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Home Fantasy Stories The Life and Times of Mr Jack Murdoch

The Life and Times of Mr Jack Murdoch

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The year is 2012, and I had been lying dormant in a coma for the last 38 years. When I came to, I was told I had been in a head on collision and that there was no long term physical damage. (The Doctors said that it was the massive impact of the crash that caused me to “go under”.)

I can vividly remember driving, listening to “Houses of the Holy,” looking up into the watermelon skies riding the finest wave of acid there was to offer. I was truly living, with my crush Melissa by my side as we fused together in perfect warmth, one and one. (Then as sudden as the realization of a passing moment, I ended up here, 38 years later.)

“Mr. Murdoch, please follow me. You are free to go.”

“Experience your new beginning.”

So confused was I stepping into my “New reality”, wondering if I was still tripping on that wonderful, fluent acid I had gotten a hold of ? “Had the acid taken me further than I ever expected to go?” I contemplated to myself.

The air outside was pleasantly brisk, as I decided to take a left and then several rights, becoming more and more overwhelmed by my “New situation” with every passing moment. I tried to hail down a taxi, but there were none to be seen. (Everything was being run by robots, HUMANOIDS.)

“So wild that everyone has bought into such a synthetic dream,”  I thought quietly to myself while “scanning” my ticket and stepping onto vessel reminiscent of something right out of a fucking terrifying Sci-Fi movie. (We began to float, passing a purple lit gas station, as I could feel “The eyes” begin to fall upon me.)

“$11.11 for a gallon of gas?!”

“I wonder how much it is for an ounce of weed, or if weed even still exists?”

There were TV monitors situated all around me inside the macabre futuristic vessel I was inside, spurting preposterous political scripture and propaganda, the latest sensational food recipes, and Madonna videos.

“Who in God’s name is Madonna?” I said underneath my own breath.

“A beer should take the edge off a bit.”

[Two blocks down, I found a tavern with a Neon Budweiser sign illuminated within its front window.]

“Yes Budweiser. Now there is something I recognize, SOMETHING I can relate too.” I sit inside a too pristine and empty bar, requesting a bottle of frosty solace.

“That will be $7.50 please,” a young, Brylcream-laced bartender emotionlessly states to me.

FUCK ME.  I say nothing, paying my tab, moving on to a record/ CD store.

“CD?”

I am nervous, jittery, out of place as I ask an androgynous clerk if they have any Led Zeppelin. He/She is utterly confused, going to something called a “computer”. After a head nod and confirmation from another boy/girl, I am shown Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” on Compact Disc. (The price reads “$27.78” and I almost shit myself in shock and dismay.)

“What the fuck is going on in this wicked fucking world? And what the fuck do I even do with this CD! This is getting to be one big fucking drag, Man!!” (Time traveling Drag mimes.)

Discouraged, I exit out of the music store, making my way down to a dock by the water, trying to gather my limited sanity and sporadic thoughts.

“Hey mate.” A drunkard approaches me, knowing I am suffering in a “different” way.

“Hey man.” I responded back with a faint smile, continuing. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure mate.” The drunkard gives me his consent.

“What the fuck is going on here, man?”

“What do you mean, mate?” The drunkard responded within a consoling tone.

“I mean, I have been asleep for decades, and now there is ‘This’.”

“What do you mean by ‘This’ mate?” The drunkard becomes more curious.

“I mean this – A disillusioned land without a plan.”

“Hmm, you’ve got a point, mate. I never thought of it that way. I guess I have just accepted it for what it is?” Such a sullen stare the drunkard gazed out into the distance before asking of me:

“Could you happen to spare some change, mate?”

“Of course, man. Of course”

I give my only friend in the known world all of my change, moving on from the dock by the water to try and find my lost love, Sweet Melissa. (Oh my sweet Melissa, with her flowing Strawberry blond hair and sunshine smile. ) I was given an address of where she might be from the Holy white institution where I had slept my lengthy deep sleep. (After hours and hours of old school hustle, I located the address. When I arrived, everything is wrong.)

“Can I help you?” It is her, but not “her”.

My Sweet Melissa had been transformed by her own doing into a synthetic, living breathing demented mannequin. There was no more life in her eyes, no natural sag in her tits. My God!

“Sorry, I have the wrong address,” I responded with sadness and mass confusion owning my existence.

I go about my way staring up into the restless evening sky, suddenly sensing something of Biblical proportion was beginning to transpire. [It was quite obvious.] Fire, Hail, and a Sea of locusts began to fall and ravage the world from every direction. (A second seemed like an eternity, until abruptly, an arising stillness overcame the sky, revealing the silhouettes of two figures shaking hands, coming to terms on their Master plan.)

Good and Evil had both decided things had gone too far. The world had lost face and everything had ended up the way it was supposed to. I had awakened briefly, but now it was time to go back to sleep, drift to another time, to the true promised land.

 

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