The Legend of Don Conrado Pt.2

Should the reader refuse to believe the history that will be revealed from this point onwards, let this hereto clarify and serve as a reminder; for, many a reader have shown such reluctance in acknowledging the great works of the past, only to accept and fully ascribe to the implications of these said works at a later point in time. In fact, many an institution, or even, a charlatan, have undertaken great labours in order to outright ban a selection of finest tommyrot from inflitrating the minds of the layman, in the hopes of maintaining a tether of control, or perhaps, even unhinged servitude. It is therefore, up to the current reader, to pay heed to what is written in this history, should it likewise undergo a similar fate. Though, I assure the reader that the contents of this history are not so exceedingly shocking, or deranged, that one should feel that they have finally stumbled upon a sacred sort of area; such as that, perhaps, of the inner circle of Area 51. Such a case, story or fantasy, would, in fact, serve on another occasion. However, in this particular chapter, I shall bring to light an account of the history immediately preceding the second abduction of our hero Don Conrado…

It was far from the best of times. It was a tale of the Beast from the East and the havoc which unfolded on account of having ripped its way across Europe in little to no time at all. It was a dastardly wind, indeed, and with it came — as though carrying a disease — a subsequent era of ‘wokeness’; whereby the ideology of political correctness had attached itself like an article of jetsam, and thus it soon came lapping upon the shores of the West, where many an engaged politician promptly took to fraternizing about it; as if they were discussing the carcass of some ancient leviathan, with no clue as to why it had suddenly surfaced here and now. That is, they partook in back-and-forth discussion until more flotsam happened to join this disease from a distant gyre — having floated from across the seven seas, and thence spilled over the Western bulwarks — some of the contents of which (aided by these fierce beastly winds) even went up a waterspout, or two, into the sort of dustbin that could be called outer space, only to come raining down again like ice-bricks on the flanks of all the useful idiots, but… that’s not even the half of it.

In this way, all known knowledge of the universe was (in the context of space and time), bent out of shape and distorted. It was as if the long-admired scientific method, which had been established so elegantly up until now, and, had been enshrined a thousand-and-one different ways in the vast collection of books in the realm of science — was suddenly bent over the knee of Atlas, and, spanked into oblivion. As a consequence, the Earth, as a whole — which up until that point was abiding wholeheartedly by the rules of the Polish Copernican theory — could not take any more rejection from matters concerning fact and truth, and began buckling under the weight of all the flat-earth conspirators; and, as a consequence, Earth underwent a sort of supernova of its own. One could thus surmise, that at this time, all the volcanos on the all the mountain ranges on the entire planet were expelling plumes; such that, perchance, if one could observe Earth from the vantage of the moon, at this precise moment (imagine, for instance, Neil Armstrong was stepping onto the moon for the first time and was about to quote his famous line: “One small step for man…”), it would’ve seemed, from this perspective, as though Earth suddenly exploded, much like a star, and the gamma rays thus ejected from the explosion were spreading across the galaxy, to be absorbed back into the very birth of the universe. And, as for these astronauts frozen in time and space — who were thus left gazing upon the immediate destruction of Earth and no doubt pondering their fate; and, perhaps even shedding a tear or two — what could be said for them? Yet, whatever their reactions, and however tragic it would be for the fate of mankind, as a whole, this ‘wokeness’ had nonetheless spread the world over, in such an unabated, ideological fashion.

Just one infection after another infection … ravaged what was left of intelligent life throughout the cosmos; until full entropy and chaos dominated the entire universe; and subsequently, all motion as we know it came to an abrupt end. In fact, if the distance from one proton to another proton (in the units of cubic metres), could be measured, in the vast void of space, it would be so large that the universe was rightly on the verge of another Big Crunch. But, even still, with the fate of universe on the cusp, save for these aforementioned astronauts who were the last to observe the Earth from the vantage of the moon, an exceptionally frustrated professor of physics (who had somehow survived this event, in the fourth dimension, and had grown exceedingly peeved at my particular account of this history), thus, knocked on my front door one spring morning (of course, well before these events could’ve transpired, and on my account), took hold of me by the collar, and dragged my sorry state — like Lawrence of Arabia, in a somewhat fetal position — to one of his lectures, royal garment and all; where I was forced to sit, endure, and acknowledge the correct dispersion of cosmic rays from the onset of the Big Bang, and onwards… as some sick and twisted form of punishment. I wish I could say that that was all there was to it, and life moved on in this fourth dimension (or multiverse, or whatever have you), and, that this professor soon let me off the hook, and let me resume my current activities on Earth, forlorn or not — and in rather blissful ignorance of the fate awaiting humanity — but this was not the case...

At his pleasure, the following day (and the next day after that), to prolong my torment (as if I had met Professor Lidenbrock’s evil twin brother from some other journey to Earth's centre*), he had me write out Einsteins formula: M = E/c2 again and again, on a chalkboard, as though I were doing lines, whilst some introductory class on astrophysics was taking place; whereupon, he forthwith generated a lecture on the glorification of the scientific method, and, had me listen to that, too, however begrudgingly. So, as you can see, I was thus subjugated and forced into a sort of servitude — such was the current state of the gladiator ring. Now, the very nation, altogether placated by old fogey's, and running amok by bulls and sheep, in place of the formidable knights — who were, otherwise, trained to defend king and country… such was their unhappy fate. Yet, Don Conrado’s chance had finally come: to set the record straight, once and for all…

So, he rose up, with his parchment in hand, and pushed his feet into his plush slippers, before stepping over the threshold of the door to make his way to the kitchen, where he proceeded to obliterate a breakfast with the same ferocity with which the plague had arrived; only this time, he was, in fact, emptying the contents into his belly, rather than expelling them into the great void of space — though, I'm debating whether a strain of gut microbiota (given the intelligence and having considered its place in the universe), would beg to differ. And, now, nourished and revitalized with sustenance fit for champions (which was a power shake and bowl of greens, fully consumed and digested in an instant by his hungry gut microbiota), he realized, once more, that he must really get a move on, and venture out into the great wide open — into the vast winter desert, and to face the miles upon miles of treacherous wilderness; as a sort of Lawrence of Kanata, born to bring fresh water and revive his people. In fact, in such uncertain times, it wasn’t particularly frowned upon to be a little mad; so he embraced the bitter cold that stung his ears and pierced through his royal garments, much like an old friend; and, as stated (for there could be no more delaying this mission of his), he set out, at once, with these sort of weapons-grade delusions. The very parchment he had with him — whether tis was a figure of imaginary or not — had instructed that he make every conceivable effort, and wait upon no one. The rather sacred journey was to be his alone. It was he who was to bear the full weight of this burden, for no immediate fellowship would join, nor partake. He was instructed to cross the oceans and trudge through foreign terrain, and thus conquer air, land and sea; and, whatever harsh elements met him along the way; for, there would be many such obstacles, no doubt about it… as it was written. Moreover, the parchment, beckoned him with a sense of urgency… to shed light on the veil that had been cast over the distant realm which would soon be in his power and under his control...

So, upon finishing the most succulent breakfast known in this part of the kingdom, and proceeding to belch at a decibel level that would’ve shaken a flock of birds promptly out from the trees neighbouring his dwelling… he made haste. And like the premonition of Lord Vader himself, he rose from the wooden table before him, and thumped his mug down upon it, with such finality, and with such animation, that, all the contents therein suddenly rose a few inches, and levitated in place, for fear of returning to the table only to shatter into pieces. However, save for a crack on the mug with which he had used to do this thumping, no such shattering occured, such was his innate skill with the Force. And then, to support himself upright, as he rose, Don Conrado leaned forward at his table with both hands extended out in front of him, and with his two fingers and thumbs, pressed down into the grains of the table so forcefully, that, the boards themselves lifted on the opposite end, and began to twang as they fought hard against the restraints of the nails that fastened them into solid oak. And he breathed, deeply, like Vader, and gazed out the kitchen window with a strange sort of focus, until he met the passing gaze of a squirrel, that had been leaping across the snowy fence posts. Whereupon, he could see it stiffen, and shudder, and nearly lose its footing so as to almost fall over into the bank; which caused him to break his formidable gaze, and tuck a bit of scrap from the table into this robe, to share with this terrified creature. He was not a monster, he thought. And he imagined that he would throw some victuals at this rodent, which had found some form of refuge in his orbit, as he proceeded out the garden gate.

Just before he truly stepped out the front door, for what could be the final time, for a genuinely unknown duration, what he truly sought, more so, even, than to embark on such a mission fraught with so many obstacles, (but twas sure to receive many honours, no less), was to escape for a brief moment and explore the otherworldly rings of Saturn, in a virtual world, as warmup. Alas, he would have to forgo this... it was written.

*Joules Verne, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, 2015, London, Arcturus Publishing Limited, pg 1.