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IN THE BEGINNING
A burning globe hangs suspended in darkness. Flames crackle. Now and then, a plume of fire jets from the surface, flares, then subsides. Gradually, the globe expands. Then the flames peel back, layer after layer, revealing at last a molten, phosphorescent core. Suddenly from this core a spiral of light bursts forth, causing the globe to turn inside out and unfold into an endless wall of fire. For a long moment, everything burns. Then the blaze dims and a cool mist floats on the air. A deep, calm VOICE breaks the silence. VOICE. B’reshit bara elohim et hashamayim v’et ha’aretz. A disk of earth rises from below as the sky turns from black to blue. A cultivated garden blooms. Then, like crystals precipitating from solution, two figures emerge fully formed, a MAN and a WOMAN. Both stand naked, blinking. MAN. I am a man. WOMAN. I am a woman. MAN. Let us be happy! WOMAN. Let us love! MAN. Is there anything to eat? WOMAN. That tree looks tempting. At the center of the garden grows a tree—vast branches clustered with fruit, a trunk of braided vines, and gnarled roots gripping the soil like talons. As the pair approach, they see a two-headed SERPENT coiled around a low-hanging limb. The heads—whose faces bear an uncanny resemblance to James Watson and Richard Dawkins—take turns spitting venomous sentences. SERPENT. Spirituality is delusion! The cosmos is a meaningless void! Your souls are just chemicals! Only matter exists! The MAN and WOMAN huddle together, whispering, then stand again to deliver their reply. MAN. We reject as false your so-called philosophy. WOMAN. We affirm instead—knowledge! Insight! Wisdom! MAN. For we remember our origin in the bosom of the eternal. WOMAN. The infinite source of all being! The SERPENT smirks. SERPENT. Have it your way, idiots. Just don’t eat the fruit of this tree. Its nectar contains a truth serum that would prove too potent for your feeble intellects. Simultaneously, the MAN and WOMAN thrust their hands into the leaves. Each plucks a fruit, examines its marbled skin, then ravenously bites. Juice streams down their chins. SERPENT (cackling). So easy! So easy! So easy! The SERPENT vanishes as an earthquake rocks the garden. The MAN and WOMAN cling to the tree. Everything flips upside down. Stones and leaves and fruit fall into the sky. The earth splits open. The MAN and WOMAN climb the trunk to the muddy roots, now fully exposed, as the garden crumbles around them and collapses at last with a roar. A span of terrible darkness follows. Then, slowly, light breaks in the distance. The MAN and WOMAN find themselves in a forsaken desert. The mass of roots transforms into a tangle of thorns, which, as the MAN and WOMAN step away, bursts into flames. MAN. We are banished! WOMAN. Condemned! MAN. Naked! WOMAN. Ashamed! They set out across the desert. * * * The following day, they reach a billboard animated by electric bulbs: WELCOME TO 21ST CENTURY AMERICA Beneath the scaffolding they find a suitcase containing T-shirts, blue jeans, underwear, and sneakers. MAN (grumbling). They might have included a sandwich or two. WOMAN. At least this way we won’t set off the apocalypse. After dressing, the pair resume their journey only to find that, beyond the billboard, the desert simply continues, as endless and desolate and forbidding as ever. Their skin burns. Before long they grow faint, then dizzy—and at last succumb to phantasmagoric mirages. Suddenly an F.B.I. AGENT appears in the sky, seated behind a desk. An American flag billows in the background. F.B.I. AGENT. Thank you for visiting the United States of America. We hope you enjoy your stay. Please remember always to carry two forms of photo ID and to keep your documentation in order. All baggage is subject to search at any time. Do not attempt to resist. Do not accept baggage or other items from persons unknown to you. To prevent the introduction of dangerous articles without your knowledge, do not leave your baggage unattended. Please report any suspicious persons or activities to your nearest law enforcement officer. Thank you—and have a safe trip! The F.B.I. AGENT vanishes. MAN. Do you have any documents? WOMAN. Of course not. Do you? MAN. We’ll just have to keep ourselves out of trouble. WOMAN. We’ve done a swell job so far. An industrial horn blares. Moments later, the desert swarms with people dressed in business suits, all carrying briefcases and cell phones. From the neck down they are human enough, but their faces are elongated into soot-colored rat snouts. They squeak and twitter. FIRST RAT. Oil! Put everything you’ve got into oil! SECOND RAT. Christ, Larry, have you forgotten the most important rule of business? Fuck the competition! THIRD RAT. How the hell am I supposed to get promoted without cracking a few skulls? FOURTH RAT. War is lucrative! You want a good return on your investment? You want a sweet little blue chip? Wage motherfucking war! The MAN and WOMAN, unnoticed, move with the current of the crowd. Soon they are all converging toward a great brick archway with an antique clockface mounted at its apex. The rattle of machinery grows deafening as they approach—but just as they cross the threshold, the MAN and WOMAN emerge into a vast wheatfield rippling in the sun. The crowd has disappeared. The pair scamper like children. WOMAN. This is more like it! MAN. I couldn’t agree more. Then a FARMER stands straight up out of the wheat, wearing lopsided overalls and gripping a scythe. Moments later, his WIFE appears beside him with a freshly baked loaf of bread. Both stand motionless for a full minute before speaking. FARMER. You folks terrorists? WIFE. You look like terrorists. FARMER. Ayrabs? WIFE. Niggrahs? FARMER. Homersexuals? WIFE. Liberals? FARMER. Hell, I bet you ain’t even been saved. The MAN and WOMAN exchange worried glances, but before they can reply the FARMER and his WIFE burst into song. FARMER & WIFE (bellowing).
The MAN and WOMAN turn to flee. For a moment the ground seems to slip like a rug from beneath their feet, but by the time they spin fully about they stand before the towering cliffs of Mount Rushmore. The massive stone faces of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln gaze into the distance. Suddenly the four heads begin to tremble—then one by one, with thundering violence, each detaches itself from the mountain. Gravel sprays everywhere. The heads hover for a moment, then fly about in ponderous circles, orbiting the couple while simultaneously groaning like ghosts. Terrified, the MAN and WOMAN run toward the mountain, which obligingly splits down the middle, opening an escape route through a jagged fissure. WOMAN. Teddy Roosevelt’s going to eat me! MAN. Just be glad it’s not Dick Cheney. As they enter the mountain, the fissure closes, plunging them into darkness. Once more they feel themselves swept forward, this time buffeted by cold wind. At last they come to rest in an underground canyon flickering with torchlight. A series of arches forms a long arcade where spindly silhouettes stroll up and down, pausing to stare into caverns gaping from the canyon walls. The mood is hushed but festive. Before each cave stands a lanky IMPRESARIO with oily skin, large teeth, and wavy black hair slicked with pomade. All are identically dressed in red-white-and-blue Uncle Sam suits. Cautiously, the MAN and WOMAN advance. FIRST IMPRESARIO. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll never see anything like this in a Hollywood movie. Are you afraid of what you desire? Do you desire what you fear? SECOND IMPRESARIO. Death-defying acrobatics! Feats of miraculous escape! Levitation! Extrasensory perception! THIRD IMPRESARIO. One sinner. Seven deadly sins. Can you bear to behold the fruits of a life lived in the foul dens of iniquity? Surely the flames of hell await this wretched, suffering soul. FOURTH IMPRESARIO. Meet the modern-day offspring of the Three-Legged Man and the Bearded Lady. He’s more than a curiosity. He’s a punk rock magician with his own e-commerce empire! Right this way, friends, right this way. The MAN and WOMAN pass by these hucksters unmoved but pause before a cave in which an animatronic likeness of MICHAEL JACKSON, naked and flayed, hangs crucified. His robotic mouth champs the air. MICHAEL JACKSON. I am a Freak. Hath not a Freak eyes? Hath not a Freak hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as the Normal are? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not seek revenge? Then from across the arcade come screams of panic. The MAN and WOMAN turn to see a posse of police officers, weapons drawn, sprinting toward them. FIRST OFFICER. Freeze, scumbags! SECOND OFFICER. Up against the wall! THIRD OFFICER. Mitts in the air! FOURTH OFFICER. Hit the deck! The MAN and WOMAN, puzzled, merely stand in place as the posse engulfs them, thrusting gun muzzles into their ribs. Soon a DETECTIVE clad in a voluminous black duster strolls up, lights a cigarette, and scowls at the suspects. Smoke spills from his mouth. DETECTIVE (snarling). Who put you up to it? The MAN and WOMAN remain silent. The DETECTIVE shrugs. DETECTIVE. We’ll find out one way or another. I have men who specialize in being persuasive. But you should know that we take an especially dim view of traitors. In fact, there are those in our agency who feel that a fine old-fashioned hanging would be too good for the likes of you. Myself, I favor drawing and quartering. Now, I know you’ve got rights—and of course you’ll claim you’re innocent of any wrongdoing. But that doesn’t cut any ice with me. After all, whose clothes are you wearing? I say you’re guilty. You look guilty. You smell guilty. And you’ll find out soon enough that, where you’re going, my word is final. We’ll have justice. But I’ve got one last question: Why do you hate my beautiful country? During the course of this speech, the MAN and WOMAN watch in alarm as the DETECTIVE’s head slowly expands, swelling larger and larger until it bobs like a balloon between his shoulders. His huge tongue writhes. MAN. This is America? WOMAN. It’s all just a big illusion! Immediately the scene vanishes. The MAN and WOMAN stand naked once more in the desert. The sun sinks behind a dune. The sky glows red. * * * The MAN and WOMAN trudge toward the sunset. When they reach the crest of the dune, they see beneath them a tower standing at the edge of a vast salt flat. Black and glittering, elegantly slender, the umbrella-shaped structure appears to have been carved out of granite. Its thin shadow falls toward them across the sand, forming a long, angled path to the base. Hand in hand, the pair approach. When they stop at the tower’s foot, cooled by jets of air streaming from the massive underside of its circular hood, a door opens silently in the wall. The pair step inside—and are immediately whisked upward. Soon they come to rest again. A second door opens, and they emerge into a misty greenhouse. A colossal tree grows at the center, reaching all the way to the domed ceiling. Surrounding the tree, a network of glass fountains gurgles with crystalline water. Multitiered beds of plants and flowers stretch out in all directions. Tropical birds flutter in the rafters. The MAN and WOMAN stroll through the maze of hydroponic tables and ceramic pipes. When they reach the outer rim, they find that the walls, though opaque from outside, are transparent within—yet the view they reveal is not of the desert below but instead of the full extent of the American continent from Atlantic to Pacific, Canada to Mexico, curved and distorted as though viewed through a fisheye lens—and completely engulfed in flames. MAN. This must be home. WOMAN. Yes. MAN. Are you happy? WOMAN. Yes. MAN. It’s mysterious. WOMAN. Yes. MAN. Let’s begin. |
COPYRIGHT © 2009 JOHN ATKINSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.