Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Moving On…

God, Life, Death, Whatever

Saurian now flees the United States for safe haven in Paraguay, utilizing entree gained from his brief tenure with the CIA. There, exchanging exclusive services to the up and coming General Stroessner, he secures the type of working environment that he had so long had coveted. Nonetheless, his goal of creating the Ultimate Human Brain remains on an ever receding horizon. Indeed, it is difficult to determine if his self-experiments of this period yielded any results, whatsoever.

Still, Saurian's restless mind continues to wander into ever wider fields of inquiry, and through his research, he comes in contact with a small cadre of confidants and co-conspirators around the globe. Notable among this group was one Herr Doktor D. He and Dear Doktor, as the Professor invariably referred to him, quickly form a deep friendship born of a common passion for rigorous intellectual challenge and high frontier neurochemical research.

As Doktor D. still survives and practices medicine in Dade County Florida, for reasons of confidentiality and legal liability, his true identity shall remain unknown.
August 13th, 1954

Dear Doktor,

The weather is beastly hot. I don't know how these fucking people ever lived down here without air conditioning. Even at full blast, maximum chill, the temperature in the lab hovers well above ninety-degrees and eighty-percent humidity. I am forced to conclude that the hellish climate is at fault for the otherwise inexplicable failure of my latest cerebro-glandular preparation to take proper effect.

Today, I received a transmission from USSR; sad news about poor Evgeny. I once knew him well but now must disavow any knowledge of our relationship, except in the most confidential quarters. My correspondents inform me that he was arrested by GRU shortly after my flight to the Americans. His family have been made "non-persons" and his own fate must be, by now, far more grim.

They will kill him, or he shall die of "natural" causes, while in their custody. I know too well how They work. At this very moment, his bones may be roasting in the kiln of the Minsk Meat Rendering Plant, District #08, his hide transformed into a bar of cheap soap, lending chapped skin and the scent of lavender to the over-ample thighs of the mistress to the Regional Commissar, Comrade Popov. Alas, They have no concept of the True Scientific Value of human tissues. They are barbarians.

You know, I'd like to send his family a card, flowers, or something. This is difficult; they have a non-address, you understand.

In any case, these sort of things tend to make one think of one's own mortality. How fleeting is our passage through this veil of tears and mortal travail. How fragile is the membrane that separates the Living from the Dead, and there is nothing but a breath between this moment and Doom.

Oh, there I go, down into the pit of despair. Things are just not working out very well. I am very, very concerned about my recent lack of success. General Stroessner is not the most compassionate nor patient employer. He wants results and he has his own ways of dealing with failure. I've learned that they're not very pretty.

Last evening, I was invited for dinner at the palace; just me, the General, the American Ambassador, his wife, and half a dozen hookers. There were evidently some problems in the kitchen. Dinner was served late. The rolls were hard. The entree cold. The frozen desert melted. The coffee tasted like dish-water. It is thus with an odd mixture of glee compounded by horror, that this morning I received a steel drum full of fresh specimens. They take their coffee quite seriously, down here in central South America.

I am, frankly, rather desperate. I cannot run. I am watched constantly. Stroessner will have me killed if I make so much as a move toward the airport. Mortality has become a very real specter haunting my every waking moment. It interferes with My Work and clouds my sleep with dreams of dissolution and decay.

Perhaps you might give me some insight, here, Dear Doktor. I am, you well know, not a religious man. Things are as they are, and there is so much to learn in the brief time given us to see the Greater Plan. It is a struggle and I must hurry in my inquiries. I, like long deceased Fr. Bacon, strive to be precise in my interrogation of Nature, brooking Her no quarter.

You, however, tend more toward the subtle consideration of the Divine. Please, send me your thoughts on these matters. They weigh heavy on my mind and heart.

Well, struggle on, I must. I know that I will solve this momentary conundrum. Of course, I've told the General that if he is to have any hope of having an erection again, I must be provided with an improved air-conditioning plant. He's told me that they will soon be bringing in a Soviet designed unit. It will be capable of chilling even this fetid miasma that passes for Paraguayan summer air. This, combined with my newly arrived and perfectly fresh specimens, offers some promise of renewed progress.

So, I continue to self-experiment. For my part, I have no problem achieving an erection and am grateful, if for nothing else, for the constant presence of my loyal lab-assistant, Rosa. She's quite an intellectual and real handy with a surgical clamp. I must go now. The General's aid is summoning me to yet another state dinner. Tonight, it will be a small group of influential businessmen (expatriate Germans), the Vatican Ambassador, and half dozen hookers. So, as they say in Paraguay: take it easy, or take hostages.

Yours in Mortal Fear & Spiritual Confusion,

Anton Saurian

PS: Please send any info on Philippine animist cults utilizing indigenous fungus or other psychotropic vegetables. Such literature is painfully scarce here, but I am told by reliable sources that it may contain essential leads toward my Major Objective. I eagerly await your next neurotransmission.


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