John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

Emerald's Seduction Dance

"Parlor tricks," Marco stated flatly with mild disdain. 

Marco's attention turned back to John and once again leaned in, intent on driving his point home.

"This is believing that is impossible for most of us because of the self-imposed limitations of our belief in the five senses and LOGIC! How else do you explain a mother who is able to lift a fucking minivan off her pinned child by HERSELF!? WHAT IS THAT!?"

John was dumbstruck. He stared at him, listening.

"It's impossible is what it is," Marco stated calmly. " Impossible. But it occurred. So how do you explain it?" 

He looked at John intently, skillfully waiting, letting it sink in. He reached out and rested his hand on his arm as John raised his drink for another sip.

"Before you take another drink, hear me out. This is important, you need to hear this. I mean really... need to hear this. What I found out was that in every single instance where this has occurred, there were two basic elements, two very specific requirements in evidence in order for this to happen." John's eyes were now glued to his. 

"Without them...?" he closed his eyes, "Poof."

"First, she had to believe it was possible. I mean, let's start there," he said. "Second, the circumstances had to have been so dire, so dire as to negate the possibility of doubt, and that's key. Because doubt is fear, and fear is believing in reverse- working contrary to the goal." 

Marco eyed John for a moment, gauging whether he was getting through.

"But when that happens, in that moment, in that very instant, is when we see the miraculous. It's when we witness the truly.... supernatural."

It was all a bit much for John. He wasn't sure if the effects of the Piper Methawhatever had made him hallucinate or did this all just happen? What was most perplexing was that Marco spoke a truth that he had never heard before but somehow always knew. It was meeting someone for the first time after viewing their Facebook pictures for years. John didn't know it at the time, but this was one of the most important conversations of his life. If what Marco had said was true, it meant that anything was possible. Anything. Without exception and that impossibility, itself ceased to exist. 

John suddenly snapped out of his Kava-induced, blank stare haze.

"So, how'd you learn about this?"

"I found a treasure map I guess," Marco replied. John smiled thinking his leg was being pulled.

"Where'd you find that?" he asked with a smirk. Marco laughed and shook his head.

"Ya' know, leave something in plain sight and nobody finds it." He took another long drink. "I mean it's only been there for a couple of thousand years."

"So why are they hiding out in the jungle?" John asked.

"They may look like primitives, but they're smart enough to realize there are some in the world who see that kind of power as an incredible threat. And, well... it is!"

"Geez! You sound just like a friend of mine." You don't happen to know-"

John's inquiry was cut short by the sudden shift in Marco's expression. He was looking to his left at a group of tribesmen. They were larger than the rest and although appropriately costumed, seemed somehow out of place. They stood silently, their eyes cast in John and Marco's direction.

"What's that all about?" John asked. Marco cleared his throat.

"Perhaps I've allowed the Kava to influence my better judgment. Let me leave you with this."

He proceeded to scribble a cryptic note and stuffed it into one of the folds of John's bark cloth sarong. Marco abruptly raised himself and walked towards the jungle path leading away from the village center.

The men followed. Directly behind them was another. His mask was pushed to one side. He glanced back at John. John was taken aback.

It was Professor Wharton and, in his hand, came the glint of a long blade. Or so it appeared. At the same time, as if on cue, the dancing throng surrounded John effectively creating a human curtain, blocking his view. Any hope of confirming his Wharton sighting was lost. Did he really just see Professor Wharton, his business professor following someone into the dark and foreboding jungle like a common thug or was the Kava just playing with his mind? It couldn't be, could it?

Regardless, he had no time to consider it. His view was increasingly more of the same- sweaty, wild-eyed villagers dancing far too close to him and the numerous torches. Drunk or not he did have the presence of mind to realize he didn't want to be this close while wearing a bark sarong when the inevitable happened. He placed his hands together and then pulled them apart, fanning his fingers in a symbolic gesture of parting the crowd.

"Just like the Red Sea," he muttered. "Let my people go!" he shouted in his best Charlton Heston voice.

Miraculously they began to do just that. The drums grew louder and louder and in a final, deafening crescendo suddenly stopped. 

There, standing in the gap was the silhouette of a woman of untold beauty. Dressed in a form-fitted, feathery costume, her bronze, polished skin shone against the pure white feathers that were strategically placed on her body. Her large, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes stood in stark contrast against the sea of brown eyes normally found throughout the region.

She stood silently, her legs parted slightly, her arms hanging loosely by her side, her eyes locked with John's. The drums began again. Slowly at first but with an ever-increasing cadence as she began her dance. As she slowly made her way forward, one by one the men would run out to her, fall to their knees in the dust and with arms outstretched, offer themselves to be taken by her.

She in turn would face them dancing seductively and one by one ultimately reject them by pushing them over with her well-defined, extended leg. The men would laugh with each rejection as the music grew louder, faster.

John was impossibly mesmerized by her. The closer she got the more he wished he hadn't allowed himself to get so wasted. And that he was. By the time she was close enough for him to really see her, it was difficult to tell what was real and what was not. But things went from bad to worse. His worst nightmare had just come true.

The woman that had cared for him, the beautiful, compassionate face of his coma-induced visions, the girl of his dreams was now standing before him and he was so shit-faced he could barely speak. The jungle vixen pushed over the last rejected suitor and turned her body towards John, locking her eyes with his. The intricate tribal face paint was both scary and seductive but there was no mistaking her eyes. The urgency in the ever-increasing chants, the pulsing rhythm of the drums became hypnotic, and her body was responding, her eyes closed in wanton abandon.

She reached up and plucked the most prominent white feather from her headdress and grasping it between her fingers, placed it in the same fold Marco had placed the mysterious note. Without missing a beat, she had palmed the note and tracing a line with her hand down her cleavage made it disappear.

She was now so close several drops of her flowery scented perspiration fell onto his ash white face. She reached out and wiped his face as she had every day after his crash. John was captivated and sat staring longingly at her. Running through his head was one thought and one thought only.

"Oh God!" he thought, "Don't puke."

Too late.