19. I Am Become Axel Foley

“In writing about Larry Milk, I would say that He was an average dullard whose traits as a messiah were equal to mine or that of the common field mouse. That is to say, He had none. In fact, were I comparing Larry Milk to a roast beef sandwich in terms of having the powers of a Christ, I would give the edge to roast beef sandwich simply by this virtue: with roast beef, one can make a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich. With Larry Milk, one cannot. And now, my elegant words have made me hungry. I’m off to the fridge.”

– From the journal “Thoughts on the Coming of Larry Milk”
by Jetta Disco, daughter of Ignacio Sheets

Larry would have preferred fresh lochs and onions wedged between two pieces of soft bread. He would have preferred a tall glass of cold beer, settled into his living room to catch the start of a Dodgers or Lakers game. He would have preferred to be back in his apartment, finishing the shower and enjoying the pulsating massage of his new shower head.

Instead, an intergalactic kidnapping followed by the political machinations of a troubled society followed by the inadequate technologies of its people forced Larry to start a new life. Well, that and the resignation that his own reserved nature propelled him to nowhere in efforts to get himself home. He’d failed. His door prize for failing? The identity of a made-popular-by-a-film 1980’s police detective, fake arms and a new home. He’d entered an outer space witness protection program.

Equipped with new prosthetic arms (“You’ll need to eat more to ensure they stay powered.”), disguises and a new identity, Larry’s transport hovered then landed at the Realist living site called Ruclanahan. A few handshakes later, the transport lifted off and left Larry behind. The huge rucksack of clothing and extras given to Larry seemed to gain an extra 20 pounds as he shifted on his back. His face felt strange with all this new stubble and the injections he’d been given to help his skin turn blue had started to take effect.

Located deep into one of the planet’s desert areas, Ruclanahan afforded little of the comforts Larry had grown used to at the Realist headquarters, if that could be called comfort, and even less so than the locations of his previous two captors. He stood before a large enclave looking around as the sun began its descent. Larry saw nothing but sand dunes around the small enclave of shanty houses in a community that stood three stories high and shaped something like Bundt cake. Four huge windmills faced in opposite directions and solar panels collected the sun’s energy from atop most of the town’s structures. All of these alternate energy devices Larry kept seeing would have worked wonders in California. He wondered how the Realists got away with taxation licensing and the right people needing to “have a cut of the profit.”

Larry walked toward a large courtyard and found the water source, a giant aquamarine pool glimmering under the evening heat. Generators and pipes surrounded the water source, as did a chain-link fence. There were hundreds of people milling about wearing multicolored robes. They reminded Larry of the burkas worn in Middle Eastern nations but much more loose and free, and that they were worn by both men and women. Something that smelled of lavender and cinnamon filled the air, and the people seemed genuinely happy to see one another. For a society consider a band of fugitives, Larry thought this odd.

18. Larry Has Left the Building

About three minutes into his own sobbing, Larry realized he had only cried three times previously.

The first came shortly after his father walked out. By walked out, Larry’s father quite literally grabbed a stack of National Geographic magazines, a cooler filled with Miller Genuine Draft beer and the contents of a lockbox squirreled away in the master bedroom, kissed his son on the head, flipped the middle finger on his right hand directly at Larry’s mother, and walked out. When Larry asked his mother where his father had gone off, Larry’s mother responded, “Apparently, somewhere we are not.” And when his mother died three short years later, Larry sat alone, parentless and feeling as though he’d fallen into an abyss.

The second time, Larry fell victim to very good advertising and bawled his eyes out over a father contacting his son in a commercial for a telephone company. Like admitting to be a George Michael fan, it’s still not something Larry openly discusses to this day.

So, this newfound feeling of the rug being yanked away; this feeling of a sudden eternal damnation, like being duct taped into a wooden chair with millions of splinters and made to watch each and every consecutive season of “Becker” felt more reminiscent of the first time he cried. The new facet? Larry was almost 99 percent sure he wasn’t going home anytime soon.

Larry stopped sobbing; wiping the tears from his face with the sleeve of the robe provided him by the Realists.

“You can’t help me get home then?” Larry said. “Then you must send me back to the Adamants or let me get back to the Emteeveens.”

Hume shook his head. “It’s not that easy. There are things here set in motion. You don’t stand a chance with either of them. They’ll use you then enslave you. You’re a pawn now.”

“So you say,” Larry said a catch in his voice.

“Larry, while I have much to gain by keeping you, our goals can be accomplished … eventually … without you. You’re a Jesus figure here. A polarizing, political lightning rod. Like it or not, your fate is wholly entwined with our world.”

“So, what do I do?” Larry said.

17. Father Knows Best

By the time Hume finished his retelling of Plato’s tale for Larry‘s edification, Larry found needed food. Darkness crept through the windows. Larry realized there would be more to follow what Hume had told him. However, he couldn’t concentrate and found himself growing edgy.

Hume acknowledged Larry’s needs. Ensuring Larry came completely free of his bonds, Hume and a pair of other Realists made their way through the building to a small canteen. Every new view of the Realists compound reminded Larry of an old roadside service station. One stripped bare by grains of sand whistling by its solitary desert location. One with rusted pumps and paint peeling off the walls. One where broken autos, bathrooms soaked in travelers careless urine and a scratchy FM radio played background music from the likes of Bread and Orleans. Nothing stood permanent. Almost everything said “temporary.” Yet at almost every exit between El Paso and Alamogordo, these rickety outposts stood.

A meal of meat smelling of rich spices, something green and plant like as well as a new type of dessert passed to the sounds of a 1980’s soundtrack, including Joan Jett’s “Do You Wanna Touch Me There?” played in the background. Small talk permeated most of the meal conversation. Larry felt a trust in Hume unlike he had with his previous captors. Something about Hume exuded grace and confidence. Larry recognized in him a quality his father had, something embracing and sweet.

Hume also recognized that Larry smelled something awful. Hume showed Larry to an open set of quarters — nothing more than a room the size of his master bedroom closet with a small mattress, and table. Hume supplied another set of clothing, this time something neutral, loose and cool. When Larry finished cleaning up, he found his way back to a small meeting area where Hume waited for him. Hume sat comfortably in a large styled leather-like chair, his four arms folded neatly in front of him.

“You found your way,” Hume said, his tone bright.

“You say that with an almost philosophical whim, Hume,” Larry noted, and took a seat across the table from Hume.

“Well, you found your way here,” he said. “that’s something.”