?"

She underscores her words with a swift kick of my shin. Hurts so much I want to scream out loud, but I hold it in and get another hard-on instead.

No way in hell I'd embarass Ms. Cabal in public by making a scene and letting anyone know that she inflicted physical harm onto me.

"I will remain...focused, Ms. Cabal. You're giving me a chance to realize my lifelong goal--to write a book that gets published and one that people actually read.

"Finishing this book will become my singular passion."

I'm expecting her to reward me with a smile of approval, but instead she clenches her teeth and threatens me: "It had better be, Darwin."

It's all I can do to keep from swallowing hard enough for her to see how scared shittless I truly am.

Ms. Cabal summons Joaquin to our table, like he's been skulking in the shadows, waiting for the snap of her fingers.

Wonder if she treats each and every single man she encounters this way?

Does she have a lover who could co-exist with her on an equal basis, when it comes to the power dynamic? Is that even possible with this woman?

Ms. Cabal shoots me a look like she's reading my mind and doesn't care for what I'm thinking and even though I know that's not possible, I clear my mind of all speculative thoughts remotely related to her sexuality and relationships.

She hands Joaquin a credit card and he's off to charge her, and presses a button on her watch, enabling her to speak into it:

"Charles, you can bring around the car to the front of Anastasio's now"

"Yes, Ms. Cabal," a distorted voice comes through what I presume to be some kind of micro-speaker on her watch. Read about them, but never seen one before. Course, I've never hung with anyone rich enough to afford one of those before.

That voice of servitude on the other end of her watch reminds me of my own voice saying "Yes, Ms. Cabal" so many times already and it gives me a chilling sensation that we're all serving her.

She then gathers her briefcase and stands up, towering above me to where I feel like the little boy in the highchair.

"Darwin, escort me to my car."

See, she doesn't even care if I was finished with my meal or not, she expects me to move when she expects me to move.

And of course, I do. There is no resisting her in person.

Besides, I've got two thousand dollars. As soon as she takes off, I can eat pretty much whatever the fuck I want.

Rise from my seat and it's only then do I fully grasp Ms. Cabal's height. True, she's wearing heels, but she'd still stand over me even if she were barefoot. If I ever needed physical proof of her dominance over me, here it is.

Her torso is average length, so it's mostly all legs with her. Regret that she chose to wear a pantsuit to our meeting and not a skirt.

Maybe she doesn't wear skirts anymore, now that she's in her 40's. Or maybe her legs are riddled with cellulite.

Fat chance. She's too fucking rich to have cellulite.

There I go, letting myself get distracted by sexual thoughts of her. Got to put those out of my mind. Naturally, it'll be easier when she's no longer in my presence.

Joaquin joins us to show us out of Anastasio's and my eyes are poked by the sudden sunlight after being in the dark corner of the restaurant.

As with seemingly everything else in her life, Ms. Cabal's town car pulls up right in front of her, as if this was a well-rehearsed routine. Joaquin opens the door for her and bows out of the picture, but not before shooting me the subtlest glance of jealousy, probably because I, rather than he, am her primary supplicant of the afternoon.

Ignore that glorified busboy and meet her eyes for the last time today. Though they hold the potential to utterly obliterate the tattered remains of my freewill, I need to imprint them in my pictoral memory until I can look upon them again.

Ms. Cabal knows what I'm looking for and permits me to meekly attempt to draw some kind of chi or whatever the fuck you want to call it from within her.

And it's not sexual, no it's about recoginizing how powerful she is and how I've got to respect that.

Scratch that. I don't "have to" do anything. But if I don't respect her power, I won't be capable of anything. Not even self-respect.

I don't want to break away her eyes...I can't break away, and she knows it and it's just another defeat for me, as she slips on her sunglasses and is back to business: "My assistant will call the day before to remind you of our appointment in two weeks. Between now and then, I expect nothing less than your finest work."

This is no time for weakness. And weakness would be defiance:

"You’re going to love it, Ms. Cabal," I assure her.

What I really mean: You’re going to love me, Ms. Cabal.

"See that I do," she challenges me. Should have known better than to expect her to so easily accept a promise I could very well break.

It'd be like me accepting a promise made by christianity.

As she climbs in the back of her town car, Ms. Cabal makes a flippant hand gesture implying I should close the door behind her, reminding me that, when you get right down to it, I'm no great artiste writing for a transcendent book for her, I'm just like her chauffeur or Joaquin, another manservant waiting on her.

That bratty part of my ego wants to slam the door behind her--just for a second--but then I get ahold of myself and close it firmly but gently.

The car speeds off down Columbus, leaving me standing there, and it seems to signify our entire
relationship; Ms. Cabal in motion, me watching the wheels that spin away with her.

After the car pulls away and she’s gone, have to admit feeling relief, like some finals exam I was stressing through is finally over and I can breathe again. Feel this way despite the fact I’ll be counting the seconds until I see her again.

No--can't get all obssessive over Ms. Cabal. Have to put her completely out of my mind, I've got to come up with an outline for an entire book of essays in half a month.

And not just any book of essays, oh no, this has to be the one that restores individual rights and saves the planet from global warming.

(Note to self: Write an essay, or at least a section of an essay, on the relationship between globabl warming and faith-based rejection of environmentalism; i.e., the notion that earth was "given" to man by god to be used as man sees fit. Later, can relate this concept to the contradiction of the obviously leftist christ being aligned with conservative values).

Ah, that was it! That thought, or those thoughts, just then. That's the kind of creative mode I have to be set to from now until July 10.

That date is already burned into my memory. The deadline I have to meet. Funny, Ms. Cabal never even gave that old cliched "one chance to back out of the deal" option. She had no intention whatsoever of walking away from that table in Anastasio's without me agreeing to write a book for her. Even when she warned me about the possible perils of publishing a controversial book such as this, she was never trying to dissuade me, there has never been the slightest doubt I am going to write this book for her.

Oh no, but it was my decision all the way. Uh huh.

There I go, obssessing over her. This isn't going to be easy.

Glance down at my front pocket and that's what I need to be focusing on. My $$$.

And it's not even part of my advance, if I heard her right (my head was swimming most of the time, just try to stay above sea level). This is a gift.

Charity. Something to tide me over until I sign the contract and receive an advance.

So where to now?

Pat the folded check in my shirt pocket like it’s a second heart.

The bank, obviously.

Next, a supermarket. Gonna stock up on food, so I don’t have to leave the house for a few days.

Correction: I should buy enough where I don’t have any reason to go out for the entire two weeks, until I’m finished with the outline and the first essay draft.

Normally, that wouldn’t be possible, couldn’t lug home half-a-month of groceries on foot. But now I can afford to take an islamic limo--a cab--home.

Wonder if I could go two weeks without sleep?

Gonna need lots of tea, that's the only stimulant I allow myself these days.

That, and twisting my nipples.

EARLIER, DO I WANT MS. CABAL TO WARN ME THAT THIS WILL NOT BE AN EASY TASK. WRITING THE BOOK WILL BE HARDER, BUT HAVING TO ENDURE THE BOOK'S AFTERMATH WILL BE EVEN HARDER

Entry IX--In The Flesh

It’s worse when I’m standing still.

Can feel my knees literally knocking at the corner of Broadway and Kearney, approaching San Fran’s “Little Italy” section of the North Beach district, waiting for the WALK signal to appear at the light.

Relieved once it does, so I can cross the street and burn off some of these nerves.

Nervous 'cause I’m meeting Ms. Cabal...

In just a couple minutes...

For the first time.

Glance quickly into a dingy donut shop I pass and find the greasy 80's clock on the wall—it’s 12:35.

Great, five minutes late already.

But why am I stressing out like a pussy? It’s not like it’s a job interview. It’s a lunch meeting concerning my book.

Fact is--I’m the artist here, she’s the suit, the corporation who

I’m expected to be a bit of a free-spirit, flakey, if you will.

She called me; I didn’t look her up in some blue book listing of publishers.

Shit, I should dispense with the whole “Ms. Cabal” thing and call her “D’mona” or maybe just just “D.”

Nah, don’t have the balls to pull that one off.

Not yet, anyway. Besides, don’t want my ego getting in the way of any possible deal. I’ve got a chance to finally see a full book of my essays in print and finally make a little scratch.

Can’t blow this like I've blown everything else in life.

Would’ve been on time, had I allowed her car to pick me up, like she offered when I called her last night.

Told her it was no biggie—North Beach being so close to my apartment.

But the real reason I passed on the free ride was that I wanted to burn off as much nervous energy as possible before meeting her.

Burned off some, but not nearly enough. Knees still knocking, palms moist yet my mouth has gone desert dry…while my stomach churns.

That’s what a schmuck loser I’ve let myself become---treating this like it’s a first date or something, when it reality it's a strictly professional business meeting.

Can't help myself. This entire week, Ms. Cabal was all I thought about.

Ever since I went on the wagon, been replacing my need for drink with a need to meet her.

Serve her...

Finally broke down and called her yesterday, when I couldn't stand the phone silently mocking me and the simple fact that there was nothing I wanted more in this world than to call Ms. Cabal.

Gave in and admitted the phone was right and used it to reach at the number she provided me that night she first called me.

She wasn’t surprised by my call in the least.

She was expecting it. Like she had no doubt in the world that eventually, I would drop to my knees, and call her.

She insisted we meet for lunch today.

I agreed immediately of course. Shit, I would’ve agreed to meet for a midnight snack in a dark dank alley next to a massage parlor.

For one thing, I’ve been out of food, and that includes packets of condiments, so I really want to shut my stomach up.

And this coming from a guy who fucking hates to eat out. Having to order, being waited on, trying to find something on the menu that will jive with my vegetarian parameters, the whole process annoys me.

Finally hit Columbus, making my way past the midweek lunchtime crowd of pretentious Euros, tourists and harried yuppies packing virtually chair parked in front of every outdoor cafe and restaurant. Glance at the torn paper where I scribbled down the name of the restaurant.

She didn't bother to tell me what she looks like or what she'd be wearing (but I have seen her picture on the 'net) and she wasn't interested in knowing what I looked like or what I'd be wearing, but said that she'd "just know" who I was.

Is it possible she's seen me without me realizing it?

She's rich enough to have hired an private investigator to have tailed me and maybe even taken pix of me with some high definition telephoto lens.

Paranoia's just another word for awareness, sometimes.

That’s about the only way she could have seen me. None of the editors of any of the zines I wrote for have a picture of me, far as I know, and I seriously doubt there are pix of me anywhere on the web.

Head snaps suddenly to the left after catching a glimpse of a woman I think might be Ms. Cabal

Sexy, confident, well-dressed, well-coiffed and older.

But too old. This woman's in her 50's, and her hair shows a touch of gray. Sure, I'd still fuck her, but she's not Ms. Cabal.

Besides, when I shot a look her way, she completely ignored it, not interested in making eye contact in the least.

Can't get distracted, am already running late. Cross Stockton, the light changing soon enough to avoid wobbly knees, and after one more side street there it is: Antipasto by Anastasio.

There's an outside dining area I cautiously approach but don't see anyone out here who even vaguely resembles Ms. Cabal.

A waiter spies my confusion and quickly approaches--now that's fucking service.

He smiles and asks, "Are you Darwin Grimm?"

Taken aback before I respond, "How did you know?"

"Ms. Cabal informed me to be on the lookout for a man featuring your description. You're better looking than she said you were."

Confused as to whether that means Ms. Cabal thinks I am good looking or not? Not that it should matter.

Ignore the compliment the gay waiter just laid on me. No offense, but I want Ms. Cabal to be attracted to me, not him.

Even though thinking about Ms. Cabal in any sexual context should be the furthest thing from my mind, my dick just isn't that far from my brain.

"Follow me, Mr. Grimm."

His swish leads me to a discreetly located private booth in the back.

If she wants to dine indoors on such a gorgeous spring day, the woman must value her privacy.

But this is better than being in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the crowd, which is what I was half expecting, given her socialite status.

Then, I lay my eyes on Ms. Cabal for the first time. Doesn't surprise me at all that her head is buried in a laptop. Type A personality that she is, why would she waste time sitting there chewing on a breadstick when I'm running late.

Regret that I can't get a good look at her as I approach, all I can see is slicked back hair hovering over an open notebook. That she appears adrongynous shouldn't surprise me. She seems to be wearing some kind of gray business attire, not feminine in the least.

Even though I now stand right over the table at which she's seated, she doesn't raise her head in acknowledgment, but continues working diligently on whatever it is she's working on.

I just stand there like a schmuck until the waiter finally walks gingerly next to her seat and says unobtrusively as possible, "Um...please excuse me Ms. Cabal, but your guest Darwin Grimm has arrived."

For a moment, nothing. And I'm beginning to wonder if she is alive. But then I see her press a couple of buttons in her laptop before closing it, and then finally addressing the waiter:

"Thank you, Joaquin. We will be ready to order in a few minutes."

And though it was just two simple sentences, the voice

"Very good, Ms. Cabal."

Joaquin the waiter pulls out a chair for me and I oblige by parking my ass under it.

He quickly slips into the nearby shadows and my eyes meet Ms. Cabal's eyes.

I'll never ever forget this moment as long as I live. Even senility would be powerless to prevent retention of the memory of encountering those seductive lenses for the very first time.

Draw me in like quicksand, they do.

Look into Ms. Cabal’s eyes, drawing me in like quicksand.

Always heard about people who have “black eyes,” but personally never saw a pair…until now.

Not dark brown, we’re talking black. Black as pitch, black as night, black as the eight ball, whatever fucking metaphor you want to use.

As black as the cover of Bye Bull from my fantasies.

Lose awareness for a split sec, it's like being awakened from a dream by something in the “real world” (like an alarm clock going off or a phone ringing) and for an instant you’re not sure if the alarm or ring is coming from the dream or from reality, or which is which to begin with.

"Darwin..."

Huh?

"Darwin, did you hear me?"

Shake my head and then I'm able to take in all of her, and can break free of those eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cabal..."

"Pay attention when I speak to you, Darwin, we have a great deal to discuss."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

Feel like a 10 year old boy, embarrassed and confused. But on the other hand, she seems perfectly conscious of what just happened to me.

"What I saying Darwin, was how good it is to finally meet, and now we can embark on our creative journey together."

"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." I fill with warmth, never heard words that have excited me more, not even in the bedroom.

Can't blow this.

"So when you called me the other night, you said you were ready to write a book for me."

"That's right."

"Have you written any of it yet?"

"Just a partial outline."

That's what they call in the business a "white lie."

Better be careful, those little white lies can get sucked up by her big black eyes.

My moral conflict is temporarily abated by the reappearance of the waiter, who asks if we're ready to order.

Ms. Cabal seems more eager to get on with our conversation then in eating as she tells him abruptly, "Just a chicken salad with sesame soy dressing for me, Joaquin."

Having been so entranced by Ms. Cabal, I hadn't even bothered to pick up a menu.

Never sure what to order--dammit I hate eating out.

The bowtie pasta in marinara sauce looks inviting, but my eye drifts over the right side of the page to find it very expensive.

Then, as if she's reading my bloody mind, Ms. Cabal says, "Don't worry about the price, Darwin, order whatever you want."

She also said it in a tone as if prodding me to get it over with so we can begin discussing the book.

So I order the bowtie pasta with the marinara sauce with a glass of water on the side. Notice that Ms. Cabal is having red wine, which must mean it goes with a chicken salad because Ms. Cabal is the type who is impeccable when it comes to those sorts of things, whereas I don't have a godamn cluse.

Joaquin gathers up the menus and once he's out of earshot, Ms. Cabal returns her attention to me:

"Back to that outline of yours, Darwin..."

Do we have to get back to that so soon? This is going to be a real test of my bullshitting, er, improv skills.

"Yes, Ms. Cabal. How many essays should I write?"

"That I will leave to your artistic discretion, Darwin. There are but two considerations for you to keep in mind. First, you should write neither too many nor too few essays. Second, the book is not too exceed 300 pages in length. 250 would be ideal. A book of essays on a single subject should not exceed 300 pages."

"May I ask why, Ms. Cabal?"

She laughs at my query before assuring me, "You may ask me anything at any time, Darwin. It will be up to me whether or not I actually answer you.

“As far as the length of the book, I am not looking to publish some ponderous tome, but a book that will electrify a wide swath of the American public. If it was a novel, it could be longer, but a collection of essays should be a swifter read.

“I envision a reader getting on an airplane with your book, reading it in its entirety in the course of a four-hour flight, and getting off the plane introduced to a completely new perspective on Christianity and modern culture.”

Damn, the woman is persuasive. I mean, she's talking about this like it's really going to happen as easy as blinking.

With the exception that I have to write a great collection of essays.

"I am glad you called me when you did, Darwin. We still have time to release the book by Halloween. Therefore, you need to have the completed draft to me by July 11."

Suddenly feels like it's July 10. "But...that's only 3 months away."

"That is correct, Darwin. However, that will be more than enough time."

"You sound more confident of that than I am."

"You do not think you can do it, Darwin? What else do you have to do for the next ten weeks?"

She's got me there.

"Nothing."

"Precisely."

Was waiting for Ms. Cabal to twist the screws, to assert her dominance, and now she has.

But then, it's as if she senses that it's really bothering me, so she pulls back on the reins:"Look at it this way, Darwin: It's 70 days. That is less than 3 pages a day you have to write. With the money I'm advancing you, surely you can find the time. You do not have to worry about working.

"I have to have the book by that date in order to properly map out the marketing strategy. This will be a book unlike any other and thus requires a suitable marketing campaign."

Clearly, she's not offering a deal, but making an ultimatum.

"Look me in the eye, Darwin, and tell me that you will write a book by July 11 and it will be your greatest, your most ambitious work of your life."

And in that moment, it's not about her power and position allwoing her to dominate the proceedings; no, it's about me realizing that if someone else has that much confidence in my ability to deliver a book, then the least I can do is write the damn thing.

So I'm finally able to meet her gaze dead-on and tell her, "I will do it, Ms. Cabal."

As if on cue, Joaquin returns with my water and Ms. Cabal raises a toast, "To the book that some people have been waiting for all of their lives and others have been fearing all of their lives."

Shit, when she talks like that, I'm ready to go to war for her, let alone write a crappy little book that will probably be in the discount bin at every book chain within a couple years.

But this isn't the time to think pessimistically, and my glass meet Ms. Cabal's with a hearty clink.

And just like that, she's down to business again, grinding away at details:

"You say you have already started the outline, Darwin. I want a completed outline of every essay, the order in which those essays are to appear and a rough draft of the first essay in my office in two weeks."

There's no wiggle room left to negotiate with Ms. Cabal's edict.

There is only agreement: "Yes, Ms. Cabal."

And just like that, she's covering more ground: “Have you ever spoken in front of an audience before, Darwin?”

That catches me off-guard, not sure what she's getting at, but answer her best I can, with an involuntary chuckle, “Not since grammar school, in cath licking school.”

“I may have to hire a performance coach to work with you. Once the book is released, you will go on a promotinoal book toursigning books and speaking and making television appearances.

Just react, don’t think as I exclaim: “TV? Are you sure you can get an unknown author like me on TV?”

She seems annoyed that I even asked such a question, but tells me anyway: “Given that I am the heiress to the Christian Technologies forturne, I have accumulated numerous media contacts over the years, Darwin, including with executives and board members in very high positions of very powerful media conglomerates.

"Therefore, should I require an author in my stable appear on this talk show or on that news program, then that author will appear on this talk show or on that news program.

“In your case, I sincerely doubt it will be necessary to rely on those contacts, considering the level of controversy this book will generate. On the contrary, it is quite likely that the various producers of television newsmagazines and talk shows will be contacting your PR firm, clamoring for your presence.”

“I’m going to have a PR firm?”

“Naturally--I will hire likely hire Llama Public Relations to handle your publciity, seeing as they have offices in San Francisco and New York. Not to mention in L. A. and Chicago. I also will generate considerable publicity for you in-house, considering the importance of this book.

“However, even if I hired every PR firm on both coasts, the only legitimate controversy will be that which arises from the book itself. If the book is not written the way only you can fashion it, then all the hype in the world will not get it to a second printing.”

The way she emphasized 'fashion' reminds me of the lyrics sung to me in the hashish vision. But instead of pursuing higher thoughts, I opt for a simpler query:

She continues: "The controversy is something you will have to be parepared to face, once the book is completed. For every person enlightened by Bye Bull, one thousand will be offended. Some of those offended will react violently. As difficult as it will be to complete the book, facing the aftermath could prove to be much more stressful."

“Are you sure it will generate that much controversy?”

She smiles, baring teeth this time, “That is entirely up to you, Darwin. Do you think it is a neccesity that your book be controversial?"

Not sure if I'm hearing a word, because as Ms. Cabal asks me this, incredibly, impossibly, she digs one of her heels into the inner calf of my right leg.

Heel isn’t digging very deep, but instills enough pressure so that I feel it.

And to the point where it could get really uncomfortable if she extends her heel just another quarter-inch.

It’s as if the pain is meant to underscore the significance of her statement.

Instead of resisting, I welcome the pain and that gives me a hard-on.

Then, just ever so slightly, she pushes the edge of the heel just a little bit deeper, but not quite that quarter-inch. The sensation truly stradles that thin line between pleasure and pain.

Yet above the table, my expression remains completely benign, she knows I don't have the guts or the balls to openly acknowledge what she’s doing to me.

And maybe that's the reason she's playing ultimate footsies with me, because I haven't answered her question.

Give it a shot: “It's not a necessity that the book be controversial. Rather, the book will be controversial by its very necessity. For if it weren’t controversial, it wouldn’t be necessary.”

She smiles, flashing even more teeth. I’d call the effect 'evil' if it weren’t so beautiful.

“Once again, you have validated my appointing you to write this book, Darwin. You made the proper distinction between 'controversy' and 'necessity.' You understand the larger issues at play.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

Then, as if satisfied with my answer and general obedient attitude, she slowly retracts her heel from my leg, until all the pressure is gone.

She thinks she rewarded me by retracting the pain. What she doesn’t realize is that I miss it already.

Or maybe she does possess such an inclination—and that’s why she removed it, before I could get so fucking excited that I'd wind up shooting in my pants and have to walk out of here with a napkin over the front of my pants.

And as if it never took place, Ms. Cabal continues: CONTROVERSY SPEECH HERE

Once again, her timing is impeccable, as I'm able to regain my composure just as Joaquin arrives with our food.

Hmm...maybe Ms. Cabal is having some kind of influence on me. I don't feel so weird being served by a waiter in a restaurant and what's more, the food smells good and stirs my appetite.

Tastes good too, and it's almost like being in Ms. Cabal's presence makes me come alive. Gets my sex drive going, rouses my hunger, etc.

Devour my food like a slob while I notice she pecks delicately at her salad. If that doesn't sum up the differences between us, then I don't know what would.

Not sure if it's her aura or her tits held taut in her tight blouse, but another change overcomes me, feel myself opening up...more willing to speak my mind...

And it's not even a matter of "summoning courage," but now it just comes naturally to me to ask her about a subject I was previously intimidated to broach:

"Will anything I write be edited for content?"

She captures me again with those eyes and pledges, "No. I personally will edit your manuscript for pacing and style, but I expect that to be mininal, given your ability to write interesting, concise essays."

I'll take that compliment.

“The only difference between the essays you will write for me and those you wrote before is, you no longer have any restrictions on the ideas and words.”

“The only difference?” I ask, almost scoffing incredulously, “It’s the biggest difference in the world.”

“You will find that freedom equals great responsibility—and pressure, in the coming months.”

Figures, just when I was getting ever so comfortable with Ms. Cabal, she puts right back me on the edge.

Entry VIII--As Deconstruction, So Reconstruction

A world succumbing, to their crucial fiction…

Crucial fiction must = crucifixion. Think I finally have the first line of the first "song" deciphered.
So, the ‘world succumbing to their crucifixion” is a reference to the idea that christianity had gained a threatening toehold on politics and the culture at large.

Replaced by FireWheel, a window's prediction…

FireWheel, I know all too well, it’s the image that’s haunted—or saved(?)—me from xmas eve through ash wednesday.

What the FireWheel is seems pretty obvious on the surface…

Both symbols, the fire and the wheel, represent human triumph over nature and overcoming our diminished physical skills and abilities compared to animals out in the wild.

With these tremendous disadvantages, humans had no choice to rely on intellect to build objects and harness nature to survive and eventually, flourish (at least for the non-slaves back then).

…but, does the symbol run deeper?

Maybe the FireWheel is meant to have a more abstract meaning—that it represents humanity transcending god by creating, much as is attributed to god, that which did not exist previously (in the case of the wheel) and also by mastering a once unconquerable force of nature (fire). Before monotheism, fire as worshipped as a deity, one who provided the element to man.

So by adopting the symbol of fire juxtaposed with the purely manmade creation of the wheel, it serves as a talisman for secular humanism.

'A window’s prediction’ must be referring to the first time I glimpsed the FireWheel, on xmas eve, when it came into being, transformed from that plastic crucifix in that condo window on Snob Hill.

But what is it predicting?

That line’s still lost on me. Unless it’s as simple (and as preposterous) as prognosticating that the FireWheel will somehow overthrow christianity.

The struggle eternal, waged through the ages…

'The struggle eternal' could mean so many fucking things. It this context though, think I can safely narrow it down to the ideological battle between rationality and christianity that’s been waged through the ages.

Will finally be won, when you fill the pages…

So then the 'struggle' will be 'won' as soon as I 'fill the pages,' which means 'to write' as I learned during my latest hallucination.

But is that lyric actually implying that my writing will settle the age-old dispute between christianity and reason?

Is that the 'prediction?'

That's a bit heady for me to accept, so I'll discard that notion for the time being.

Lean back in my chair, skimming over the fruits of my labor.

Still a premature harvest, but already making some connections that I wasn't seeing (or even trying to see) previously.

For some reason, another set of lyrics are in my head...

No, not the ones from wednesday, I'll analyze those later.

Thinking of some other ones...

Lean forward up against the monitor and decide the best thing to do is type out what's buzzing around in my head...

That was the thing to do, as they swiftly come to me, flooding my memory all at once, as if they're being sung to me once again:

One more window, one more prediction

Finished with the book, all made of fiction

Pages that replace it, ending their ruse

The unwritten words, bring the good news

That was the third stanza sung to me on xmas eve...after I came back here.

This time the 'window' in question is the one I'm looking out right now from my computer perch.

What's this one supposed to be predicting?

Finished with the book made of fiction?

That would be the bible, which corresponds to the vision of the bible being replaced by the book I’m supposed to have written Bye Bull.

So it’s my book (the "unwritten words") which brings the actual “good news,” not the lies promised by the bible.

Lean back again, this time rewarding myself with a healthy sip of green tip and look on my fairly impressive amount of writing for the day.

Certainly more than I've written in months, if not a couple of years.

But I’m not working on material for a book for Ms. Cabal, like I probably should be doing with my time.

No, I’m playing psychic detective, as it were. Assembling all the disparate elements of all the crazy shit that’s gone down in my head ever since xmas eve.

Flogging my memory on a level most serious in trying to recall every detail of all those hallucinations and every word of the lyrics.

Much like a puzzle, and just like any puzzle if you stick with it long enough, you begin to see (or artifically construct ) a pattern taking shape.

Especially now that I have the benefit of perspective.

Why?

To see what the fuck it means, if anything. Like is there something I’m supposed to be getting out of it, or am I just cracking up?

Next thing I need to do is break down all the visions I’ve had, see if there is an underlying theme linking them all.

Besides the FireWheel, of course.

Maybe figuring out the FireWheel will unlock it all

The second vision, a week after the first, saw me reading the book onstage with Anarchistic Puppetry.

Then, I was in some futuristic Dome that replaced the church.

Each vision seemed to illustrate me taking a different step, a progression. In the 'Dome' vision, I'm no longer reading to an audience of like-minded people, I was actually living and interacting with them.

Then why was the final vision is so damn depressing, having me bow down to everyone I happened to meet.

No, not everyone. There I go, being intellectually lazy, and not really thinking things through.

I was bowing before Pleasant and Ms. Cabal specifically, just those two.

What do they represent?

Well, they’re both icons. Pleasant is the icon for institutionalism, conformity. Ms. Cabal, well, that’s a little harder to define--but she's definitely iconic.

More so than Pleasant, least to me, anyway.

And just how long am I supposed to ignore the fact that the voice singing those lyrics is Ms. Cabal’s voice?

Sure, I only had one phone conversation with Ms. Cabal, and I only heard the lyrics on three separate occasions—the last time in an admittedly altered state, but there’s no denying it.

It’s one and the same voice.

Just what do I know about Ms. Cabal, besides the shit I’ve read on the Internet?

One of the articles claimed she participated in satanic rituals, not that I believe it. Besides, it seemed like some kind of christian website with an agenda against her freethinking sensibilities.

Face it--what I know about Ms. Cabal is what everyone knows about her.

That she’s a multi-billionaire computer chip heiress who owns a book publishing firm.

Yeah, that's what she does, but what I gotta find out is who she is...

Take her name. Her chosen one, not her birthname.

Her first name--D’mona.

The name I’m not permitted to use.

If you just go by the pronunciation, “D’mona” isn’t far from “Demona.”

Demon-a. That could be thinly veiled code for 'female demon.'

Flash back to the kneeling vision and wonder if it isn't short for 'Domina,' another name for a Dominatrix.

And what about her last name?

Cabal. That can be read as “secret group?”

Could her full name be implying she’s part of some kind of female-driven satanic cult?

Her rather obvious opposition to christianity, her dominant nature and her secrecy on certain topics—particularly why she opposes christianity—would give credence to that theory.

But why would a multi-billionaire actually give two shits about satanism?

On the other hand, if I actually believed in anything, I’d possibly fall under the illusion that Ms. Cabal is the 'devil incarnate,' seducing me with her sensuality and promises of a book deal to get me to 'sell my soul' and lead a cultural war against christianity.

Returning to a more secular track, maybe she’s a U.S. Intelligence agent working undercover, in order to round up all the biggest 'anti-christian subversive elements.' once and for all.

Regardless, if she’s connected to my visual and auditory hallucinations in some way, how can I possibly trust her?

Yet I want to write that book for her more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything.

But I can’t. I don’t have a book in me.

Do I?

And even if she does have a connection to the fantasies, does that mean I just turn her down? Not even give her a chance to pitch her deal?

And even if she is the cause of the visions, can I hold that against her? Frankly, I want her to be the one behind the curtain, filling my mind with these psyche-scapes.

See, that’s my one solace from admitting I went bonkers—that all those visions were solely products of my warped and weathered mind—is the fact that it is the mysterious Ms. Cabal’s voice that sings inspiration to me.

And I can’t blame it all on hashish, because on most of those occasions, I was stone cold sober. I was drinking to drown out the visions and for the most part, that worked. Except on New Year’s Eve, of course.

In other words, I have hallucinated whilst sober, drunk and stoned. And that further tells me that it's probably not any psychosis of mine, but that it could very well be an external influence affecting my consciousness.

But if it's Ms. Cabal's doing--how the hell is she doing it?

Even harder than figuring that out would be getting up the nerve to ask her if she's the one behind all my freakouts.

Not about to beat myself senseless over speculation as to Ms. Cabal's possible role in all that...

Not while I'm still to afraid to meet with her.

Besides, there are other things about all this that make seem impossible that she could have anything to do with my visions.

For instance, the appearance of 'Bye Bull.' That was a creation solely of my own mind, a working title for a book of compiled essays that I never finished.

How could she possibly have known about Bye Bull?

Ah, there I go again. Promised myself I wasn't going to do that.

So I let my mind drift to the visions themselves...

Laid out in a row, like in a storyboard for a motion picture, it’s almost as if that the sequence of visions were projecting what could be possible...

If I choose the right path.

Writing a book would lead to public appearances and then collaboration with those of like mind.

But the final vision, where I saw the endless possibilities for my life, kind of leaves it open as to what the conclusion will be.

Which makes sense, since I haven't lived it yet.

About time I broke down the final set of lyrics, those I heard while stoned on hash.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Your creativity, enslaved to lust

The whole ‘ashes to ashes’ relates to the fact it was ash Wednesday, and the ashes at the bottom of the goblet relating to the ashes of the burned out church.

In my case, those ashes symbolized the defeat of christianity, and a metaphorical/philosophical (if not literal) triumph of rationality over christianity.

That part about creativity and lust is still throwing me. I'm not seeing the connection alluded to.

Always been serving, on bended knee
Always been serving, the words are not free

Now this one hits me where it hurts, bruising the ol' ego just a bit.

"Words not free" could be an allusion to writing, my writing.

"Never been serving, your fiery passion
Never been serving, what you will fashion"

Weird as it is to admit--that song is right, I haven't been serving my passions, I haven't been fashioning much of anything, not for the last few years. I let that spark fizzle out even though I'm not really sure why I let them get away like that.

"So ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Liberate the words, serve as you must"

Naturally, all the references to "serving" evokes the twin imagery of me bowing before Ms. Cabal and Pleasant.

Why the hell was I on my knees?

Hesitate to face up the truth, finally admit to myself that I always have been bowing--and not just in these fucked-up fantasies.

(I've been "hesitating" to admit that to myself for over 10 years).

‘Bout time I got real with myself and where I’m at (or where I'm not) and who the fuck I am, and if I had to inhale a chunk of hash to do so, then so be it.

Even though I renounced christianity so many years ago, I’ve still been seeking acceptance and approval all this time, whether it's being attractive to women or selling essays to the various indie journals I’ve written for over the years.

Sure, I claim to be a “rational anarchist” who doesn’t need god, government nor any authority, but in reality I’ve never really had the guts to stand up on my own when it comes to...anything, really. I only write when someone else publishes me or when Ms. Cabal sticks an empty book under my nose and forces me to fill the pages.

Or I’ll bow before christ to avoid being struck by Pleasant's crop, instead of taking the physical abuse like someone who actually posessessed a modicum of integrity would do.

My cock gets harder at the thought of serving Ms. Cabal than it does fantasizing about climbing on top of her like a real man.

Creativity, enslaved by lust indeed.

Like a splash of cold water, I finally get that lyric and I think I get the rest of it, too:

That is, I'm totally plugged into “the system”—because by not standing up to them, I’m serving them. No, it's worse than that:

I am the fucking “system.”

I work jobs making money for someone else. I pay taxes. And I’ve given up trying to fight christianity’s influence. I’m just another ordinary schmo, always on my knees. Only pretending in my mind that I oppose institutions, while in reality I'm either tacitly supporting them (the government and military) or at least not providing any meaningful resistance (the Crusaders, christianity in general).

But if that’s the way it’s going to be, let me make the most of it. If I’m going to be bowing before someone or something, it’s going to be Ms. Cabal and the book, not Pleasant and the crucifix.

And by serving her, I will be resisting christianity’s control over me, and over the culture at large.

That’s what she means by “serve what you must.”

To do that, I’ve got to eliminate all the excuses and barriers that hold me back.

Already started in that regard--still haven’t had a drink since Fat Tuesday. That’s definitely cleared my head and reduced my anxiety. People drink to calm down, not realizing it’s a depressant and ultimately trigger symptoms of depression, such as anxiety/panic attacks.

That’s the trap I fell into.

It’s not like I can’t remember what it was like to be sober, it wasn’t that long ago.
It’s made the mornings a helluva lot more tolerable, not to mention allowing me to spend money on such luxury items like three meals a day.

When you don't drink your dinner anymore, I suppose you've got no alternative but to eat it.

Scroll over the contents of what I've just written. So this is what it all means? I've decoded the secret messages, and now I'm just supposed to go out and conquer the fucking world?

All this deconstructing of visions and voices has nearly convinced me that there’s enough freaky shit going down around me that all this god/devil/angels bullshit is actually true on some level.

But that would contradict everything I've ever written about, everything I've never believed in.

It would reduce all my previous work to the level of a meaningless joke.

Let me buy into it for a second. Is that, then, Ms. Cabal’s game? Publish my book, and prove me wrong by revealing herself to be Satan…or Satan’s wife or some demonic force. Then, not only do I make a fool of myself, lose book sales, allow christians to rationalize that their faith is true even more so than ever before, I'll also be condemned to hell, doomed to spend eternal torment with a woman who led me astray and ruined my eternal life.

And for the rest of human existence, people will say "I told you so" to my tombstone and evoke the name of Darwin Grimm every time they want to prevent some youth from going astray from christ.

More likely, she wants to dominate me and get me to write a book that she can sell and just make some money off of through some outlandish promotional campaign she'll concoct.

Either way, it’s not like I have any choice in the matter.

That’s the only way I’ll “liberate the words”—write—is by doing it for her.

Serving her.

That possibility doesn’t disturb me as much as it really should.