Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Nick Neercassel and the Dark Side of the Moon

Space is the Place for Your Helpful TPE Man

As it turned out, Dala was a pretty darn good pilot. She guided the tin can, I mean spacecraft, Lunar Albatross, rather expertly out of the Terran atmosphere. Once there, we only had about a quarter of a million miles to go.

Hello there. I'm Nick Neercassel, Theological Private Eye (TPE), i.e., I work for the Admiral of Andromeda. The pay is bad (when's the last time I got paid, by the way?), the hours are abominable, but they say we win the postseason games every time.

Once the gravitational forces pressing against every inch of my body began receding, I posed a question to Professor Zukuni.

"Tell me, Prof, what do you think our chances are in rescuing Sir Alexander Thomson?"

"Well, Mick..."

"It's Nick."

"Oh, yes, Nick. If my calculations are correct, we've got a snowball's chance in hell."

Well, at least my math was still pretty good. I was in full agreement with the Professor.

I took a look through the porthole and saw a lot of blackness punctuated by many points of light. I asked Dala, "How long before we get to our destination?"

"16 hours and 32 minutes." Dala was both pretty and efficient.

"Good, " said Dr. Zukuni, "that'll give me time, hopefully, to finish filling out the LA Instutute's IRS request form for tax exempt status."

"I thought you only did scientific work."

"We're short handed, and Claude thought the darkness and solitude of space would be good for my concentration. Hey, Vic, would you mind helping out?"

"It's Nick and I suppose so." It's not like I could step outside and go for a walk.

Great. Not only do I get to risk my life in the vacuum of Space but I also get to fill out an IRS tax form. Is there no place beyond the reach of the IRS?

"What's the first question, Prof?"

"What did you pray for on August 6, 1989? Was it the Lord's Prayer? When you said 'Thy Kingdom Come', were you contemplating overthrowing the United States Government?"

"Let's skip that one. How about number two?"

"We have an eyewitness in Federal custody who says she saw you cutting the neighbor's grass on July 10, 1965. She also saw the neighbor pay you $10.00 cash for doing it. The IRS has no record of you paying federal tax on that $10.00. How do you explain that?"

"Number three."

"Your jokes about how inefficient the Federal Government is, in our opinion, not funny. Are you willing to do penance by walking across Death Valley while reading Geofredo Denzer's latest theofiction?"

"Now that's possible."

Prof. Zukuni said, "Since we skipped a couple of questions we may have to do the assignment for Bonus Points."

"And what might that be?"

"Write a confession of at least 1200 words describing the ways your thinking has been flawed, ignorant, and dangerous over the course of your life. "

"That should be easy. I'm living that thinking right now."

THE END



Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Nick Neercassel and the Benign Empire

Where No TPE Has Gone Before

Unconsciousness is a hoot. I was out for three days but it felt like no more than an hour. There was no real reason for me to be unconscious for three days. It wasn't like I was seriously injured. Heck, I wasn't injured at all. The plane/drone, after all, had missed me. Got a little prairie dirt on my pants, but besides that, I was as good as new. Except for being incredibly tired. Wonder why I had been so tired?

Hi, I'm Nick Neercassel, Theological Private Eye (TPE), i.e., I'm in the employ of the Shogun of Sirius and Sundry Stars. The pay is at the bottom of the barrel, the hours are close to infinite, but I'll stack up our retirement village with the one Bill Gates is planning.

Sleeping for three days will work up an appetite. My octogenarian host, Claude, had anticipated that and had a buffet fit for a king laid out on a picnic table in what appeared to be the main room. Since we were underground, I couldn't look out the windows to see if it was day or night. While we were eating Claude introduced me to two other LAers: Dala, who was dressed like she was on safari, and a Professor Zukuni, who immediately forgot my name as soon as I informed him of it.

Between mouthfuls, I asked Claude, "What is LA?"

Claude looking amused, replied, "It would probably be easier to you tell what LA isn't instead of what it is."

"Well, I prefer the what it is, not the what it isn't."

"For starters, LA is the Benign Empire."

"What does that mean."

"It means we never attack first."

"How about retaliation?"

"We do retaliate but never in a way the enemy expects."

"So you do have enemies?"

"Oh, yes, many; and some of them are not of this world. In fact, you'll be visiting one soon."

I guess I should have been surprised at that remark but somehow I wasn't. My suspicions were confirmed when after the meal we walked over to a very large room with a very high ceiling. In the middle of the room was (how do I describe this?)what looked like a short stubby pencil coated in tin. It  looked just big enough to hold three people.

Oh, oh.

"Now, Claude, you're not about to tell me what I think you're about to tell me."

"Afraid so, Nick. We need you, Dala, and the Prof to mount a rescue mission."

"Don't you mean a suicide mission?"

"The Lunar Albatross may look a little shaky but it's a sturdy, reliable spacecraft."

Spacecraft? This was going to be even more dangerous than I thought.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a small satellite in juxtaposition with the Dark Side of the Moon. It can never be seen from Earth and because of some highly technical devices cannot be detected either."

"What is our mission?"

"To rescue and reclaim Sir Alexander Thomson from Rene' the Relentless."

THE END

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Nick Neercassel: The Mystery of LA

Hell on the Prairie

I better get this out of the way while I can still remember it. Hi, I'm Nick Neercassel, Theological Private Eye (TPE), i.e., I work for the Magistrate of the Milky Way. The pay is miniscule, the hours are maxiscule, and by gum, it's get darn dangerous out here at times.

Leaving North Dakota, I headed south to of all places, South Dakota. After a few hours of trouble free driving, I found myself in the midst of a vast stretch of prairie. It was a barren landscape with an almost limitless horizon. I turned the radio on to keep me company but all that I could tune into was a repeat episode of that morning's 'The Cracked Egg' farm and theology report. It was Omega 1A celebrating being alive another day.

The opening theme was reminiscent of a song called 'City of New Orleans': "Good Morning, South and North Dakota!/ Don't you know me? I'm your native son/ I'm the prophet they call Omega 1A/ I'll be sipping wine in a jet plane before day is done."

It was at that moment all hell broke loose. What looked to be a Cessna two-seater came barreling out of nowhere buzzing me and the 67 Mustang convertible. I immediately turned the car sharply off the highway into the adjacent prairie where I killed the engine, jumped out of the car, and started running for cover. But there was no cover to be found, only treeless fields of invisible grain. I looked behind me and the plane was headed straight toward me! Just before impact I dove to the ground where I heard the terrible roar of the engine and felt the heat of the plane's underbelly. I somehow managed to pull out my celestial cell phone and placed an emergency call to Third Heaven Central (THC).

"God afternoon. This is Third Heaven Associates. How can we help you?"

"It's Nick! I'm being buzzed in South Dakota. A crazy pilot is trying to kill me!"

"We know. We're all watching it on our 27 mile wide television screen." They were always bragging about the size of their tv screen and how they could get 673 trillion channels (this number coincided, by the way, with the currently known number of galaxies).

"Can you help me?"

"We've been debating that. If we send a Heaven to Earth Missile (HEM), it will surely kill the pilot and probably you too. Have you tried standard TPE evasionary tactics?"

"Such as?"

"Running like hell."

 I hung up. This was one of those times I was to be entirely on my own.

Just when all (or almost all; I'm speaking relatively here) seemed lost, the miracle occurred; at least now in retrospect it seems like it was a miracle; at the time I don't think I was categorizing the event; I was just thankful for it.

A man on a white horse came galloping up to me. The man cried out, "Jump on! The drone is headed back this way!"

It didn't seem a very practical thing to do but my choices were limited. I did as I was told and we went galloping toward a cement block building about five hundred yards distant. I wondered why I hadn't spotted it previously but it made sense why not when I saw the color of it. It was the same color as the prairie that surrounded it.

Things were looking up until I looked back to see what was up. It was that darn plane (or drone as the man had called it) and according to my mental calculations it had an excellent chance of reaching us before we reached the block building. But then suddenly the ground opened up (or so it seemed) and we were galloping through a tunnel lit only dimly by small light fixtures on the sides of the walls. After a couple of minutes of hard riding, we came to a stop and the man said, 'Ok, son, hop off. I think we're safe now."

I was pretty shaken up but thanks to Pond of Fire TPE training, my psyche was up to the challenge. I spotted a bench and sat down. The man who rescued me came over: "Hi, son, my name is Claude. Nice to meet you. Hope that ride wasn't too bumpy."

I could now see why he was calling me son. He looked like he could be 90 years old. He had a long white beard and wore a beige ankle length jacket with an attached hood. I replied, "I'm Nick and, considering the circumstances, the ride was downright comfortable."

The old man laughed. "Those drones can be rather nasty. You're lucky it didn't demolish you and your Mustang the first time it buzzed you."

"Why do you call it a drone? It just looked like an ordinary Cessna to me."

"Oh, it was a drone all right. They're programmed to destroy all Mustangs and riders." (Mustangs? What kind of horse did we just ride?)

"But why?"

"Because they're enemies of LA."

It was then (I think) I passed out. The Mystery of LA would have to be investigated at a LAter date.

THE END

















Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Nick Neercassel: Divine Secrets of the Ome-ga-ga Brotherhood

QUINTUPLE D

The Mid-Heaven Gathering was over and I was back on the road. I was somewhere in North Dakota (one never knows where one can end up at the end of a Gathering) and though Spring was about half-over no one had taken the opportunity to make North Dakota aware of that fact. The wind was blowing hard and cold and I had to put up the top of the 67 Mustang convertible. The heater was going full blast. I was hungry so I decided to stop and dine in the comfort of a roadside joint called the Dakota Deli, Diner, Drive-In & Dive, or Quintuple D as the locals called it. Consolidation was big in North Dakota.

By the way, I'm Nick Neercassel and I'm a Theological Private Eye (TPE), i.e., I work for the Galactic General. The income is mostly non-existent, the schedule is brutal, but there's treasure laid up in heaven. Or so they tell me. The late comedian, George Carlin, once said, "Atheism is a nonprophet religion." The few true prophets I knew were all poor so Christianity must be, to paraphrase George, a nonprofit religion.

I lingered over the menu finally choosing Buffalo steak, cooked medium rare, with a side of barbecue baked beans, French bread, coffee and blueberry pie. I was definitely in need of a hearty meal whether my heart needed it or not.

A conversation in the booth behind me caught my attention.

"Look here, Sam, you don't know what the hell you're talking about. The End will take place in 2015."

"No, no, Harry, it's 2016. Any fool would realize that."

"Well, just call me a fool for the truth." Harry defiantly replied. It's always helpful, when overhearing a conversation, that the principals involved call out their names in the first couple of sentences. I then did something that because of my retiring nature I don't usually do.

"Hi, fellows, mind if I join you?" Sam and Harry looked surprised then Sam said, "Oh, hell, we're just running our months. Go ahead and have a seat, stranger."

I introduced myself. Sam asked me, "Where you from, Nick?"

"From south of here."

"You mean South Dakota?"

"No, South Carolina."

"Well, you must have missed a turn or two." Harry dryly remarked. "What brings you to North Dakota?"

"I heard there was an economic boom going on here and I wanted to see it for myself."

"Looking for work?"

"No, I've already got a job that keeps me going 24/7."

"And what might that be?"

"I'm a Theological Private Eye. That's why I decided to butt in on your conversation. I heard you talking eschatology and I was immediately curious."

About that time my waitress showed up with my meal. Before taking a bite of the buffalo steak, I asked Sam and Harry. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you fellows talking about 'The End'?"

As I started chewing the absolutely delicious meat, Sam handed me a brochure. The title of it was 'The Divine Secrets of the Ome-ga-ga Brotherhood.' At that moment, if like the title character on the old tv show, 'My Favorite Martian', there were retractable antenna in my head, they would have engaged and have shot straight up into the air.

"Where did you get this from?" I asked the question in my most innocuous TPE voice.

"Right over there." Sam replied, pointing at the Quintuple D counter. On the counter there looked to be about 100 or more of the brochures. I have to admit I was impressed. The Three Omegas Distribution System was improving.

Harry spoke up, "Well, I heard about 'The End' this morning at 5 am on 'The Cracked Egg' farm report show." (Wow, even more impressive. The Omegas were now haunting the tv air waves.)

Even with a mouthful of beans. I couldn't wait to ask, "So what is this particular 'End' you're talking about ? End of the World?"

"Of course," Harry replied, "What other End is worth talking about?"

"So, we've got two, maybe three years at best? What do the Omegas think we need to do with that time?"

"Why, spiritual enlightenment, and if we're lucky, some Soopie-Whoopie Shagah."

"Does this brochure tell you how to find those things?"

"No, but it does tell us how to have the Omegas tell us in person."

"Let me guess. Are the main ingredients in discovering the Divine Secrets of Ome-ga-ga Brotherhood such things as first-class airline tickets, excellent motel or hotel accommodations, and expensive red wine?"

"Hey, have you read the brochure before?"

THE END