Stillborn in my own time
By Larry Austin Bernard
Acknowledgment:
*This story is inspired and in some parts based upon Gladiator by Phillip Wylie.
*Any references to : Superman, The Black Terror, Captain America, and other Super Heroes whose origins are similarly inspired by Gladiator are an intentional homage and honor to those stories
*Thanks to Daniel Burgmeister who gave me some suggestions for my german names.
*Thanks to my friend J.F for encouraging me to refrence Dr Strangelove.
*The name of any real world Newspapers of Media or any persons real is purely for literary purposes and to lend a air of verisimilitude to the story.
I: Down Mexico Way
The fire of AK-47's cuts the air in Nuevo Laredo. Los Zetas are fighting a 3 way war with the Sinola Cartel and elements of the Mexican Police and Army. Fredrick Mann a blogger and freelance reporter stood on the tallest building near the heat of action. His guides are a former career DEA agent who had resigned when what is now known as the “Operation Gun Runner” scandal began to go public. His companion was a career Mexican narcotics agent who resigned in protest of the corruption endemic in his country. Both men went with the reporter to give him a sense of the scope of the war that has been enhanced by this scandal, much to their shagrin it turns out the war was ready to be televised. Fredrick pulled out a digital recorder to begin to compose his thoughts. Fredrick had quit smoking inspired by President Obama during the 2008 campaign. As he has gone deeper into the cartel violence in Mexico he has found his old vice one of the few comforts for his sanity.
“This is Fredrick Mann. I am here with my guides to look at the geography of the cartel war that’s destroying northern Mexico. Little did we realize we would be seeing the destruction live as it was happening.” An anti-tank weapon was thrown at the police barricades as the Zeta's made their move towards the cathedral, where they could outflank the Sinola boys position. The Police fell back to pull them into the square hoping they can put a counter offensive on them when they came into the square. The problem of course that citizens were fleeing towards the Cathedral fleeing the gunfire and Explosions. Fredrick hit the stop button on his recorder and he turned to his Mexican guide Rafael. “Are they really going to let the people get killed there?” Rafael looked at him somberly. “Senor, the Mexican authorities can barely protect themselves in this part of Mexico. They can stop the cartel soldiers or they can protect the citizens but they can't do both.” His American Guide Juan pointed to some other buildings. “Over there are the Mexican military sniper positions. They might be able to provide the people some cover, but I don't think that will be much. They are in god's hands now.” The Sinola boys were on the move as well. Half of their force was moving to cut off the Zetas as the other half was moving towards the Cathedral square. This would pin the police and military between the Zetas and the Sinola boys, and pin the Zetas between the Sinola boys and the police. The Gunfire began to pick up and a woman and her child are stuck in the crossfire. The woman shielding her 7 year old daughter in her arms. A few flesh wounds hit the woman. She remained silent holding her child as she screamed. On the steps of the Church the older child of the woman cried out. “Mami” as several people tried to pull the child back into the church. A tall man with sandy blond hair approached the boy. He appeared to be one of the priests. The boy and the people talking to him moved back into the cathedral and the priest stood at the doorway.
“What is the priest trying to do?” Fredrick asked as his guides watched from their position. “Something crazy.” Juan said matter of factly. “Definately loco.” Rafael agreed. The priest took a stance like a runner preparing to start a marathon. As a bullet from one of the sniper positions went off he bolted towards the woman and her child. “Padre is fast” Juan said. As he made a sprint worthy of an Olympic athlete and did so seemingly effortlessly. However as he made half the distance up the mother took a serious bullet wound to the head. Her maternal instinct clutching the child even as her live was draining from her. The Padre clutched the hand of the dying woman and whispered in her ear. As he spoke to her she loosened her body and he moved to the small child and whispered in her ear. The Padre took the child and shielded her as best he could from the directions where fire was coming from. Rafael muttered to himself in Spanish. “Madre de dios. The crazy bastard is going to actually do it.” Juan and Fredrick took to chanting a mantra together. “Come on, you can do it. You can get the kid. You can do it.” The priest makes it to the edge of the stairs of the Cathedral. He spoke to the child. “Can you guys make out what he is saying?” Rafael made adjustments to his camera and Juan tried to find the directional microphone. As they were searching the priest took two AK shots to the kidney region, and then a 3rd bullet towards the side of the neck. The little girl took a burst of speed as she made her way quickly up the steps. The doors open up for her as the priest falls to the stairs. Smoke grenades and flash bangs move into the field as the Mexican Military moves troops in. “Well at least the priest didn't die in vain.” Fredrick says. The battle picked up and the Mexican police and military push back the cartel forces for both cartels.
“Well, it looks like this battle might be going the way of the 'good guys'.” Juan comments seeing the change in the conditions. “Of the good enough guys.” Rafael quickly reminds him. Fredrick looks at his guides “Do you think the Mexican government would mind my interviewing some of the people in the Cathedral?” Rafael smiles “They probably would but I think we can get to them here shortly and hear what they have to say about all of this.” Rafael was a patriot, a man who loved his nation. But the love in his heart had turned to pain. Watching corrupt judges, police officials, narcotics officials, and military officials slowly allowing the country to rot. People taking the path of least resistance of apathy towards the cartels on their best day. With many people, far to many, silently collaborating with the Cartels murder of their nation. He said he quit about the corruption that he saw but the truth of the matter was he was tired. He was tired of being part of an isolated few who were standing up against a horde of forces bent on destroying his nation. His soul and heart couldn't take standing and fighting anymore. Juan largely had a similar story. Juan worked with the Border Patrol and local law enforcement on the US side trying to get word up the chain to their superiors about what was going on. He and Rafael and their colleagues on both sides of the border would from time to time get together and swap information. While Rafael was tired of the fight, Juan left out of humiliation. That the friends he made who he helped fight the evil men were being aided by his own government. Fredrick joined them out of a sense of betrayal. He was a young reporter whose mind embraced the ideas of “Fundamental Transformation of America.” He was attracted to the romance of what he represented, and the romance of the kind of change he set himself up as the harbinger of. He was a young freelance journalist and part time script writer in Los Angeles. He went to work for the Obama campaign early on. He organized people to vote , call, and donate for the campaign. Unlike many in the media he became fascinated by the story but as he went deeper he found more questions that the answers his friends in the administration gave him became more and more unsatisfying. He had put himself under the banner of a good and honorable man, who seems to have poured gasoline on this mess. What he was able to find out in Washington and along the border on the US side wasn't enough to give him a grasp of the story. And the fact his former friends gave him a cold shoulder on his best day. But now that he came to Mexico looking for another answer to the story. But now he found another story and it caught his mind. An act of human self sacrifice and heroism. An idea that would capture the minds of everyone in the United States and would help rally opinion on the issue.
They went down to the building as the police and military were cleaning things up. Fredrick asked some minimal questions. The soldiers and police were as helpful as they could be before they directed him to the public information officers. The public information officers presented the packaged themes of good intelligence and better technology winning the day. The truth was of course that this was a bloody war fought against bloodier men and they got very lucky. This was the work he needed to do before they would let him go to the church where the heart of his story was. The head of the story is still to be determined. The son identified himself as Jesus. Rafael translated for him. “What did the priest say to you?” The boy thought for a moment and spoke to Rafael who translated for him. “He said I won't let your sister die. And I will do all in my power to save your mother. You need to be strong.” Fredrick nodded “Was that all?” the boy shook his head. “He said 'the barbarians have breached the gate.' and then he said 'Rome may fall, but we can rebuild it. But to rebuild it we must rebuild ourselves.' And then he motioned for me to go back into the church.” Fredrick spoke to the people who were there and they largely recounted the same story the boy told him. As they corroborated the story they began to provide additional details about the monk. The monk had a happen for saying things that were out of place. He was; French or spoke Spanish with a french accent, He was a Dominican friar, and he never seemed to have actual duties at the church that anyone could remember. His name was Charles some recounted, and he once joked when discussing the history of France that his last name was Talleyrand with one of the children he mentored. As Fredrick moved to the other brother monks none seemed to know much about him. The priest however knew a bit more. “Some in the priesthood take a different take on the Cartels. They view the cartels as a serpent leading many of our flock astray. Brother Charles shared that perspective. And he worked to build ties with people in the community. People who had character, dignity, and respect. People who would inspire others. He was trying to bring them over to the view that they needed to help rebuild the heart of our community. Be lights to guide others. I cannot speak to how successful he was but it seemed to be the calling he worked on. And I am sympathetic to their view, and I was more sympathetic to Brother Charles' approach. So I largely turned a blind eye to what he was doing.” The sisters at the church largely recounted the Priest's story. The Deacon, who was Brother Charles' confessor, maintained the seal of confession but commented further on the mysterious figure. “He was burdened. I suspect he joined the priesthood to avoid some burden. And it made his duties as a priest more difficult for him.
Last Fredrick went to interview the little girl. The one who saw the priest last. She had a blanket around her and was sitting alone. “Can we talk to you about what happened.” The little girl nodded affirmatively. “What can you tell us about the monk?” She shook her head. The translation came clear. “He wasn't a monk, he was a Angel.” Fredrick bit his lip taking a deep breath. He was frustrated the little girl may have nothing useful to ad, but he also agreed with her opinion. “What do you mean?” She turned her head and looked up at the stained glass window. “Did you see his body?” Fredrick shook his head. “You asked about him with the police. So where is the body?” Fredrick looked at the little girl curiously. “I saw it out of the corner of my eye as we went into the church. He was shot. I heard the bullets hit. I felt the shock as his body was hit. But he had no wounds. He had no blood on me. And as we went into the church before the smoke and bright lights and noise came, he moved.” Rafael shook his head. He thought the little girl was in shock and imagined this story.
But as they returned to the hotel they began to review their video tape and were struck by what they didn't find. “Look, this is insane. He was shot and before the Flash Bangs and smoke grenades he was down. When the dust cleared he is gone. Cops were the only ones near him, and they didn't take him.” Juan says stunned at the video he saw. Rafael laughs “Hey Fred, maybe the little girl was right and this guy was an angel.” Fredrick laughs. “Well that's about as good an excuse as any at this point.” Fredrick was haunted more by the fact that the little girl said he had no blood and no wounds. This was beyond the miracles that Fredrick had read about in most journalism reporting. Even by the standards of old testament miracles this was a little unusual. As he begins to write the story he neglects to go into further details about the mysterious priest. He tried to track information about his identity and what records the church and Mexican authorities had they were very helpful but they lead to dead ends. He found evidence of him in Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Honduras, Haiti, Panama, Bolivia, and Nicaragua. But no one knew when this priest who spoke Spanish with a french accent showed up. Most trails he could trace back further dead ended in Haiti with no person in living memory who could verify something else. Brother Charles also left few images to be found. It took a while for him to find a old yearbook photo from a catholic school in haiti. He sat on that photo for a while, as the story of the priest who seemed to rise from the dead left his conscious mind and faded into his subconscious like a bur attacked to the skin and painful. Fredrick watched that section of the digital recording over and over again on a DVD he printed. The bur didn't just attack at his mind it became an obsession.
Peyton Bonn was the editor at the Daily Beast who evaluated foreign news stories for Newsweek and The Daily Beast Website. “This is good stuff. So are you going to try to write a book about your Mexico experiences? I think that would be pretty topical and we would be happy to promote it is you did that.” Fredrick took off his glasses and fiddled with them. His lanky frame and soft skin gave him a certain boyish charm, but in his eyes there was a definite sadness and darkness that has been growing. “Do you know anyone? If I had a good enough advance I had some loose ends I would like to look into. I could make a really good book I think out of all of that. Peyton smiled and grasped him by the hand. “I know some people over and Simon and Shuster. Call over there and ask for Jack Lieber, he is a friend of mine and I think this would be up his alley.” Fredrick felt better upon hearing those words. Beyond his strange miracle at Nuevo Laredo he still had many loose ends on his mind. A book could help him purge those elements from his mind. “Oh, you mentioned you had a picture you were trying to track down information about this story from?” Peyton said as he started to pull up a web browser. “Yeah, it was a priest. He died in one of the incidents of cartel violence. Well...he was a monk, I am not sure with the way he died his title meant that much to God.” Fredrick fumbled to look for the picture of Brother Charles. Peyton sketched out a URL and a password and login name on a pad of paper. “I am demoing a search engine right now. Its in very much Alpha testing right now. What it does is it uses the markers on the picture to try to find other examples of the image. Now keep in mind everyone has doppelgangers but it might help you with tying up that lose end.
II. The Spring Loose End
Fredrick Mann didn't know the name of the place he was on the outskirts of Tunis. His guide gave him a name to the town but he half forgot it as he held the 9 mm in his hand. 6 months ago Fredrick would be called a reasonable man by anyone. He was a very successful journalist making the circuit of talk radio and television talking about the horrible cartel violence in Mexico. He was working on a book to put all those experiences together. He was a guy who donated to the brady campaign so the notion of owning a firearm would have been absurd to him. 6 months ago was like several lifetimes. “If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha.” he said slowly breathing deeply. He didn't believe Brother Charles was the Buddha, but truth be told even that wouldn't surprise him at this point. It started with that search tool and it found two images of Brother Charles. One from a digitized image of a old Columbia football team. Another was taken during the Boxer Rebellion of a French Foreign legion unit. As he researched the unit he found out about one of the legends of the Unit. “The Iron Sergeant” or “The Bullet proof soldier.” The name he used was Hugo Victor, though that name likely deemed to be a false identity for an American soldier seeking anonymity in the Foreign Legion. The sources were all quite clear on the fact he was an American. The”se stories were on a website of a French Anthropologist who recorded the legends and folk stories of the Foreign Legion. Fredrick remembers the moment he made the call. He put “Take It So Hard” by Keith Richards on his I-Pod. He took a deep breath trying to calm himself and focus himself. This all seemed so crazy.
“Hello, is this professor Dupree?” he hesitantly spoke into the phone in an awkward french he clearly hadn't spoken since High School. Professor Dupree responded in clear English “ I don't get the privilege to speak to Americans often, would you prefer to do this in English?” Fredrick laughed. “Yes please, I would like to do that very much.” The professor clicked through his computer looking for the email. “So Mr. Mann, how may I be of assistance for you today?” Fredrick cut quickly to the chase. “The Iron Sergeant. I was curious about the legend. I found a curious tie in to something else I am researching.” Professor Dupree laughed. “The legend is of an American, he came from Montana or maybe Kansas. No one is quite sure. He was a man of vitality and youth who had served in the legion some 20 years and those he served with said he hadn't aged a day. What campaigns he fought for before the first world war are debated. But on at least 3 separate occasions witnesses claimed he took a fatal gunshot and did not die. Despite his protestations to his commanders. Even among some of the German soldiers of the time he was spoken of. His bravado and humility in battle inspired many men. His unit was, according to the legends, one of the most highly decorated of the war because of his inspiration to their espirit de corps.” The professor laughed “Some of the veterans of the first world war who served in the French Resistance and the Free French Forces claimed that he made his way back into France through spain and headed into Germany during the war. I do wish I had an opportunity to speak to the witnesses who knew him who were involved. All of the men who did so died years ago. Its a pity that I was only able to create an anthology of their stories after the fact from people who heard them. So tell me what brought this interest on?” Fredrick very softly spoke his next question. “Is it possible he had any kids.”
He had less luck tracking the line back at the Columbia university archives. Their historian said simply “He was the Fullback on the 1889 squad. That was when American Football and Australian Rules Football weren't that different from each other. It might take a while for me to track down a name.” Fredrick did find a name in a few old newspaper clippings. Ulysses Roger Benton who was the son of Professor Jonathan Thaddeus Benton who was a Researcher first at the University of California at Berkeley and then became one of the founders of the Biology and Chemistry departments of the University of Colorado. Some one who when the boom of science came in the 20th century became a forgotten figure in both universities annals of their history. Most official mentions of Professor Benton after the mid 1890s neglected to mention a son as did his obituary. In 1920 there was a refurbishing of the crypt for Professor Benton and his wife. Their wasn't any records available as to who paid for that. His mind was caught with crazy thoughts. He saw evidence of a bullet proof man, and saw implied evidence of another. The men would possibly be great grandfather and grandson. This was of course until the crushing pressure of math began to set into his head. In 1889 he looked the part of a college freshman or sophomore however in the picture from Armistice Day almost 3 decades later he looks to have maybe aged 5 years. Now almost a century later the man he knew as Brother Charles looks at best another 5 years older. The accounts of those former war comrades who saw him enter Europe in WWII all commented that he hadn't aged much if at all since they last saw him. He was caught by a notion that would have made no sense in his mind before this day. He came to believe as did most rational people a gunshot from an AK 47 to the neck and near the region of the kidneys would be a sentence of death. He now has been presented with the possibility that for one man that may not be so. He was further challenged now to find that another man who looked to be his twin but for a few more years of age was also bullet proof and was shot definitively with bullets with lethal accuracy at least a century ago. Is an immortal man or nearly immortal man anything more absurd then a man who was immune to bullets. Which fit under Occam's razor based on what he had before him: That there are 2 nearly identical bullet proof men, or just one. To his mind the answer became clear. The bigger problem came to him with what to do with these clues that hardly proved anything. Could he go down to the conspiracy theory circuit? Could he ruin his career and become a laughing stock? Was that worth it to know if an Immortal man was real, and with all the possibility that implied. If their was one man, where their others? Where did they come from? Are they gods? Are they aliens? Why are they unknown to the world? Will they deplete our precious bodily fluids? He laughed as he remembered the line from Dr. Strangelove. He laughed as he realized he was crossing a line from mere absurdity into absolute insanity. Fredrick was reminded of his days in college and looking at pictures of Napoleon on his white horse, George Washington ascending into heaven, and Socialist Realism covering so many communist leaders. Men being given in art what this man had on his own seemingly from birth. He still had his manuscript to work on but he needed a break from the Iron Sergeant and this obsession he had developed over him and the strange priest he saw in Nuevo Laredo.
As he was working on his mexico manuscript haunted by the prospect of a man who could not die, his publisher called him with an offer. Go to Tunisia and take a look into some of the violence that had begun to spring up there and make a report on it. There he started to collect details on a non profit school that was funded by a mix of western and non western charitable sources that was financed by a Mr. Clark Donner. Clark Donner was said to be a Canadian importer who put much of his own personal finance and more of his personal charm into getting the donations. In the great stories of Thomas Friedman and his flat world guys like Mr. Donner were the hero. What made Mr. Donner an even bigger hero was his anonimity and humility in his work. The principal of the school in a devilish English said “Mr Donner very much believes as Socrates and Plato did the key to getting a nation on the right path starts through its children. “ The principal had never met Mr. Donner, a man she said was a recluse who lived in the outskirts of Tunisia, but he was a great man. A lot of emails and a lot of use of social networking to promote and work together. He was trying she said to finance similar schools in Egypt to take advantage of the revolutionary changes there. As he was going about the school there he saw a picture of the ground breaking. In the background was Mr. Donner, a man to whom Mr. Mann was familiar with. “Once is a fluke, twice a coincidence, but three times is a trend.” Fredrick said to himself as he left the school. He sent in to his editor his article about the school that was giving children the space to try and find what a free, open, and Islamic society would be. But there he was, a man who avoided pictures so well left him with enough bread crumbs to trace him down.
Fredrick went to speak with one of his sources who had worked for the prior regime. “I need a firearm.” Fredrick said matter of factly. The former police colonel was stunned by the statement. “This is a difficult proposition to do even with matters in flux why is that?” He lied to the former police official. “ I have been investigating a source and I am afraid if I go deeper he might kill me. And the only way I can get close to him is to do it without any protection from a body guard.” The colonel soberly remarked “ Aren't you some kind of hippie? Have you ever shot a gun?” Fredrick said as the plan came to fruition in his mind “If I need to fire this gun, I won't have to worry about accuracy all that much.” He wondered a bit about this plan as it came into his head. While it had been a while this man was a soldier at one time. It was crazy to think that this idea would work. He could stop me. Fredrick went to his car shortly after he got his gun.
And this brought him back to the car. It took a little bit of time to track down where Mr. Donner lived. The house blended in to the neighborhood and you would hardly expect a person of means to live there in hiding in Tunisia. He took a long breath as he went over his options. “I could ask him, and he could lie to me. I could ask him, and he could tell me the truth, or I can know the truth without any doubt.” He repeated this to himself several times. His mind was disturbed and he struggled hard with his respiration. “If I am right I will know something that is impossible, but if I am wrong I will murder a man. I will murder a man and if I am caught I will be executed. I will have murdered a good man of noble aim and noble purpose.” At this point in time he had already committed time and resources to this obsession, and if he does not stop it he will never be free from it. What he was thinking of doing was absolutely insane, an act of a deranged mind, but if he is right something more deeply disturbing is going on in the world. “I have to know the truth, no matter what.” he said to himself.
The door was of exceptionally poor quality. Picking the lock was actually a lot simpler then he was told it would be due to the poor quality of the lock. His mentor as a reporter taught him some rudimentary burglary skills. “Some times you need to bust into a locked office or filing cabinet to get the story” he told him. Fredrick at the time was aghast at such a violation of journalistic ethics. Now he understood the hunger to get to the truth at any cost that made this knowledge vital. His hands were calm as he picked the lock and opened up the door. He left tool marks on the door and as he walked into the house his conscious sane mind kept reminding him of this. He made his way through the kitchen, down the hall, and to the bedroom where “Hugo” was sleeping. He was about to fire the gun before he put in his ear plugs. He extended his arms out and placed the gun barrel to his temples. He mouths to himself “Please god, don't let me be wrong.” The shot fired out, and a second one from elsewhere in the Tunisian night fired off. The mushroomed remains of the bullet hit the side of the pillow and Hugo pulled out a knife and quickly brought it to the throat of Fredrick pinning him against the wall. “I knew that you didn't die in Mexico, I was right.” Fredrick looked wildly into the eyes of the man he just shot. “Hugo” pulled back his knife. “You were in Nuevo Laredo? Fuck!” He took the knife back and loosened the pressure on Fredrick as he dropped to his knees knowing that while he might die later he is not going to die today.
III. Man meets Superman
“Do you normally go around shooting people?” The Iron Sergeant turned to his guest as he lead him into the kitchen. “No” Fredrick meekly replied. “I kind of went a little nuts. A bullet proof man who is immortal.” He paused and did a sharp turn to look him in the eye. “What do you know?” Fredrick started to talk. “I know your father was one of the founding Scientists at The University of Colorado, and I know you played fullback at Columbia. Well I know that for a fact now. There was a possibility you were another person who just happened to be immortal and indestructible. But the look in your eyes gives me the certainty that you are Ulysses Benton. “ He sighed “ Somehow I don't think I could lie to you that I am one of a secret race of indestructible men. Just tell me did you find me on the internet?” Fredrick pensively sat down in the kitchen “ Partially yes sir.”
The Iron Sergeant starts to make a Turkish coffee on his oven. “Call me Hugo, I have had a lot of names over the years but Ulysses died a while ago metaphorically. I really shouldn't be surprised you shot me. When people find out what I am it usually leads to something bad happening. “ Fredrick perks up. “But you inspired your unit in World War I to heroism.” Hugo chuckled “Despite what Woodrow Wilson lead people to believe we weren't fighting to make the world safe for democracy or any other noble goal. It was one team of Imperial powers trying to assert their imperial view of the world on another group. President Wilson learned that the hard way at the diplomacy table. I fought because I was good at it, and unlike other wars the French had me fight against these was against the best soldiers and the best weapons possible.” Fredrick's brow furrowed. But Hugo continued “If the Frenchmen took from my service inspiration and that allowed them to live and be successful there is something good that came of it. But people who followed me aren't as indestructible as I am. They died because that’s what every other man in the world does. I live on, but I am trying to hide from the world so I don't consume anyone else in my wake.”
He poured the Coffee out “I've made a major effort to hide from the eyes of the world. You've found me in the middle east and Latin America, but I’ve been elsewhere in my time. So what do I need to do to have you forget about me and forget about me and tell me what I need to know about how you found me?” Fredrick took a long sigh. “Why do you want to hide from the world? You've made a serious effort on making the lives of those people in Nuevo Laredo better and the people here in Tunisia better, why wouldn't you want to inspire people and be a leader. “ Hugo laughed “ I've been there and done that. My skills at trying to apply some of the wisdom of living a century took a lot of failures to get what I have been able to do now. And I don't even know if these acorns are going to build mighty oaks just yet. I don't even know if its to late for me to plant these trees. But I've seen the world at this cross roads before. If we can be turned back from it people need to be inspired to try.” Fredrick passionately slammed his fists into the table “That’s what I mean, why don't you inspire them on a larger scale.” Hugo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You remind me of a friend of mine. Its people like you and Edgar that made me turn my back on the world. You aren't ready. I have had 100 years and quite frankly I am not sure I am ready. I got to see in 40 years the coming of the ultimate forms of human power that dominate the world today. And I barely understand it today, I am not sure its something that anyone can truly understand. “ He went to his refrigerator and went to grab some eggs and cheese. “Ready for what?” He didn't turn around as Fredrick begun to talk. “Well I think you need a good breakfast. I find that when I shot my first man I was rather hungry. However I think you were asking about what I said you weren't ready for. The notion of an immortal man made you want to test his immortality the hard way. I am not sure I need to go into further detail about how you are not ready.” Fredrick lit up his unfiltered Camel “I am kind of lost here, there is just so much that is going on I think I need to hear it all from the beginning. I think that’s the only way to understand this all, to make sense of any of it.” Hugo laughed. “So your saying we shouldn't beginning the story in the middle or end of the story?” He began to cut some vegetables and mushrooms in with the eggs. “The truth of the matter is I am not sure I know how the story actually began. All I can do is tell you what I know. I can do my best to explain to you why its better for you and the rest of the world to forget about me and give me my peace.” And so Hugo began his story.
IV. The Creation's Story
“My father came of age during the Civil War. His father had some money and means back east. But he went into the war. My father was inspired by President Lincoln and the notion of abolition. The idea to him of men being held as slaves was morally abhorrent. And he felt the notion of a region dependent on agriculture rather then developing with industry was an anathema to him. His family came from Connecticut but I didn't really know that much about them beyond my grandfather was a man of some means. After the war where my Father had earned some distinction he used some of his family money to study the natural sciences and eventually earned his PHD. He marred my mother and she came from Norway or Denmark. I wish I remember which old country my mother comes from. I think that was part of why I never really knew my father's parents. I think they found the notion of their son marrying an immigrant rather disgraceful. Mom never talked much about her parents back in the old country. I take it she didn't think much of her family back there. She was a cold woman but had a strong nature. He got a job working as a researcher for Berkeley. He would get information on animals and nature in the wilds of Colorado and did studies about the nature and animals and the like. It was during this period he came up with the formula.”
“My father told me several stories about where the formula came from. Spider venom, a bunch of pseudo scientific mumbo jumbo about alkalines, and other stories. I remember vaguely the air ships they saw at the end of the 19th century and I wondered if it was something from people from outer space or maybe an ancient Chinese secret. I had some of his old notebooks but none of it made any sense. After a while I just decided it would be better to burn them then to have anyone figure out the truth of what it was. Whatever it was I remember father talked about using the formula on insects first. He talked about how the insects naturally grew stronger and more virulent. He mixed venoms and vital fluids from the insects into the formula. It always seemed weird to me after I had some formal science classes in science about how unscientific the story my father told me was. But then much of what he told me happened when I was a kid so I suppose it could just be my memory of how he did it might be deficient. Then he found a Fox who was about to give birth and he trapped it and injected it with the formula. Only one Kit was born to the Fox. The fox grew faster and was to maturity quicker then was the norm. It was on the larger end of normal for a Fox in size. Father noted the Fox had an extra intellect to it and was for more curious then the norm for an animal. Unfortunately when you live in a rural area a faster, stronger, smarter fox means a lot of chickens and small fowl would die rather quickly. When he turned on my father's chickens he killed it with an Axe. The poor thing lost its fear of man because of the formula. That ultimately was its undoing. This was a story my mother told me when I was about 12 or 13. She felt I was old enough to know and I could understand what this would mean to my own life.
I am not sure I could adequately explain what went through my father's mind to experiment with his unborn child and wife. But then Jack Kevorkian did an experiment on himself and several of his own friends with dead human blood. Their experiment nearly killed them. If you have this belief in science and this belief about the ultimate rightness of your science to change human beings for the better the idea of killing yourself, your wife, or your unborn child probably isn't that difficult. I do remember my mother was quite angry with my father when she found out. She recounted this to me several times. But she said 'You will not be my Fox. And your father has already killed his fox.' My mother had a better understanding of human nature. She knew that a Stronger, Faster, Smarter human being would be feared by other men at some instinctive level. So she applied a good amount of Lutheran self denial to my childhood growing up. My father had this idealistic vision of science and he viewed my gifts similarly. He was posed with a thinking that any denial of such things was an absurd and small minded vision.
From my own experience I find that my mother and father were both right. The strong, faster , and smarter man is more often then not feared. But my father was right as well. The power of a belief in a man or a thing could unite people and make them find new and interesting ways to be human. In the case of Germany in world war II and Stalinist, Maoist, or Juche related communist society they were more sinister ways of being men. And I also found that being a strong man didn't make you any more likely to be free of the wake of other strong men. But when I was growing up my nearest neighbor was a good 10-15 miles away. And I didn't go to the one room school house till I ran out of the ability of my mother and father to educate me. Which took some quite some time. It was about the same time I was working on my applications to colleges at the time. When I was growing up I spent more time alone in the woods. In the woods I can chase down wild animals, I could wrestle with bears, I could toss boulders around. I was unburdened by the restraints my mother taught me. I was free to use my exceptional abilities. Its fun trying to outrun a deer in the woods. As the deer looked at you with an inability to understand the strangeness before it. But truth be told I was hardly scientific or disciplined in my explorations of my abilities. But then what child is disciplined when he explored his own bodies. Beyond that and my limited schooling I spent a lot of time working what crops and animals we had. My mother had this idea and my father agreed with it. What little patience I learned and had at that point in time was tempered into me working on the farm we had.
My father talked about me going to Berkeley but I was his creation more then I was his son. And even Frankenstein's creation went off to explore the world on his own as his own man. When the letter from Columbia came to our house I was rather ecstatic. I was no longer the farm boy and I was certainly free I thought of being the experiment that needed to be managed. My father was going to forbid me to go, and I stood up to my father for the first and only time in my life. “And what are you going to do, stop me?” A simple act of childhood rebellion against a parent but from me it was so much more. I was so stupid. When some one who could could knock a bear to the ground with a punch saying such words in my father popped the bubble of his optimism. It was my mother who earned me his apathetic acceptance. My father rarely kept touch with me when I was away living in New York at the time. And I when I left New York lost my mother. It wasn't till the 1920s when I came home that I was able to find their graves and give them my respect. I had went to war and killed many men and had my person-hood crafted in a different crucible. I wondered if I was the man my parents wanted me to be at that time.
The big city was a blur and my education was a blur to me and my experience at the university. My classes were not challenges to me. That is not to say my education as a metallurgist in the school of mines wasn't intellectually stimulating. I also minored in the classics which was also quite intellectually stimulating. But the classes seemed to just float by. I was able to demonstrate satisfactory proficiency but I was not excelling to the levels I think I could have. But their was something else new at the university I was able to excel at. Today Football is the king of all sports but this was the first decade of football. And I was a full back during a time when people got seriously injured in football. I was out of the game a decade when the President of the United States threatened to shut down the sport. I was able to loosen myself up and be free. I used my superior skills to dominate my opponents without providing to many injuries to my opponents. More often then not I was able to move faster then them and avoid their tackles. But the voice of my mother kept in the back of my head keeping me mindful. I was certainly fearful of being to aggressive and exposing myself to others. I remembered my mother telling me the story of the Fox and my father killing it. I remembered how he looked at me as I was leaving for school. I was free on the gridiron, but I kept myself tempered. That said I got my first taste of Glory. And I had to say that glory gave me something that diligent work in school never could. It filled something in me, it filled a craving in my heart. Though the physical challenge of football soon were not enough for me. Nor was the glory and status of being a big man on campus.
I started hitting up At Shows. This was back when Professional Wrestling was less morality play and more athletic competition. After the first few I hit I became the wrestler that took all comers. I quickly learned how too work matches as a hooker after they sent 3 or 4 hookers after me. Wrestling was different then. This was before Gotch-Hackenschmidt. Matches were often shoots and were for other men up to the hands of fate. I won several good purses before returning on occasions to draw larger purses and larger crowds. There was something exhilarating in knowing that professional gamblers who planned for every constituency was going to be taken for all his money. A guy who made sure that every transaction wound up benefiting him and making him wealthy. I worked circuses and carnivals as strongman , and I was involved in various types of boxing matches. Bare knuckle boxing was my favorite type of Boxing. However I always made sure the matches ended quickly. I didn't want to look to free of abrasion and bruises back when I got such things. Ultimately that was my own undoing. It was the moment when I killed a man for the first time and I can't remember his name. But as much as I wanted to end this quickly he wanted to last. I don't even remember what the bonus was for a man lasting 3 full rounds with me by he gave it everything he had. The longer it lasted the quicker I tried to end it. I thought I was pulling the punches enough but I remember the nook on his face when the hemorrhage hit his brain. This was barely sanctioned and the promoter never knew my real name. And he didn't know that I ducked out the back of the bar either.
It was about a week later and their were no police officers or investigators coming for me. But I had more important things then law that came for me. I turned into that fox and murdered a chicken, It sounds kind of funny when you say that, but that’s what it was. There was no creator coming for me with an Axe.. There was no scolding mother. So was I a killer? You know what the answer I had? I didn't know the answer. But I needed a place like I had when I was kid. A place where I didn't have to worry . This sounds racist as hell but that place was Africa, the extremes of Asia. It was the places in the dawn of modernity where Imperialism came with a gun and a bayonet to bring civilization. The only question was how to get there. I dropped out of school and found my way to the docks. I worked on fishing boats and freighters. I heard stories from my father about the French Foreign Legion.
Franco-Dahomean Wars were not particularly interesting wars. It reminded me a lot of my early wrestling matches. I was fighting people who were far from my equal and far from the equal of the french forces. Killing people on purpose was a very different matter then killing animals, or killing a man accidentally. However I knew I was quicker and harder to injure. I was tougher and faster, so the fear that an african tribesman with some rifles might kill me was the furthest thing from my mind at the time. They were hardly professional soldiers and I was in a professional and legendary army. I was a bit of a jerk with my certainty of my own strength the more seasoned soldiers didn't think much of me. I was later transferred to China to fight in the Boxer Rebellion.
The command transferred me to China I was with several Americans from the foreign legion going to China. It was nice to meet other Americans and here what was going on back in the country. I was wanting to go back home but the truth of the matter was, I was free in the fight, and I was free in war. But I was also in mediocrity. But what the Chinese had in the way of the military took things up to a new level. It gave him the next step in his quest for greater and greater challenges and innovation. This was the point where I began to get a sense of military tactics. The truth was I was becoming comfortable as a solider. I also have to admit that there was a comfort in being normal and fading into the background. But that was not to last ultimately. Like with football I learned to take a taste of glory, and take a taste of adulation. That small taste was not to last either. “
The eggs were finally done into a well formed omelet. The mix of peppers, unions, cheese, and lamb made a fine mixture. Fredrick took his first bites into the omelet. The strong coffee helped Fredrick take a focus on all that had come to his mind. The narrative of hugo's life was a lot to take in. “You don't talk like a historical throwback.” Fredrick commented as he was eating. “Time is relative. The more you have of it the faster it goes. The longer it is the more grounded you are in what you hold to. And I have never been stuck in the past. If anything my problem is being to stuck in the moment. Its taken me a while to cultivate the patience and perspective of an immortal, and I might end up dying some day. Then that would be disappointing. But I have more story to tell yet.”
V.The war to end all wars
When you were a soldier in those days you had two molds to fall into. The mold of Cincinatus resuming your plowing till the Republic needed you again, or the role of the idle weapon of war kept pacified with drink and routine. I was stationed in Tunisia during the time before the great war. It was during this time I took to learn Arabic and some of the local customs of the place. My boyish good look and charms were commented on by the French officers. A man who seemed not to age for a decade wasn't much of a big deal, but two was suspicious. A man who served in war and survived such challenges as you faced and didn't age either earned some resentment. I was thinking about leaving the legion but I was not sure what I could do to fill the drive for vocation I had in my heart. But I finally got to face the full scope of war.
The orders from Paris moved in Foreign legion members who were from central powers states and moved the rest of us from North Africa to the thick of things. I was put in charge of a group of largely green legionaries. That was where the legend began. Up until this point I was largely lucky. I had the sense to be behind cover when I was being fired at. Or taking a superior position from the high ground. And you would think with trench warfare it was harder to get shot. But I got hit by a German sniper the witness who passed on the legend of the Iron Sergeant was a French Canadian. When the bullet hit me I thought I was dead. I fell back into the trench the bullet shredded part of my shirt and my skin had a ever so slight burn on it and the remains of the bullet lay in the mud beside me. Francois was able to hit the sniper with a grenade when he saw me get back. Francois didn't tell my story during report, because it was an insane story, but in the chow line the story got whispered again. But the idea of being bullet proof hit me like a ton of bricks.
The trenches were a dark inhuman place. People became focused on survival which was a great challenge every day. But I knew I didn't have to fear bullet, gas, trench foot, or grenade. I wasn't willing to test my luck on mortars or heavier artillery. This allowed me to be exceptionally heroic. This was different then my other times cutting loose. War in this gray dreary world made people see a lot of things and say a lot of things. But the truth that went down in the papers was entirely another. I hadn't been this free since my childhood. And I realized the power of an exemplar. I realized that the men around me were braver because even those who denied what they saw me do. The legend says we were a highly decorated unit, which was true, but we weren't the most decorated. But we had many more commendations then we had decorations. We also had a high rate of injuries and casualties. But I was in a place in the thick of things where I didn't think of it. I was the point of the spear and I loved it.
People talk with romance in the war about Christmas truces or various forms of football or they talk about the nihilism of the trenches. But what I saw in it was something else. I didn't need to worry about killing or harming people. The Germans were just clucking chickens to me. But I wasn't a fox, I was a dog on some the chain of another master. At that time the challenge of the war took away much of my loathing for the french imperial footprint. Not out of any sense that the Germanic imperial perspective was any better or worse. I didn't need to think in the war and I was just a big bold hero. That was the romance I was caught up in. And when the American's came this time it was very different. When the Europeans were just in the fighting it was the balance of power, but when the Americans came in the war was going to end. Victory became a new ambrosia to me different then glory. The war was winnable, and I could play a small part in winning the war. I fought harder, took bigger risks, and my men followed me into the maw of hell.
When the war came to a close though I had learned the way to balance what my mother taught me and what my father taught me. People when inspired by a bold and powerful example could do amazing things. If they believed in something great they would do amazing things. That’s why when the war was over I stayed in Paris for the peace talks and peace conference. I was looking for an education that college never could give me. I took to observing the flow of politics on the larger scale. I looked at them to see if I could learn from them something about power. The first thing I learned was how short sighted people with real power were. Men who were trying to divide up the world amongst themselves. Foolish idealists who felt their beliefs were so pure that they would just inspire others. I was quickly dissatisfied with what I was learning. These men were also petty to people who gave them about as much as they got. It became clear to me that I needed to go home. I needed to see power on the streets of New York and Washington D.C. And I needed to see if I could find a way to use my power to make a change when I got home. I made it home in time for new years 1920. I had been away from the country for 30 years. I should have looked like a man in his late 40s but I looked no more then my 20s. Knowing your free from unnatural causes taking your life is one thing, but I came to realize I am free from the most natural cause of death possible. I looked to have aged a few years so I thought I had the possibility of growing old eventually. But all I have seen is that the hands of my internal clock have slowed down more as I grow older. The legal documentation I had from the French government was sufficient to help me return home.
VI. No Love for a Prophet in his own hometown.
“Once I got to New York I got back in touch with some friends. They told me about my father. He died a penniless professor. My mother passed on as well. I wept when I found their home and graves in disarray. I had some money that I had been investing before that point that I used to attend to those matters. The irony was my father died in debt. I ended up having to pay some of my fathers debts, but I couldn't do it as his son. At the time that burned me, but now in the fullness of time I learned to let that bit of my ego go free. I decided to go back home to New York and find myself some honest work. Work that would give me a chance to feel the corroded artery of the city. As a war hero and calling a friend or two of my “father” allowed me to get a job in the bank as a loan officer. It gave me a chance to see people who were high and people who were low. And it gave me a chance to see people who were in desperate need.
During the war I honed an ability to have a strong recall. It wasn't like a power that I had. It wasn't even like my intellect. It was something I learned when I put my focus on the fact I made choices where people lived and died by my words and deeds. That helped put your mind right and keep you focused. When I found people who were so desperate in need in their finances I went and watched them. I started to get to know what would cause people to fall into dire straights. And I would take time to learn about the criminals and vandals that would beset these people on their path. As I did this I would send tips to law enforcement and the media. At first I thought I was doing it to try to fight back against what was wrong. But more often then not it should me reporters who were just as wicked and as corrupt. I wasn't ready to act though. I did have to follow the trails further up the line to learn something about who was doing what to whom. And I began to learn a great deal. You should never blame on some one an act as a form of evil, unless you could prove it wasn't foolishness. You should never believe some one with malice who lacked any sense of discipline or sense. Your more likely to see some one act badly in foolishness then with forethought.
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