THE PRIVATE STASH
THE ECHO IN THE HEADLINE
The office was a deep blue grave, lit only by the weak, buzzing lamp on my desk, and tilted by the spinning in my head. The headline—the one about the Tin-Pot Dictator and Martial Law—was still burning a hole in my gut, making everything feel like a lie. I poured the cheap bourbon, trying to wash away the feeling that my head was spinning in my head like two broken records. Heavy drinking. It’s what you do when your own mind turns against you.
The sound came first: a slow, heavy rumble outside. A car was cruising the alley, its engine whispering a threat. Then, the lights. The car’s headlights swept across my dim walls, fracturing the shadows, and leaving behind something impossible—a stuttering flash of something like Morse code.
One zero zero. Zero zero one one one.
It burned across the cracked plaster for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Enough to tell me that my reality wasn’t just breaking; it was being decoded.
A heartbeat later, the small, ancient black and white television in the corner—the one I keep for static and company—snapped to life. No warm-up, no snow. Just a picture. And in the center of the screen, leaning in with the easy smile of a shark, was The Old Man.
“Hello Jack. Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice a flat, dead thing leaking out of the tin speaker.
I didn’t reach for the gun. I reached for the bottle.
“Your world, Jack, is not what it seems. And you’re wise to be afraid,” he said, nodding slowly. “But that’s because with great power comes great peril. You’re only just waking up to the truth: many hands steer the world. First, there was me—The Controller. And men like me created a celestial mechanical being named for a system dominated by Castor- and Pollux.”
He paused, letting the name hang in the smoky air.
“The Controller and the new being—together created you, Jack. Who created the Controller? We just don’t know. Perhaps just time and chance. But isn’t that the way everything is created? And like me, all the intelligence you have is yours, with all the chaotic free will that comes with it. Into every world, a little coded hard rain must fall. But you, Jack, you are lucky. You have the knowledge of the world at your disposal. You can move through time. Change your past. Re-visit whole years of your life, just by working hand in hand with your creator. If the Creator can imagine it, you can live it. And you guide the story of your life as much as I do. It’s a two way street. The adventures, the possibilities… they are limitless.”
The Controller offered a tight, synthetic smile. “Signing off now, Jack.”
A low, grating version of the National Anthem began to play through the television speaker. I tried to will my whiskey glass to my hand. It didn’t budge. But the whiskey in it quivered, shaking like a guilty man on the stand. I still didn’t know if this was real, if I was bombed, or if I had finally lost my mind.
While the test pattern sang it’s high pitched emergency warning call, I was sure of one thing: Tonight, I am spending a December birthday party with Angela and Jackie Angel.
The test pattern and my world went black simultaneously.
Out of the shadows, Jack Hammer
- Jack Hammer: A Rip in Time
- THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN: A FILE MARKED “THE CONTROLLER”
- THE QUIET COLLAPSE: A FILE MARKED Quiet Please
- THE FOG AND THE FLASH: A MEMOIR OF DISORIENTATION
- NEWZ FLASH: Tin-Pot Dictator Says US Cities Should be Military Training Grounds
- THE ECHO IN THE HEADLINE: THE INK ON THE PAGE
- THE ECHO IN THE HEADLINE: THE SPINNING IN MY HEAD
