I was once drunk and bored and without a lot of money, walking with a couple of friends in downtown Minneapolis. We were heading to a party, but we had plenty of time to get there. As we were walking, I said, HOLY SHIT, THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY! THEY HAVE FREE PERSONALITY TESTS! LETS GO!

One friend ducked out and went to have a cup of coffee. But me and Isaac, we bopped on in, where we were given a multiple choice test, in format almost identical to the standardized tests that represent the keys to the gates of education in America. Having been a washout from University, I wasn’t up for it. I always hated these tests, so I just did the random thing. I made nice patters; christmas trees and so on. Isaac, a graduate student, could take a test as well as he could take his liquor (provided it’s not cognac), and dutifully (but easily) answered all the questions quicker than I did.

The man, with gray/blond thinning hair combed straight back, wearing a gray sweater that I normally associate with librarians, came back and took our test forms to correct them. We assumed he would scan them through a machine and have our results in a moment or two. So we excused ourselves to the restroom, took a shot off of my friend’s flask, and then I stole some coloring markers (my Scientology markers, which I kept for a long time; I told people I was saving them to draw something crazy). When we returned to the table where we had taken the test, we waited…and waited…we finally noticed that he was entering the results of the test into a computer by hand. And the computer looked like a 386. Maybe a 486. This was in like 2004. I remember thinking, Jesus, Tom Cruise better make another movie, because the Church is really going to hell. What was Elron thinking, out there in Outer Space, on his non-corporeal research trip into the cosmos?

Also, why were taking the test, my friend noticed (I didn’t) that the phone had been ringing fairly frequently while we were there, and the man kept answering, Hello, Church of Scientology Minnesota. I thought nothing of it. But my friend (who is perceptive) noticed that was all he said. He just would hang up after that. Was it wrong numbers? Did they have a similar phone number to some very popular or well used number? Or were they people angry at the Church, calling and yelling expletives? But in that case, I’m sure they’d just block the number.

My theory was this: They had set up an automated calling machine, maybe inside the Church building itself, and had it calling the main number every five minutes or so. This way when people were in the building, it would seem even more busy than usual. Now, to pull this off, the person answering the phone should say something like, Hello, Church of Scientology, how can I help you? Why yes, we do offer that service! Would you like to make an appointment?

But it’s kind of a drag. I mean, every five minutes, having to have a fake conversation? It’s one thing to talk to a real person every five minutes, but it’s another to have to invent a person to talk to every five minutes. Even if you take away the constant invention and have a nice cheat sheet of scripts to use, it’s still boring to play the same role constantly.

So like every job, he was slacking. He was still doing his job, but you know, he wanted to get by as easily as possible. Yes, praise Lord Elron. May he be exalted, etc. I deem you Clear. And so on. But as far as he’s concerned, that first hour of work is his, Elron-dammit, and leave him alone until he finishes his first coffee, and he’s had a chance to visit his friends who are working in the education center on the third floor. He’ll wander down to the staff room, maybe grab a doughnut, lazily say whatever the Scientology version of Grace is, and then he’ll be more than happy to get to work, thank you so much.

(We can maybe imagine this is why after inventing the idea of plurality God had to go through with it and really create it. It was just to hard to imagine plurality all the time. The universe tends towards entropy because the agents of the universe tend towards laziness.)

After using the E-meter and the spiel that he’s given a hundred times before, and telling us how depressed we were, he could tell, oh yes, look it’s right here on the graph (as if not realizing that using graphs to make a point is a technique that died when Ross Perot used them in the longest infomercial in American television history, and convinced the American people that if Ross Perot stood for anything, it was that he was boring as fuck).

He asked us if we watched the news on TV or read the newspapers. We told him that we were, indeed, well-informed individuals, full of information about the world.

Well, he said, why don’t you try, just for a couple of weeks, to avoid this sort of information. It’s almost always negative, he said, and it’s what’s depressing you. He said, Do this, and come back in two weeks, and take the test again, and I think you’ll find that you’re a lot happier.

And because I was drunk (because I am not normally such a daring smart ass), I looked him in the eyes, with deep seriousness, into the pale and faded blue surrounded by pale and faded blonde hair, eyes that had the look common to both kinds of Catholics; practicing and non-practicing: When you ask about religion, you’ll find that ex-Catholics and Catholics answer in the exact same tone of voice, one of weary resignation. And they both have that look in their eyes, that says, yeah, yeah, I know. So here was this Scientologist, eyes saying, yeah, yeah, I know. And when I said (out loud and not with my eyes), “So…ignorance IS bliss?”

And he looked at me, with his yeah, yeah, I know eyes, and said earnestly, Exactly. Like it was the first time he’d had someone come in and who had actually got it.

And that’s Scientology.

Yves Rossy aimed to reach speeds of 125mph[From BBC NEWS | UK | Pilot completes jetpack challenge]

Another well-known case involving Windigo psychosis was that of Jack Fiddler, an Oji-Cree chief and shaman known for his powers at defeating Wendigos. In some cases this entailed euthanizing people suffering from Windigo psychosis; as a result, in 1907, Fiddler and his brother Joseph were arrested by the Canadian authorities for murder. Jack committed suicide, but Joseph was tried and put to death.

[From Wendigo - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

Jack Fiddler is a pretty cool sounding name.

This particular scientist is doing lab work on Resident W. Resident W was also a scientist, but decided that he’d figured out the real trick wasn’t to be bitten by a zombie and turn into a brainless automoton. Oh no, he was pro-active. He theorized that eating a zombie was as pro-active as you could get. And by theorize, I mean that his brain went bad through a combination of dealing with zombies all day and staring at desolate tundra on his days off.

Our scientist-our HERO scientist-is studying this madman, because he turns out to have been right. He’s mutated into a creature with skin like charred marshmellow, black with white pus oozing out of it. But he’s also super-strong, and not mindless. Just utterly mad. And out HERO scientist is engaged in a contest of wills, trying to figure out how to deal with this ugly bastard. His bosses want him to figure out what it is and bottle it, but oh, please, could you skip the madness bit?

The lady in charge of security at the facility is the daughter of some old friends of the HERO scientist. He meets with them, and though they don’t know exactly what the facility is up to, they do know that their daughter and their old friend work together, and that she doesn’t really like our HERO scientist, but they don’t know why. Talking with them, our HERO scientist also admits he doesn’t know either.

The security chief is at the cafeteria (even ultra-secret government research facilities that study zombies have cafeterias), and is discussing the difference between guilt-culture and shame-culture with a collegue. Shame culture is pre-Christian, and is best demonstrated by Oedipus. He was ‘innocent’ in the sense he couldn’t have known that he was killing his father (who was demonstrably a massive bastard) or marrying his mother, but he still commited those acts. The acts themselves were the important thing, not his state of relative innocence, or feelings of remorse. In post-Christian society, remorse and intent become important features of determining responsibility. The way in which the subject views his relation to the object acted upon becomes more important. Hence we se Oedipus as somewhat alien. He couldn’t have known, so it makes no sense to us as to why he felt he must be punished for commiting a crime he was incapable of realizing he was commiting.

Meanwhile Resident W is huddled in a corner of his cell, and realizing that he can make contact with the mindless zombies being studied in the lab. He can see through their eyes. He can hear what they hear. He doens’t know how it really works, so he’s just experimenting, and smiling. He is happy, oh yes, he is very happy. And waiting. When HERO scientist shows up, he asks Resident W what he’s smiling about. “I’m having such wonderful dreams.”

HERO scientist and security chief run into each other. He confronts her about her dislike of him. Points out he’s an old family friend, and that they’ve known each other since she was a little girl. She lets him know that as the security chief, she was given the background information on all of the people working on the base. He visibly reacts to this. “Yeah, I know all about you and little girls. I know they made sure that you didn’t have to face prosecution because they needed you for this project.”

“That was ten years ago. I went ot counseling for five years. You’re head of security. You’d know if I was looking for this stuff on the Internet, and it’s not like I take a vacation from this fucking place.”

“Yeah. HERO scientist. Overcomes his addictions and works really hard on research to make up for it. Except you don’t take vacations because you love doing this. More-how much I don’t know-than you like child pornography.”

“Jesus Christ. Look. What do you want me to do?”

“What is there you could do? I found out about this, it ruined a part of my fucking childhood. Every memory of my fun ‘Uncle’, every time my parents left me alone with you, it feels like a fucking violation.”

“It’s not like…I never…acted out..I know all this shit is…was wrong. I never. Not you, not anyone, I swear to God.”

“Lovely. You never actually raped children. You just masturbated to photographs of horribly abused children. You truly are a HERO scientist.”

She walks away, leaving him with this.

MEANWHILE…

Resident W manages to break out, co-ordinating the other zombies, controlling all of the ones that had been created by the one that he ate. The others are unaffected. There is a loss of power as the virus (or whatever, will add Science Words later) is diluted across generations. (Also, mindless zombies don’t eat each other. Why? I have no idea. But it seems Important.) So with a small brigade of minions, he breaks out and starts marching across the tundra toward the nearest city.

Security chief is scrambling to deal with all of this. She manages to get some sort of strike force together, but probably won’t be able to deal with small army of zombies and Resident W, who is of course super strong, impervious to damage, etc. blah blah.

(This is the weakest point, because we have to believe that the government can’t deal with a few dozen zombies and some sort of revenant. Then again, after Katrina and Iraq, maybe it is believable. Still, probably needs some fleshing out. Just like all the other gaping plot holes.)

They realize that he’s going to get to a city, and they won’t have time to stop them before they start infecting people, and so Plan B is readied: Just nuke the whole city. It’s pretty much their only option.

UNTIL…

They realize the HERO scientist is setting out overland to intercept Resident W. And he’s eaten the flesh of one of the late generation zombies. He’s not as powerful as Resident W, but he’s also hoping whatever it is working away at his body will give him a window of sanity to deal with the bastard long enough for the security strike team to deal with Resident W without nuking a city.

(Yes. GAPING PLOT HOLES AHEAD. Do not fall in.)

HERO scientist manages to defeat/delay, in a stunning and brilliantly laid out fight sequence (Bam! Pow! Whack!), and the security force gets to him. He tells the security chief that he realizes that she can’t get her childhood back, and that it is his fault. “I did this because I did that. This is my accepting responsibility for what I did.” He looks away from here. “Now get rid of me. I’m a monster, and we know what happens at the end of the movie.” She nods, and takes out a gun, and shoots him.

FIN

Alternative teaser ending: HERO scientist wakes up in a cell in a different lab. His skin has turned blackened charcoal, like Resident W. Turns out he’s retained his sanity, but otherwise completed the transformation. Which makes the government very happy, because they think, perfect, we found the right dose of zombie flesh to make super soldier zombies that still have brains, not just an appetite for braaaiinzzzz. He is HERO scientist no longer. He is now ZOMBIE SCIENTIST, at odds with the government he once worked for, which I think deserves an ongoing series. Or not.

In the Middle Ages, in Europe, “thousands of Egyptian mummies preserved in bitumen were ground up and sold as medicine”.[34] The practice developed into a wide-scale business which flourished until the late 16th century. This “fad” ended because the mummies were revealed to actually be recently killed slaves. Two centuries ago, mummies were still believed to have medicinal properties against bleeding, and were sold as pharmaceuticals in powdered form (see human mummy confection).

[From Cannibalism - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

The Epic of Gilgamesh of ancient Sumer includes a mention of zombies. Ishtar, in the fury of vengeance says:

Father give me the Bull of Heaven,
So he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the doorposts, and leave the doors flat down,
and will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!

[From Zombie - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

“Yup. I decided that if I’m gonna get into historical re-creation as a hobby, I shouldn’t mess around. No expense spared. It was even kind of fun, since I had to forge a couple of things by hand. There just wasn’t any other way.”

“So it really runs on gasoline?”

“Yeah. I had to build my own mini-refinery. The permits were a pain in the ass, and I thought Cindy was going to divorce me, but…syntheline just isn’t period, you know?”

He tried telling this to his friends when they’d played cowboys and indians. They’d ask, where’s Bombay? And he’d have to answer, well, actually it was called Mumbai now. And it was in India. They’d heard of India, so they’d ask why he wanted to be the Bombay Kid? Well, he said, that’s where I was born. So, you’re an indian. Yeah, sure. Well, you can’t be the Bombay Kid. That’s a cowboy name. You’re an indian.

He’d been very young, and never thought to question it. It wasn’t like he knew anything about India, anything that your typical American teen would know. Of course he knew about Bollywood, and listened to the Indian pop music–it was all over the radio, so it wasn’t like he could avoid it even if he’d tried. He preferred the Hong Kong film industry, though. Both were better than any American films out of Hollywood, which turned out craptastic films for brain-dead religous zealots who wouldn’t let their children watch anything other than good family-centric films that reinforced ‘American’ values. American in the old sense, not the modern understanding of the word. What everyone called ‘North American’, though the Canadians hated being caught up in the term.

So it wasn’t really any surprise that he’d ended up running a tourist trap cowboy town for Pacific Rim tourists, and also trying to catch some of the Canadian tourist trade. Sometimes he even got some Euro-zone folks, who’d decided to see the ‘unspoiled wilderness’ of the Pacific Northwest. The wilderness in Eastern Siberia was unspoiled, but the government wasn’t the most tourist friendly you could find. Americans had a reputation for being backward assholes, but as a rule they wouldn’t through you into recycled gulags if they thought they could squeeze you for a few extra Euros. Americans did it the honest, old-fashioned way. They pestered the shit out of you until you bought their stupid cheap crap. And besides, it usually was a bargain.

He’d figured out, eventually, that he was a different sort of Indian. His father had been a mid-level executive for Arcelor Mittal, and had left a nice trust-fund for his son. His son grew up in America, in the city of Seattle, because it was a place where the money could go a little farther, but wasn’t a total backwater like most smaller American cities. New York, of course, was an exception–it was almost like Europe, and it had a cost of living to match. It was practically independant these days, like a lot of the U.S. It still sent it’s representatives to Washington, but more and more it held sway over its little region.

Seattle was a little like that, but much smaller. The eastern have of the state tended to complain about the way the people who lived around the Sound controlled their lives, and every few years would make noises about creating their own state (as they had even before the general decline and falling apart of the U.S.), but whenever someone did the math, they realized that even though they did indeed supply a lot of food to the Sound, and a lot of the energy, through dams and wind stations, they realized that they got a lot more money from the state government than they paid it in taxes. And then they just went back to grumbling.

Krishna had got the idea of a Western town from two places. One was Leavenworth, a ‘Bavarian’ town in Washington. It had jumped on the tourist bandwagon years ago, back when it was still mostly American tourists powering the industry. The second source had been a Western City he saw when he was travelling in Europe the year after he graduated from the University of Washington. It had been smack in the middle of the Czech countryside, a whole little town. The man who’d started it had been not unlike Krishna. When he was young, he’d loved cowboys and indians, watching the adventures of Karl Mays’ Apache Knight, Vinnetou. And he’d decided that was how he wanted to live his life, like those movies.

The more Krishna thought about it, the more confident he felt. He could find a small town willing to cater to tourism, with no industry or source of income (easily, because after all that was almost every town in America, except for a lucky few). The Bombay Kid would finally get his chance to ride.

He started in a small town that already had its foot in the tourism door, catering to the wilderness seekers, with rafting guides, and nature walks. Lots of bed and breakfast places, little hostels and hotels, craft stores. He decided to get himself established in town with an internet cafe. They were far enough out in the middle of the Cascades that they were effectively cut off from the ubiquitous wireless signals you could find in Seattle. So he bought some old computers, figuring that he’d catch enough wilderness seekers who’d idealistically set off without their notebooks, but would be suffering from social networking withdrawal. With a little kitchen in back, a little bookstore, and a couple of baristas working part-time, he soon had a solid little business to get himself introduced to the locals, to show that he wasn’t some crazed nut come to steal their money. No, he was a businessman, and he had a vision. The Bombay Kid had come to town, and he was going to clean the place up.

The old man looked at him. They were sitting in a small wooden building in the Nevada Desert. “I’ll be frank, boy. Your writing is terrible. But your ideas, well…they’re first class. That’s what we’re looking for at this organization.”

Hand wasn’t happy to hear this. “Look, I don’t want to be an idea pimp, I want to write. I know I’m not the best writer, but it’s just sci-fi, we’re not talking literature here.”

“Oh, but we are talking literature, boy. Myth, in fact. And a very important myth. You know all about this business with us trying to keep ahead of the Ruskies, what with them having the bomb? Well, you’re about to help us with a much more vital part of the campaign.”

The old man stood up, and walked to a closet. Opening the door, Hand saw an elevator. “Come with me boy, and let me tell you about the Fiction War. About the UFO tech the Ruskies have. And the UFO tech we have to make them think we have.”

After going down the elevator, the old man (who told Hand to just call him ‘Chief’) opened the door, and they stepped out into a big cavern, which had a flying saucer in the middle, complete with aliens coming in and out.

“Sweet Lord! Are those…?”

The Chief chuckled. “No, no. This is just here for the Ruskies. Let em’ think this is what we’re working with. Let’s go to the real secret.”

As they were walking along, the went through a room that was obviously a break room. Only one man was there, with a brown uniform, a small mustache, and a bad haircut. Hand said, “Please tell me that Adolf Hitler is not making coffee.”

The Chief shook his head. “No, no. That’s Ernie. He’s here to make anyone who sees this seem crazy. He dresses like Hitler, and anyone who comes out telling the world that there’s a flying saucer and Hitler making coffee—well, who’s going to believe that?”

“But don’t you want the Russians to think we have..”

“Sure, the Russians. Our people, no. They’d freak. Bad for the economy, right?”

Adolf-No, Ernie, Hand reminded himself-handed a cup of coffee to the Chief, and said with an accent that was pure Nebraska, “Here you go, Chief—black, no sugar.”

“Thanks, Ernie. Get one for Hand here. Sugar and cream?”

“No, no thanks, I like it black, too.”

“Good, good. You’ll fit in well here, Hand.” He made himself comfortable on a sofa, while Hand sat on a chair while Ernie handed him a cup.

“Alright Hand. This is how it goes. We realized after the war that the Krauts had been feeding us bunk about ‘foo-fighters’ and the like to try to scare us. We thought it was a good idea, so we tried to scare the Ruskies into thinking that we got our hands on some foo-fighters, just like we did von Braun. Truth was, we did. Got us some good fiction-warriors from the Krauts. But of course nothing real. Jesus, the Krauts couldn’t barely get the V2 to hit London, and they were supposed to have advanced technology? Heh.”

The Chief took a sip. “Then we realized that a real flying saucer had crashed in Russia.”