Sky Swimmer

Desperate, Part 4

Dozens and dozens of cut out photos of women are carefully pinned and taped to Floe's bedroom walls, women who all bare a strong resemblance to Floe.

A levitating pencil spins in a flurry of tiny bubbles in midair above Floe's wagging finger.

A gentle knock on the door and a caring voice says, "Floe, honey, I heard about the volcano thing at school. It might be the pressure of the upcoming meet, you know?" Jerry Konser steps in. Floe's foster dad. He regards Floe tenderly. Floe hides the pencil. She says, "Jerry, look, scouts from all over the country will be at the meet today, which means it's a big deal..."

"I'll understand if you don't want to compete."

"And there will be photographers."

"You should rest after your panic attacks, you know? We wouldn't want you to get sick again."

"So if I win, I'll get my picture in the papers, and maybe on TV."

"Floe, you're not listening to me."

"I am listening. You think I'm a freak because I lose it when I see certain things: lava, holes in the ground, mud ..."

"I never said you are a freak."

"I get panic attacks just thinking about dirt! And I don't know why, but I think ..." she stops herself.

Jerry knows what she thinks. They've travelled this road before, "Your real parents aren't here right now, I am, and I'm responsible for your well being. You are not going to the meet today. I will not have you end up in the hospital again."

"You don't want me to go because you're afraid that if I find her, you'll lose me."

That one hurt. No way he will show it though, "Floe, I think you should realize your limitations."

"You don't know who I am. You have no idea what I'm capable of. I hate you for that."

"Floe..."

She pushes past Jerry, leaving him behind in her room, where he is surrounded by the photos of strange women throwing accusatory looks at him.

"Floe!"

---

The center of the 405 Freeway cracks wide open as a spinning, red hot Transport Boulder grinds its way up through the four foot thick asphalt like some kind of demented land whale, breaching, it fairly leaps from the ground and crashes back down as gravity reclaims it. Gravel and smoke are flung in vast quantities off the rotating mechanism and it quickly whines down it's rpm's, fairly topples to one side and finally comes to a rest in the center of the freeway.

One side of the crazy goth-tech transport abruptly begins to crumble and a hatch-like doorway becomes visible. It slides open and Hamada, now shrouded in a long earthen-overcoat, steps out. He immediately raises his face to bask in the sunlight like some long dormant reptile now needing to recharge itself. He pays no heed to the speeding cars that swerve to avoid him, many honking and giving him the finger. A lot of them crane their necks looking for the movie cameras, searching for nonexistent lights and a director's chair; Just another day in Los Angeles, home to the Hollywierd.

Delighted to feel the heat of the sun majestically warming his very core, the UnderLord waves his gloved hand with the barest of movements and two lanes on either side of him buckle; cars are flung high and wide, a semi touting the best farm fresh eggs this side of the Mississippi flies overhead and lands upside down in the opposing traffic lanes, explosions, more crashes, squealing rubber, deadly shrapnel of Ford bumpers and Toyota side panels rocket through the air, wreaking more havoc than an Avengers film.

After the cacophony of rent metal and stripped brakes a second of silence ensues from the worst pile-up accident Los Angeles has ever experienced. And then the flames and fumes leap skyward.

U.L. Hamada takes no notice of the carnage he has caused, but instinctively steps back when the asphalt and gravel before him start to move of their own volition.

Chunks of road and gravel reform; a fleshy limb takes shape, body parts roll toward each other and combine, recombine, twist, contort and affix themselves to one another with unknown intent.

An exotic woman arises from the tarmac like a shattered sculpture of Venus resurrected. Transgressa looks to be around twenty years of age, and as utterly beautiful as she is sensual. She approaches U.L. Hamada in ridiculously towering heels, casual confidence and some trivial, yet strategically placed garments.

Hamada addresses her without lowering his sun-worshipping face, "Transgressa, is this surface world not one of exquisite delight! Pure wonder! Extravagant luxury! How long have we suffered below?"

"This unnecessary display of violence is bound to raise suspicion," she states.

"The time for clandestine maneuvers has passed. Transgressa, the Warming has begun." Hamada reluctantly lowers his face and takes in Transgressa's womanly charms with appreciation. "Transgressa, you leave me, breathless."

"Breathe, your Lordship. Otherwise how are we to prevail?"

Hamada is captivated by her, catches her hand. "We will prevail, and then I will take a queen."

Transgressa allows him to draw close, his face comes near for a suspenseful moment, Hamada leans in closer, his earthy breath upon her, and then he completely ruins the moment, "I hear the girl is quite lovely."

Transgressa pulls away, her jealousy a thing as palpable as the heat of the flames about them.

"She will not interfere," the sounds squeezed through snake-tight lips.

"This time I want to be sure. I demand it. Find her."