Peter Billig
THE INITIATE
A Saul Vogel Mystery
I invited Vogel to sample this year’s hemp harvest. We sat on the porch, smoked in silence and waited for the stuff to take effect. It was great. My mind made me a squirrel, jumping from bough to bough into the forest, further and further from the house.
“Good shit!” My employer’s voice came from afar. “I did pot in my hobo period, Floyd liked to share ganja with me. Remarkable man: when high he could become someone else. When he meditated on being an insect bugs from miles around would gather around him. When he was a bird, all the feathered friends would arrive. Earthworms surfaced to listen.”
“A veritable Saint Francis,” I said opening my eyes.
“Were you a squirrel?”
“Did it show? Was I cracking my nuts?”
“Just look.” At the steps of the porch, some three of four dozen of red squirrels were gathered gazing expectantly, as if waiting for me to reveal something important they could not think up themselves, us humans purportedly being the consciousness for all earthly life. I was sorry, but I could not think of anything to say.
“You have the knack, too,” Vogel went on and I felt that it was an important discovery for him. “Floyd told me, as we shared marihuana and local booze in a meadow, that during one meditation – being a turtle, to be exact – he had chanced upon a specific level of consciousness and found some two hundred human minds there communicating by thought transference. It is they who control the consciousness of the human race. From this level, they can read the lesser mortals’ minds and insert chosen thoughts and feelings into them. Floyd liked to mix good things, as I do,” Vogel pointed at his Bushmills bottle by my joints. “The mixture must function as a cloaking device since they did not discover his presence.”
Vogel drank some whisky, even though the weed was blowing his mind fine enough.
Somehow, I knew that he was working on a similar device.
“By mixing cannabis and alcohol, visiting regularly and eavesdropping, Floyd learnt that they belonged to a group calling themselves the Org, out to control mankind. It has been going on for thousands of years. There have been so many disparate creeds and philosophies from the first light of humanity – on one tiny planet! You think that conflicting political outlooks, revolutions, incompatibilities among peoples and individuals, jingoisms, wars, ego-trips and such like are a natural product of the human nature, the human psyche, right? Wrong! It’s the work of the Org, controlling the minds of religious, political, intellectual and scientific coryphées to keep mankind at odds, never at ease, always stressed and fighting, unable to reach their level of awareness. You think USA is the superpower now? The acronym’s ORG! Has always been! Whenever a person, who could smoothen things up, cannot be controlled, they have him/her assassinated, crucified or locked up. The chief reason I wanted you as my assistant is that you, like me, can’t be mentally controlled. They can read your mind but cannot implant their garbage into it.”
He lighted another joint and emptied another glass while I was taking all this in, including my unfamiliar imperviousness to Org’s scheming.
“It’s hard to believe,” I said at last. “Had I the aptitude to control human minds I would have made them do sensible things instead of warfare. That would give me a real kick!”
“So would I. We are both idiots: no taste for power.”
He poured a glass for me. I was fine with my smoke, but I accepted, feeling there was a reason for it.
As the liquor reached my brain, I had a message for the squirrels. I don’t know what I said or in what tongue; they seemed uplifted, though: they nodded and disbanded.
Vogel poured me another, I drank and realized that he had been kidding.
“Org, shmorg, my ass!” I looked him straight in the eyes. They met mine intrepidly:
“Exactly what I had told Floyd. He gave us another roach, another drink and told me to meditate on being a turtle. Soon, we two met on the Org level. The minds of the Orgs present there at that time were transparent spheres, everything inside visible. Our cloaking contrivance was functioning perfectly: we were undetectable. By concentrating on the mental processes of the spheres, I found all Floyd told me to be true. The Orgs also keep people’s minds on nonessentials like sport, TV, movies, books, sex, recreation, games, cyberspace and such like. I also ascertained the identities of the minds at hand. You would be surprised! Gentle, modest and inconspicuous people: who would ever suspect them of any fiendish supremacy? I was astounded, forgot myself and made a comment to Floyd. That blew our cover: the Orgs in attendance got wise to us and wanted us to declare we were joining the Org and accepting the group’s aims. Tasks are meted out to prove the loyalty of new members – a standard procedure for admittance of the eligible few who make it to this level. New members are required to spend more time here, scanning the ordinary minds to detect early signs of human harmony in the bud and to inspire action against that and the small number of people, who cannot be mentally bent. It’s imperative. Humans have a natural proclivity to harmonious coexistence and mutual respect and they would develop in this direction if left unimpeded.”
“It stands on the head everything we know about ourselves… And you accepted...?” I was overtaken by a sudden fright, as it happens when I am high.
“Relax! We refused, even though we were aware that the Orgs had our identities and geographic bearings by then, as we had theirs. We told them to shove it and got out back to the meadow (in Communist Bulgaria), turtles crowding on us. Floyd told them something and they dispersed, and we were alone with our bravery, now dissipating fast. As we got up to move on, a peasant appeared and shot Floyd dead. He took a potshot at me, too, but I ducked behind a rock and crept into a forest. Next day, as I was crossing a road, I was nearly hit by a bus and a day later Bulgarian militia organized a manhunt: to the populace, I was described as armed and dangerous lunatic, better killed than caught alive.”
Vogel was shaken by the memory, but there was defiance in his face.
“Obviously, since you are alive and kicking, Master, you had it fixed with the Org somehow... or you fixed the Org?” I suggested with sudden optimism, also typical when I am stoned.
“Would the world look like it does had I fixed the scum? No, as the police dragnet passed me by (I hid in a lake, breathing through a reed) I relaxed the best I could. Devoid of pot and liquor, I meditated intensely on being a turtle and made it to the Org level. What a pity types like that were first to arrive there, not the likes of you and me! They were all present, plotting the next attempt on my life, my lucky escapes having sounded all alarms. They were bewildered and impressed by my sudden appearance, though, and accepted my promise never to visit the level again nor to reveal the existence of the Org to anyone…”
“You just broke your word by telling me!”
“I gave the word under duress and besides we are well cloaked. I have been waiting for the right moment to strike. Somebody has to take them on! Let’s go! Perhaps you, with your fresh mind, will find their weak spot? Relax, imagine you’re a turtle, safely covered by your shield… and keep your mind shut!”
His abrupt style was too fast for me. I began to ask questions but got stopped in mid-sentence by an attack helicopter materializing out of nowhere: it was hovering above the ground, its armory of guns and missiles aimed at the porch. Through the cockpit’s bobble, I could see madness in the eyes of the pilot.
I made in my pants. Vogel raised hands to indicate surrender, and the helicopter hovered, as if waiting for instructions. Then the pilot regained his senses. His crazy eyes became aware. Bewildered what he was doing here, he flew away.
“We have been pinpointed!” I cried. “You idiot, you drank only after telling me about the Org! We’re lucky they just wanted to send a warning!”
“Your weed’s so good,” he said crestfallen. “Never realized they were keeping an eye on me after all these years. Scary, eh? So few of them and so much to do: six billion minds to scan!” He thought it over and added: “Don’t worry. We’ll get the bastards one day or my name is Mayer!” and to console ourselves, we kept improving our cloaking device, especially on the liquor side, until late hours.
A year later I read that the red squirrels of our country, whose very existence has been under threat because of the encroachment on their habitat by the gray imported variety, better suited to the environment, had regained the upper hand and were fighting back, recovering lost ground.
This I deem a fitting conclusion to this account.
“Good shit!” My employer’s voice came from afar. “I did pot in my hobo period, Floyd liked to share ganja with me. Remarkable man: when high he could become someone else. When he meditated on being an insect bugs from miles around would gather around him. When he was a bird, all the feathered friends would arrive. Earthworms surfaced to listen.”
“A veritable Saint Francis,” I said opening my eyes.
“Were you a squirrel?”
“Did it show? Was I cracking my nuts?”
“Just look.” At the steps of the porch, some three of four dozen of red squirrels were gathered gazing expectantly, as if waiting for me to reveal something important they could not think up themselves, us humans purportedly being the consciousness for all earthly life. I was sorry, but I could not think of anything to say.
“You have the knack, too,” Vogel went on and I felt that it was an important discovery for him. “Floyd told me, as we shared marihuana and local booze in a meadow, that during one meditation – being a turtle, to be exact – he had chanced upon a specific level of consciousness and found some two hundred human minds there communicating by thought transference. It is they who control the consciousness of the human race. From this level, they can read the lesser mortals’ minds and insert chosen thoughts and feelings into them. Floyd liked to mix good things, as I do,” Vogel pointed at his Bushmills bottle by my joints. “The mixture must function as a cloaking device since they did not discover his presence.”
Vogel drank some whisky, even though the weed was blowing his mind fine enough.
Somehow, I knew that he was working on a similar device.
“By mixing cannabis and alcohol, visiting regularly and eavesdropping, Floyd learnt that they belonged to a group calling themselves the Org, out to control mankind. It has been going on for thousands of years. There have been so many disparate creeds and philosophies from the first light of humanity – on one tiny planet! You think that conflicting political outlooks, revolutions, incompatibilities among peoples and individuals, jingoisms, wars, ego-trips and such like are a natural product of the human nature, the human psyche, right? Wrong! It’s the work of the Org, controlling the minds of religious, political, intellectual and scientific coryphées to keep mankind at odds, never at ease, always stressed and fighting, unable to reach their level of awareness. You think USA is the superpower now? The acronym’s ORG! Has always been! Whenever a person, who could smoothen things up, cannot be controlled, they have him/her assassinated, crucified or locked up. The chief reason I wanted you as my assistant is that you, like me, can’t be mentally controlled. They can read your mind but cannot implant their garbage into it.”
He lighted another joint and emptied another glass while I was taking all this in, including my unfamiliar imperviousness to Org’s scheming.
“It’s hard to believe,” I said at last. “Had I the aptitude to control human minds I would have made them do sensible things instead of warfare. That would give me a real kick!”
“So would I. We are both idiots: no taste for power.”
He poured a glass for me. I was fine with my smoke, but I accepted, feeling there was a reason for it.
As the liquor reached my brain, I had a message for the squirrels. I don’t know what I said or in what tongue; they seemed uplifted, though: they nodded and disbanded.
Vogel poured me another, I drank and realized that he had been kidding.
“Org, shmorg, my ass!” I looked him straight in the eyes. They met mine intrepidly:
“Exactly what I had told Floyd. He gave us another roach, another drink and told me to meditate on being a turtle. Soon, we two met on the Org level. The minds of the Orgs present there at that time were transparent spheres, everything inside visible. Our cloaking contrivance was functioning perfectly: we were undetectable. By concentrating on the mental processes of the spheres, I found all Floyd told me to be true. The Orgs also keep people’s minds on nonessentials like sport, TV, movies, books, sex, recreation, games, cyberspace and such like. I also ascertained the identities of the minds at hand. You would be surprised! Gentle, modest and inconspicuous people: who would ever suspect them of any fiendish supremacy? I was astounded, forgot myself and made a comment to Floyd. That blew our cover: the Orgs in attendance got wise to us and wanted us to declare we were joining the Org and accepting the group’s aims. Tasks are meted out to prove the loyalty of new members – a standard procedure for admittance of the eligible few who make it to this level. New members are required to spend more time here, scanning the ordinary minds to detect early signs of human harmony in the bud and to inspire action against that and the small number of people, who cannot be mentally bent. It’s imperative. Humans have a natural proclivity to harmonious coexistence and mutual respect and they would develop in this direction if left unimpeded.”
“It stands on the head everything we know about ourselves… And you accepted...?” I was overtaken by a sudden fright, as it happens when I am high.
“Relax! We refused, even though we were aware that the Orgs had our identities and geographic bearings by then, as we had theirs. We told them to shove it and got out back to the meadow (in Communist Bulgaria), turtles crowding on us. Floyd told them something and they dispersed, and we were alone with our bravery, now dissipating fast. As we got up to move on, a peasant appeared and shot Floyd dead. He took a potshot at me, too, but I ducked behind a rock and crept into a forest. Next day, as I was crossing a road, I was nearly hit by a bus and a day later Bulgarian militia organized a manhunt: to the populace, I was described as armed and dangerous lunatic, better killed than caught alive.”
Vogel was shaken by the memory, but there was defiance in his face.
“Obviously, since you are alive and kicking, Master, you had it fixed with the Org somehow... or you fixed the Org?” I suggested with sudden optimism, also typical when I am stoned.
“Would the world look like it does had I fixed the scum? No, as the police dragnet passed me by (I hid in a lake, breathing through a reed) I relaxed the best I could. Devoid of pot and liquor, I meditated intensely on being a turtle and made it to the Org level. What a pity types like that were first to arrive there, not the likes of you and me! They were all present, plotting the next attempt on my life, my lucky escapes having sounded all alarms. They were bewildered and impressed by my sudden appearance, though, and accepted my promise never to visit the level again nor to reveal the existence of the Org to anyone…”
“You just broke your word by telling me!”
“I gave the word under duress and besides we are well cloaked. I have been waiting for the right moment to strike. Somebody has to take them on! Let’s go! Perhaps you, with your fresh mind, will find their weak spot? Relax, imagine you’re a turtle, safely covered by your shield… and keep your mind shut!”
His abrupt style was too fast for me. I began to ask questions but got stopped in mid-sentence by an attack helicopter materializing out of nowhere: it was hovering above the ground, its armory of guns and missiles aimed at the porch. Through the cockpit’s bobble, I could see madness in the eyes of the pilot.
I made in my pants. Vogel raised hands to indicate surrender, and the helicopter hovered, as if waiting for instructions. Then the pilot regained his senses. His crazy eyes became aware. Bewildered what he was doing here, he flew away.
“We have been pinpointed!” I cried. “You idiot, you drank only after telling me about the Org! We’re lucky they just wanted to send a warning!”
“Your weed’s so good,” he said crestfallen. “Never realized they were keeping an eye on me after all these years. Scary, eh? So few of them and so much to do: six billion minds to scan!” He thought it over and added: “Don’t worry. We’ll get the bastards one day or my name is Mayer!” and to console ourselves, we kept improving our cloaking device, especially on the liquor side, until late hours.
A year later I read that the red squirrels of our country, whose very existence has been under threat because of the encroachment on their habitat by the gray imported variety, better suited to the environment, had regained the upper hand and were fighting back, recovering lost ground.
This I deem a fitting conclusion to this account.
Copyright © Peter Billig 2007
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