Animal Theater

Annihilating the Past

My intention was to write a short intro and then just insert a transcript of my interview with Trevor Brushton. What I have done instead is to insert myself into the story. I didn't do this as an homage to outmoded forms of journalism, I did it because I may have become a part of the story of Trevor Brushton's subsequent death.

I'm not sure.

When word came down that I had gotten the interview, but that it would have to be in person, at his villa in Baja, people around the office reacted the same way they would've if I were being sent into a warzone. They said 'be careful down there,' or 'I hope you have a solid escape plan,' or simply, 'are you sure you want to do this?'

The name Trevor Brushton held such menace that spending a week with him and his family in a converted resort in Baja was comparable to risking life and limb on the front lines. Even my editors were a little weary. 'Don't question any inconsistencies in his story,' one of them told me, 'just get his side of it and get out. We'll fact check it later.' This was the same editor who, when I interviewed an anarchist accused of murdering 26 people, told me, 'don't let the bastard off the hook.' He gave me photographs of the dead to show the guy.

But I knew that whatever the dangers might be, and I already suspected that they were overblown, I had to do the interview. This man created the first annihilation sorties. What other living human being could say they had a hand in creating a form of art that instantly made everything that came before it look old-fashioned?

(I know there were others involved, and that there are many conflicting stories of how the first sorties came about, but every story features Brushton as a main character, if not the driving force. His testimony must, therefore, be essential. The participants in that early scene, the ones who lived, all have axes to grind and legends to burnish. The stories they tell are suspiciously self-serving, and Brushton's is no exception. You can choose whichever story you like and believe it completely, but you can't believe all of them, so the origins of annihilation have to remain a mystery.)

I said goodbye to my cat, gave my cacti a little extra water, made sure my life insurance policy was up to date, and got on a plane to Mexico. All I brought with me was my small-screen and a bag. I wanted to travel light in case I had to get away quickly.

Trevor Brushton will not give his address to anyone, including a reporter coming to interview him, but his publicist assured us that someone would meet me at the airport. I can't say I was surprised when I arrived at Los Cabos International and no one was there. I tried the pick address I had, but no one answered. I left a message.

Luckily, if Cabo has nothing else, it has hotel rooms, and since SoundWords was paying for it, I got myself a nice one. I ordered a large meal from room service and fell asleep watching American cartoons dubbed into Spanish on the big-screen.

I woke up six hours later at 4:30 in the morning and there was still no response to my message. I went for a walk on the beach, got some breakfast and then called again at nine. I left another message and ordered a bloody Mary. I felt certain that the whole trip would be a bust.

I was well into my second bloody Mary when a beautiful American with black hair and severe bangs came over. She asked if I was alone. "Yeah." I said. "How about you?"

"No, my friends are still sleeping upstairs." She looked like she was maybe 25. She had a prominent nose, and intelligent eyes. "Have you ever been to a dog race?" She asked me.

"Sure, all the time." I said.

"There's a great dog track here in Cabo. My friends and me are heading out there today. Maybe you'd like to join us?"