Friday, 22 February 2019
Our Blackcaps have played two tests against Bangladesh at Seddon Park, in December 2001 and again in February 2010. Suffice to say we won both handsomely (2001 by an Innings and 52 runs, 2010 by 121 runs).
Notable stats from those tests
Mark Richardson - 143
Craig McMillan 106
Shane Bond 4/47
Chris Cairns 7/53
Martin Guptill 189
Brendon McCullum 185
Bowling stats shared, no stand outs.
So for Test Three there between the two teams?
Judging by this Bangladesh team it's going to be another whitewash. We have batting potential right down to 7 and a very well balanced bowling attack. I think the Deshies need a bit of luck with the toss but Kane has been on the money lately. I think Kane will use his side and back himself to bat first and bat themselves into a great position.
Then again the sporting Gods can turn the tables.
Monday, 18 February 2019
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Frank Hayes (1888–1923) was a jockey who, on June 4, 1923, won a steeplechase after suffering a fatal heart attack halfway through the race at Belmont Park in New York State, USA.
The thirty-five-year-old Hayes had never won a race before and in fact by profession was not actually a jockey but a horse trainer and longtime stableman. The horse, a 20-1 outsider called Sweet Kiss, was owned by Miss A.M. Frayling.Hayes apparently died somewhere in the middle of the race, but his body remained in the saddle throughout. Sweet Kiss eventually crossed the finish line, winning by a head with Hayes technically still atop her back, making him the first, and thus far only, jockey known to have won a race after death.
Hayes' death was not discovered until Miss Frayling and race officials came to congratulate him shortly after the race. It was suggested that the fatal heart attack may have been brought on by Hayes' extreme efforts to meet the weight requirements, possibly followed by the excitement of riding to the front of the pack. The newspaper reported he had slimmed down from 142 pounds to 130 pounds in a very short time.
After the discovery of Hayes' death, all further post-race formalities were waived by the Jockey Club, the result being declared official without the customary weighing in.Hayes, dressed in his colorful racing silks, was buried three days later. The horse was never in a race again. It was claimed that Sweet Kiss was nicknamed "Sweet Kiss of Death" for the rest of her life.
All info above from Wiki. My addition:
This was the first time?? Suggests it had happened again.
Friday, 25 January 2019
The perks of having a wildlife exponent, the places we went as kids following Dad. He had been a Fisheries inspector from 1960 to 1963 based in Invercargill (Bluff) and a Wildlife officer based in Lumsden from 1964 to 1966. We hardly saw him but when we did is was fun. We relocated to North East Valley in Dunedin in 1966-67 where Dad was at University of Otago. But as a young kid being in the city was bloody boring Our next move was to be a monumental growth spurt.
I remember well the train ride from Dunedin to Christchurch, the Old Southerner Steam Train. In those days railwy was a busy thing as many back then couldn't afford Cars, and I remember the coal smoke in the carriages and smelly people.
At this stage we kids didn't have a clue about Arthurs Pass but the Railcar ride there was a wonderment. Stopping on Viaducts and viewing the drop, but for me the majestic sight of the Alps unfolding ahead was sublime. For the very first time as a 9 year old boy I felt at home. On our arrival at Arhurs Pass we went into a motel but soon moved into a National Parks house. A very old 1930's bungalow. But it soon became home - well more like a bed as we had school and we were busy being kids. I made great mates with Barry and Fiona McNichol, our neighbours.
So apart from School, what other things kept us busy? We built dams, we climbed all over Little Red Engine and his sister locomotive hunter - Ivanhoe, we listened to the Little Spotted Kiwi in the bush across the road, we got up to mischief by putting detonators on the rail bridge, we climbed what to us were mountains. By the way both locomotive shunters ended up in Ferrymead rail museum. Just to add, we travelled on the goods trains every Wednesday afternoon for sports day in Otira (through the Otira Rail Tunnel). We rode in the Mail van and mail is very comfortable.
And we had two others pastimes. We trapped possums for $2.50 a pelt, and we picked wild Black berries and raspberries - both were growing wild. But my enjoyment was to come to a halt. Dad fell unwell and when Mum went into Christchurch us kids were looked after by Barry's Mum. I was struck down with Bronchitis, nearly dying.
The reason I am writing this - The Karma Bus is here.
Saturday, 19 January 2019
A series of Challenge poems. There were 26 book titles in all to choose from, so I made a point to write about all of them in one sitting.
I - Dream Science
Charlie lay on the floor,
sparks of sodium chloride flew above his head,
dyed purple, the beaker bubbled dreams,
a psychology major out of his depth
played with the chemistry of mind.
II Missing Pieces
He awoke from his sidewalk stop,
the booze worn off and morning light
streaming into a fogged compartment,
he scruffed back his disheveled hair
placed the key in the ignition. Power!
Nowhere too soon, left nor right,
no straight ahead on the gears,
accelerating forward and backward, nothing
out of the car onto thin ice, slipping
and there, the missing pieces, no wheels.
It was a good night, a worse day.
III Watch Time Fly
His legs were fast, damned quick
flying like a suited business man
to a very late appointment, sadly
he lost control and tumbled, wrist watch
catapulting into somersaults,
dying in a crescendo of Timex parts.
IV A Stone Gone Mad
When I first saw this title, I thought
"Stoner gone mad" and thought, yeah, true!
but no, 'twas a granite or igneous particle,
off on a rant or a crazed flight into infamy,
someone’s window. smashed beyond belief,
yeah, could have been a stoner going mad.
V Life Support
Delilah breathed heavily, the breath of a saviour,
clutched Samson to her expansive bosom,
he stirred some,
and she clutched tighter, the scissors near his heart,
he groaned, not sure why he was where he was,
and felt her heartbeat through his ear,
the sharp metal close to his chest, felt his hair
and gaped anew, how could she, do I live or die?
VI Life Estates
"And I leave all my estate to William and Shane,
my two homosexual partners, they served me well,
to my sons and daughters I leave my life,
breathe me, feel my cold dead skin,
and cry, for you have pained me when all I seek
was joy and hope, but you fought over me,
and you fight forever, with yourselves,
not my lovers. They have always loved me. Life!"
VII A Cry in the Night
"Your turn, darling" she whispered to me,
the same me tired from a 12 hour shift,
the same me that loves her dearly when
she stays home all day and sleeps, when baby sleeps,
but I love her, and move to the room next door,
the crying in the night, urgent, nappy change
and I smell the detritus of infant expulsion, reach
for the new disposable, change Lucifer, clean
and put back to bed, contented and happy,
I sleep, and then he calls again, food this time,
"Your turn, darling" I whisper as I drift off to sleep.
$35 dollars for Jay walking,
A sunny day, no clouds.
I am alright, just dandy.
The cord was sinewy, very sinewy.
Yes, everything is fine.
Bibliographical Octet Parts IX - XVI
IX The Pull of the Moon
Saurus and Junipon, stars of nights heaven
pull together apart, a love dance
of epic proportions across the scene,
and lovers dance too, on Earth and know
the moment when their love consumes,
look up to the dark night sky and see
the shuddering as each pulls on the Moon.
X Trial by Water
Your Honour, I beg of you
hark the words of my daughter
stake my heart to your desk,
I expect a Trial By Water.
I will be vindicated by the wet,
and the evidence we shall give,
like fish in water swimming,
we shall walk free and heartily live.
Fuck dude, bad buzz man, alliteration
Sucked seventy saucy savannas succulently,
and dreamed of being somewhere else, punctuation
had a thought: "Fuck man! What Happened?", inspiration
I walked my memory back in rerun, saw the beginning
raged at what was to come,
dark patches as smoke roiled,
and then the Flashback ended as I toked another joint.
XII The Sibling
Sisyphus, great poet, hark thine words of joy,
thy daughters repose, garnered for all to peruse,
doth thou maketh past the watchdog at yon gate,
sail youthfully upon sword of indifference, his son,
and sibling rivalry doth endeth in demise of one,
or other. Harketh now, sibling, live.
XIII The Third Twin
Three mountains stand,
triangular in disposition,
one next to the other
next to the other
and only ever two visible
from any viewpoint, twins
three twins, Herecule, Junas,
Serecles, only three,
yet any two together
is a twin without the other.
What of the Third Twin?
Made invisible by tricks of light
and made visible by tricks of motion,
but always when visible
another is not, the Third Twin,
it's destiny to be alone, unseen.
XIV Arc Light
Two diodes, standing in a lab,
one transmitting, one receiving,
between, a fluorescent blue flash,
an arc of light pure, energy raw,
manufactured, yet real and solid,
reaching from one point t'other.
"See it? Now, there, pretty eh?"
XV From Potter's Field
Bruiser walks the furrowed lane,
furrowed from weeks of rain
and wagon wheels, and the clay
droppings from the Potters field.
His daily grind, hail, rain, snow,
to walk that lane, dig that field,
carry that clay back to yon pottery,
and to mould it into a figure or two.
From the field is born art,
and the ability to create life,
make things people see and touch
and want to take home with them
all for money, and love t'is said.
Left unread, the How To book
for the Potters Wheel is oft
discarded into the Potters Field
left untouched, true art is born.
XVI Leaving Pico
Here I was, 7 days there and now leaving Pico,
Little dirt town, in the middle of the back and beyond,
no dirty town water, clean folk, crime a measure of no policemen,
I had left my mark, spend many dollars in the saloon,
yet all too soon, I was busted for a drifter, and now,
I was leaving Pico for sure. for reasons beyond my control,
Two bit town, twenty buildings, mostly houses, one store,
a saloon with barber shop attached, oh and the lady's hairdresser's
attached to the store, each place in a place and a purpose for each,
Pico, doctor's surgery closed past ten years, too small for one,
and the sheriff, well, he went when the state budget forgot,
forgot that Pico existed still, yet it does, I have been there.
And now I am leaving it, leaving that place of no identity,
yet I feel at home there, my identity fits the bill, the reason Pico
and the likes of me exist, because we just do, and bugger the world,
Now you see me turning, facing my destiny, my life,
my anonymity takes it's place with the lack of identity,
I mingle, lost in the crowded saloon, amongst the voices familiar.
I can leave Pico, but you cant take the Pico out of me!
Bibliographical Nonet Parts XVII - XXV
XVII Blood and Gold
Morbidica, the larycose mortician and druid,
parted the flaps and inserted fluid,
like an ancient priest practising arts of old
and removed the Blood, inserted the Gold,
a rich vein of conceit you have never seen,
as a shining finger washed through a remaining spleen,
the time had come for the service now
time to transplant, human offal for cow,
the service would be as they always had,
dogs barking, cats meowing, witches so glad.
XVIII Bad Memory
Sweat pours off my aching brow and I wonder,
why this damned nightmare day after day,
headaches from the incessant pounding of it's rhythm,
and I etch out the times it leaves me breathless,
minus my true direction, the dream sits as a
bad memory that wants to erode my very being
and I cringe,
shock back into myself,
try hard to be free,
to kick the damn thing away,
yet it clings to me every night and mocks my existence.
Climatis Aurora, high in the sky,
cutting the blue, as ice cuts my life,
stuck in a floe, arctic bound, stalled
and all aboard freezing as fuel runs low,
steel hull crumpling under icebound fury,
will I survive this torment?
Northern Star points my way north,
yet my motion does not mirror the ocean,
I am frozen solid in a liquid prison
prismatic light refracts and sends off a sight
to behold, light pictures dance in the cold,
make way, rescue ensues, cutting through, icebound.
XX Cards of Grief
He may as well have held a pack of guns in his hand,
each one turned shooting a pain into my gambling heart,
each turn of the deck stretching the rope round my neck,
each flick of his wrist a shot in the dark and a hit,
He may as well held my fate in his hands, he did!
I walked from the gambling hall, alive,
wondered at that final hand,
how my cards turned green and gold,
and his turned with grief,
I had everything on it, and won,
took his money, car, wife. and though brief,
I read his cards of grief.
XXI Blood Music
Mozart wrote an unknown suite,
a tribute to the butchers of the streets of Venice,
and it was lost to time, a menace in it's simplicity,
true duplicity saw it's demise, yet surprise,
it lives, Blood Music, for the pageantry of the dervish,
and devilish peons of the city squares
dancing to light footed mood and full bodied groove,
and the music spills on the floor and follows the trails
of red gore as they pass into history again.
XXII A Darker Place
I've been there before, the black hole,
a place to hide from the light, the fear,
a place to dwell in my own miserable hell,
a darker place no one can share, nowhere
a place to be when I feel the mood to hide,
and I do, all the time, hide from me, my life,
but for all the darkness it offers I can't get away
from the bright light that is my wife, she always finds me.
XXIII Ancient of Days
Days of Sumerians, and Mesopotamia,
days of Sanskrit beginnings and the Indus,
the moments when Ottoman and Turk hated,
Alexander the Great spread Greek culture,
like a vulture of passion, looking to be Dionysus,
and the Romans crucified men only, women who knows?
Bodecia swung an axe, very bad BO she had,
and some Arabs wrote down what someone had to say,
in the Ancients Days.
The archaeologists dig with trowels and tools,
and read the signs that tell us of those times,
tell us that Tutankhamen was a boy prince, godlike,
let's us know that the Israelites travelled as the book says,
confirms the word of mouth of the Persians
and Indians who could have told you all this,
and history holds sway,
from Ancient Days.
XXIV By the Light of the Moon
I sang a song for a second, remembered it's name
realised that this poem and it were not the same,
that wasn't meant to rhyme,
I really don't have anymore time,
By the light of the Silvery Moon
sounds better than this poems tune,
and the cat ran away with the spoon,
By the light of the Moon.
XXV Fear Nothing
Stand proud, puff out your chest, and always
do your best to survive, fear nothing at all,
face the music, face reality, and fly,
fly in the face of fear, and you will get there.
Believe in yourself and others abilities
things you all have to face that which you fear
and it becomes clear what to do, fight
for what you feel is right, fear naught.
Take a deep breath, and puff, huff and puff
your chest out, be rough, and kind, just be,
the best you can, run with the wind, faster
than the chasing dogs barking at your heels, no fear.
No Fear, no worries, no need to say sorry
to everyone that you step on, upon the night
you know it is alright to hold no fear, and hold it
dear and near your heart, and fear won't get a start.
Monday, 14 January 2019
In those 11 matches there have been three series won by the Blackcaps (75/76 Result 2-0, 80/81 result 2-0 and a long time before drinks 13/14 Result 4-0)
There have been 2 draws, with BCCI winning the other six series. BCCI won the last series 3-2 (16/17)
That 13/14 series was a 4-0 result for us. Be interested if someone in the Stats world compare our side then and now??
Tuesday, 1 January 2019
Should explain. I never ever had a 180, the pinnacle of Darts play. My skill was consistent scoring in the 100+ (and closing out doubles). In June I played in the regional finals at the Birkenhead RSA and won a very tight final. I was off to Rotorua.
Until I asked for sports leave. I was back on Monowai and My DO denied my request. GUTTED!! His excuse was Darts wasn't a recognised Navy Sport.
I don't hold grudges but I was circumspect. He was a lesser human.
Monday, 31 December 2018
Concert Review 17th March 2084 - Ayers Rock.au
Tour: Cryogenic Arthritis Tour
Venue: Ayers Rock, Uluru National Space Center, Australia
Artist: Mr Roger Waters and friends
Crowd: 14,376,987 (with a margin of error of 0.3%)
I had the privilege of being present for one of the most amazing almost concerts of all time. The venue, located as it is, was a superb setting for one of the most phenomenal rock events of this century.
Fans started streaming in from all parts of the world via the Uluru International Airport, and from off-world locations through the recently constructed space port, for up to one week before the event. As the concert was free to enter, there was little sign of the ever-present Scalping Squad one sees at mega events. The most intriguing site was the eclectic nature of the fans, ranging in ages from young babes in arms, to medically reconstructed centenarians of all shapes and sizes. If I didn't miss my initial guess, the gathering resembled a religious gathering at the Haj in Mecca, but on a far grander scale.
I took my place in the crowd, trying to listen in to the general conversation of some of the fans and was amazed at the diverse topics being broached, the seemingly peaceful mood that pervaded the mass, and the amount of 20th century hippie paraphernalia that abounded. This concert, I concluded, was going to be a lot different to your average technoPunk dance festival. I shivered in virgin anticipation. Was this man, as his fans proclaimed almost religiously, the new God after all.
On the day of the concert, the sky dawned clear with a typical Australian red dawn, which soon gave way to opaque purples and finally an azure blue desert sky. Not a cloud in the sky, nor any sign of pollution from the clogged cities located on the vast continent's coastline.
The crowd, now amassing 10 million plus, was scattered tightly around the massive edifice that protruded from the desert like a giant turd from some long forgotten space elephant. The stage, set up on a massive revolving platform of some 1 km round, and backed up by the latest Two sided Bio-Digital Plasme' Screen and almost as big as the stage, was being put through it's paces for the last time before the show started. The crowd seemed to be enjoying reruns of The Wall movie, The Wall Live in Berlin DVD, The Wall Rebuilt for the Centenary on Heirovision, and The Wall - Pink Floyd Centenary Reunion sonicvid (featuring Roger Waters, Dave Gilmour, Nick Wright, Nick Mason, and a cloned Syd Barrett). I reminisce slightly on that famous concert in Madison Square Garden and the failure it was. But argh, enough of that. The real show was about to get underway.
I took an invitation from some corporate raiders, who'd cleverly disguised themselves as Pigs, complete with curly tails, and joined them atop a Jumbo 989 parked in the derelict plane lot to the east of the Rock, prime viewing location elevated as it was. I scan the crowd to gauge the affect this man has on his fans and marvel at the conglomeration of humanity he has amassed in his honour. One area was set aside for the Psychologically Impaired, complete with attendant medical staff and armed guards, another section housed a large group representing the Fascist Love Me movement, replete in their Black, Red and Pink uniforms, and still other groups dressed in their Hypodermic Needle suits, had prime viewing from mid air locations. (Still amazes me how they manage to stay high and remain in Nirvana. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.)
Their are large groups of people carrying round blow-up Dave Gilmour dolls and large Arab Knives, obviously ready for the closing song of set seven, "I Love Dave But Still Want To Kill Him Because...." the classic anthem from the "Floydian Reconstruction Was Shit" album released after the disastrous reunion concert. I couldn't wait for that song because, having seen a previously recorded live clip on NetMtv, I found acceptance of the mans' anger and revulsion at being coerced to do the show. I pitied him, and the fans certainly took it out on the dolls big time in that show, and to finally see it live would be awesome.
The large speaker stacks start to become quiet, the final sonicvid blinks off on the Plasme' screen, and a small object can be heard to approach from the west, with if one looked hard enough, a Gyroscopic Helohover whizzing effortlessly towards the Rock, with a fading Full Moon sinking below the horizon as a backdrop. This guy certainly knows how to make an entrance. The HeloHover, complete with it's Cryogenic Resuscitator onboard, touches down on the stage, with the sound of 14 million fans screaming his name, chanting the eternal "Rog, Rog, Rog" and the sound of Pigs on the Wing belting out from the speaker system. This was so perfect!
The camera zooms in on the HeloHover and displays to all there, the sight of a frail old man, kept alive by Cryogenia, exiting the conveyance and bearing his ever present bass guitar dangling from his pale exposed shoulders. The caftan slips somewhat as he leaves the craft, exposing the tubes that pump his life preserving fluid from bottles strapped under the garment, into his body organs. The crowd gasps in stunned silence. He has revealed a little part of himself to his faithful. The scene is overwhelmingly moronic.
Then he raises the bass to his shoulders, motions to the rest of the band, and tucks into the classic from the Amused to Death album, What God Wants Pt I. The crowd goes silent, almost meditational, as the song belts out it's intonation of hope.
Sadly, I have to report that things did not go as planned, and another HeloHover, in the shape of a large blue pig, appeared out from the desert to the north, and with the sun behind it, made straight for the stage in a spiralling kamikaze death plunge. The resultant crash killed all on the stage, the crew of the HeloHover (later to be identified as Dave Gilmour and the members of the rebel Pink Movement Impersonators group Blue Floyd. Several thousand spectators were also killed or wounded, all innocent bystanders to this inhumane act.
Roger Waters, who was standing at the spot where the crash took place, was later seen to be boarding another HeloHover bearing a Crossed Hammers logo (Where have I seen that Before??) and was swooped off to places unknown. However the official medical reports state that one of the bodies found at the scene was that of Roger Waters!!
Was this the saddest day in human endeavour or is this the start of a new martyrdom in religious affairs?
This is TheGunnersDreamsGrandDaughter signing off from Uluru National Park, Central Australia (with a tear in my eye).
Aftermath - March 18th, 2084 -
at my Plazdic Desktop AVA PC
After being teleported back to my home city of Awklin, I went to my grandfather's files, from his long days on the net, and reread many threads to discern a reason for the mad actions of one Dave Gilmour. I remember seeing a lot of rhetoric towards him in those posts and wanted to understand, from a Roger Waters group of nettiefans, why such a man could be capable of such an act.
I stayed up all night reading and at about 4 am decided that the cause was fairly clear cut. But to get a balanced picture, I also had to find a site dedicated to Dave and to see what his fans were saying back then. Alas, whether through the ravages of time, or his unpopularity, there was nothing to find. I therefore had to conclude that the précis' my grandfather's nettiefanmates were proposing were generalised truth concepts.
My conclusion then is that Dave Gilmour is a paranoid megalomaniac and social suicide jockey. He had always been highly capable of such an act. I was both astounded, and perplexed. Surely the World Anti-Suicide Investigation Squad (WAS IS) were keeping close tabs on this man, and his demented band of followers! It appears not.
I then net-jumped to the nearest news channel to discern the reaction from the previous day's events. I was still in a state of dismay at the situation at Uluru. There seems to be something sadly amiss with the world when hate can manifest itself in such dire manner, and I needed to see what the reaction world wide was before I delved too deep into the why's and wherefore's. CNetTV were running an extended News coverage from Uluru still, talking to the organisers, security, the State government, and anyone else who may have been culpable or responsible for the intercession of the Blue Pig HeloHover.
Intermingled with the official interviews, CNetTV were running one-on-one Q&A with some of the crowd who were present. It was these interviews that began to peak my curiosity again, even at 530 am. A large proportion of interviewee's (Roger Fans) appeared to be in a ghostly trance, as if their lives had been changed, and were all generally happy with the situation that they had witnessed yesterday. The interviewer, Bart Simpson III, an animated PLasScreen entity, was becoming increasingly perplexed with the answers he was receiving from the throng, his inanimate brain unable grasp what was taking place. Surely the Netmaster controlling this being was able to discern and therefore direct more pertinent questions?
I decided I needed another perspective, and logged on to the NetMtv Newscast, to gauge reaction from the wider music community. Shock horror! Halfway through a Posh Spice dedication concert broadcast, a news flash from their TVeye in Uluru, obviously sent out take bootleg coverage of the concert judging by his shady demeanour, reported that it was confirmed that a Mr Roger Waters and a Mr Dave Gilmour and some members of their respective bands, were killed in a tragic accident and that several spectators were either killed or injured in the accident.
Then the picture blinked 182 degrees to the left and behind a large figure in a Hypodermic Needle suit floating ethereally in mid air, could be seen the scene of the carnage. This picture was made more disturbing by the image of millions of people down on bended knees, all facing towards the rock, in an obvious state of homage. So it was to be martyr!
The picture faded out and the popular news reader from NetMTV, Eric Cartman, popped in to view, obviously showing signs of a private joke off-camera. He burst into voice with, if you can believe it, this tirade and I quote "Hey, dudes, this is bull shit. Who cares about two old farts throwing up at each other and wasting themselves. This sucks man, Kenny could have done a better job. Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit," and then he throws up all over the desk.
I choked back the tears, and just as the NetTv cast changed back to the Spice Girl reject, with the dying sounds of Eric yelling out "she's the babe, yeah!" the Editing desk popped up a message on the screen "Pink Floyd is Dead - we will no longer be carrying any commentaries on this wasted bunch of arse holes from the 20th century anymore." This really set me off blabbering once more, and I wondered how Grandpa would be taking this, wherever he was. Not too well I guess.
One last newscast before I went to bed. I checked the BBCNetTV Channel and surfed up their reports on the bizarre and tragic events from Australia. A very recent headline immediately caught my attention: "Large influx of humanity descending on Uluru after death of Roger Waters." The report, though brief, suggested that up to 8 million people had booked tickets to, or had arrived at Uluru, to pay homage to the deceased former leader of Pink Floyd, and social commentator of the past 100 years, Roger Waters, in the past 18 hours since the accident!
The congestion was causing major organisational problems for Central Australian State government officials who were already stretched with the existing gathering of 14 million at the site of the concert, now seemingly becoming a shrine to a fallen star."
I read the remainder and decided that a phenomena was occurring, and I was determined to continue covering this event, if only in the name of love for my grandfather's icon, and my own curiosity into the effect this man was having on an increasingly larger group of people than anybody, I think, had previously envisaged.
More tomorrow. I must get some sleep.
Termination - March 19th 2084
Early Morning at my condopad.
The dream was taking hold, as I slipped into REM sleep. The visions of some far off carnage started to manifest themselves in my subconscious. Every now and then, that bastard from NetMtv would pop into view and infuriate the hell out of me. My subconscious rolled into the dream, the sound of chaos, and the vision of order rent asunder, people yelling in the desert sun at each other and no one in particular. Then the phone rings. I reach for it in my pocket, where it always resides when I’m on assignment. It’s not there. I search all my pockets, my bag. Nothing. The phone rings on, more incessant than ever. I break into a cold sweat. Why can’t I find it?
I sit bolt upright in bed. It’s not the phone. I look at the clock and see that I have been asleep for only one hour. The buzzer on the headboard rings again. "Shit" I say to myself. H Who the hell could be visiting at this time of the day? I reach over to the DoorCam Activator and flick the switch. I rub sleep from my eyes and concentrate on the figure displayed on the screen, mystified as to the identity of the visitor. It is robed and there are no features on display for me to be able to discern if it male or female.
I press the Mike and ask who it is and if they could look at the camera, in the same motion, sliding out of bed and placing a robe over my sweat glistened nakedness. The figure turns slowly towards the camera, almost ethereally, and stares directly into the lens. The light is poor and his features are still hidden by his hood, but I catch a hint of agedness.
"Are your the GunnersDream Grand Daughter?" he asks, his voice dripping longevity with every precise word.
I think for a while. Only a precious few know the correlation between my pseudonym and my persona. Who is this man?
I press the mike activator on the headboard.
"Who the hell are you and why are you ringing my bell at this time of the morning?"
"I am TheGunnersDream, and I need to know if you are my granddaughter, now!" he states, his voice more urgent but no less controlled.
My thoughts suddenly run stampeding across time, as I weigh up the importance of his words. My Grandfather! I had been told he and the other RW disciples had been killed in the plane crash over Nassau, after the failed reunion concert. This was a trick surely, and a very cruel one. I needed to find out for sure if it was indeed him.
"Who was the poster in the Roger Waters BBS that you handed an olive branch to when you were posting there in the year 2000?"
"Ebailey, god rest his soul, and it was plucked from the tree he was under in the field of dreams," came back the answer.
"Hold on Grand Father, I’ll be right down."
My mind whirled. Why was he here and why wasn’t he dead. My mind raced with the complexity of the situation, overwhelmed by the presence of the man my mother despised. I was going to meet TheGunnersDream at last. I felt, as I raced down the stairs to the door, feelings of joy, hope, love, and some of sheer exhilaration. But a sudden thought raced through and interrupted my reverie. He must be 125 years old now. Was he a cybertron being sent to fool me, or if it was him, was he a cryogenic centenarian? Either way, something strange was happening here and I realised I had to act cautiously.
I reached the door, checked the security screen once more and opened the seven electronically activated deadlocks, which on activation, removed the portal from in front of me into the wall recess and I could see him. He was tall, taller than I had envisaged and he seemed to be hovering in front of me as his movements were very gracefully controlled. He entered the room without saying a word, turned and surveyed it with a glance, and motioned me to stand to one side of the door, which I did, grudgingly. I needed to shut the door, to talk to him, but before I could do anything, he motioned for me to keep silent, placing his gnarled and ancient forefinger to his pursed lips, then moved out the door again and made a sign towards the trees surrounding my condopad.
Immediately, thirteen figures broke cover from the trees, all similarly caped and hooded, with one being carried by two others. Their motions seemed very smooth, as if they glided instead of walked. That motion I had seen before but I could not place it now. Later perhaps.
All of them entered the room, the figure being carried being placed on my imitation whale skin sofa settee, and my Grandfather shut the portal-door once all were in.
Two figures detached themselves from the main group, took some strange metallic object from under their capes and started to point them in all directions of the condopad.. The low whirr of microwave transmission accompanied their search and I guessed they were scanning for aural transmitters. Another two went to my two computers and started doing checks on them. The mystification of it all was beginning to get to me, and my obvious nervousness was picked up by another of the group, whereby he motioned me to his side. He pulled out a strange device, something I had never seen before but had heard of. I knew it was a paper pad and a pencil, two products banned in the mid 20’s for their overuse of natural materials. But why would he have one of these for.
It soon became apparent. He wrote down some words on the pad and handed it to me. ‘Please be patient, we must check that our presence here is not monitored. The consequences will be dire for world affairs if we are detected.’
I looked into his hooded face seeking some sort of recognition, but none came. Who were they? Were they the disciples? But there were only twelve when the plane went down and all were presumed dead. There were thirteen here. It didn’t make sense. Then silently, with a signal from the original two figures carrying the detectors, they all started to remove their hoods and capes, revealing strange suits and another astonishing discovery. None of them touched the ground, they were all levitating! My mind raced back to Uluru and the Hypodermic needle suited figures suspended over the desert. There were only twelve figures there that day too. The coincidence was startling.
The figure on the settee however, remained cloaked, as if his identity was to be kept from me. This was indeed strange.
"Granddaughter, allow me to introduce my companions, whose names you will be very familiar with."
All the figures arranged themselves in a semicircle around me, their faces now clearly visible, their look totally becalming.
"I’ll start from left to right. This is Acid, Chuck, Mad, lix, the Dr, Flash, agi, Karmita, Kaos, Brain, and Sydis, and the person on the settee is Roger Waters."
I was shocked, all the names from the BBS, and more importantly Roger Waters was in my room. So he had boarded the Crossed Hammers HeloHover after all. But why was his lifeless form laying on my couch?
My reverie of the situation was suddenly broken by many alarms ringing simultaneously, and I watched as all the posters in front of me reached for their breast pocket, extracting small palmtop Internet terminals and opening them as one. Puzzled looks encompassed each face as they commenced tapping away at the touch pads on their respective units. An audible message transmitted from each palmtop, which I barely discerned with my own sensitive hearing. Each looked up as one, looked at Roger Waters on the settee, and turned to each other in stark bewilderment.
Acid spoke first, a sound of despair in his voice. "Dave Gilmour survived!"
They were all visibly dumbstruck by this information.
"How could he have survived," I replied hesitantly, "that HeloHover exploded on impact. And how the hell did he survive?". I pointed to the prone figure.
"Seems Gilmour sent a Robo-entity in his place," replied Chuck. "As for Mr Waters, he had a disconnect with the fans just before the crash. We saw him spit at a rather vocal Fascist Love Me fan a prearranged signal for us to get him out of there before anything else happened. You wouldn’t have seen us teleport to the stage and remove him to the Crossed Hammers HeloHover before impact. We are his protectors."
Now it started to fall into place, I think! Of course, It was Roger I saw getting into the HeloHover as I had first thought. I hadn’t made the assimilation to had actually accompanied him and now it struck home. The suits these guys are wearing were the same suits of the attendants I had seen placing him in the hover. These guys had some amazing technological gadgets. But the Gilmour scenario, started to bother me. Why was it so important?
Mad looked up from his palmtop, and whispered something to Grandfather. He turned towards me.
"Seems we have a object message coming through from Mr Gilmour. Have you got your heliograph-screen functioning, sweetheart?"
I pointed to the cupboard adjacent my PC desk. Lix moved over to it, opened it, disconnected my PC and interfaced his palmtop to the HGS. Immediately, the screen blinked into life, and an object started to take shape in the ether. Slowly, but surely, the form took shape, as the gigabyte data was transformed from an electronic signal to a floating three dimensional representation. Dave Gilmour, guitar by his side, and noticeably ancient in demeanour, was seen to be holding two objects in his ancient hands. One I could discern as a well thumbed cover off an LP depicting a prism with light passing through it on a black background. The other object, though smaller, held more significance. It appeared to be an Olive Branch, but there was something strangely odd about it. It was then that I noticed that it was broken in two.
"Hello, disciples of my mate," boomed the voice from the screen, "I know you have him in your possession. It will not be long before the WAS IS finds me, so I will make this short."
He turned slightly, as if looking over his shoulder and continued.
"This is the Olive branch that one of you handed my alter ego, ebai, and which he gave me to pass on to Roger before the Reunion show. Of course, the world saw me pass this to Roger, thinking that it was a significant step towards reparation, to peace. Everyone saw Roger take it, say thank you to me, and then saw in amazement the branch break in two and drop to the floor."
Everyone in the room, except myself and Mr Waters, who still lay comatose on the sofa, nodded in agreement.
"What the world saw was Roger breaking it in two and denouncing our attempt to heal old wounds. But I had broken it before I gave it to him. He didn’t understand that the concert was a way for me to embarrass him in front of his billions of fans. I have been consumed with revenge for years since he left Pink Floyd, because he took the soul of the group with him and left the body to carry on. It never really worked for us, as it did for him. I hated his BBS and sent insiders in to destabilise the concepts that you, and many of your fellow protagonists, were expounding in the name of him and your own beliefs. I thought it sick!"
He let out a resigned sigh, and continued, everyone in the room transfixed on his persona.
"I have kept this olive branch, and my original first pressing of the best album we ever did together as tokens of my desire to gain him back for the band. But you lot have continually thwarted my desire, and in so doing fuelled my resentment at the one you now call the Prophet. My attempt to finish it once and for all failed yesterday. That I know. One amongst you has told me as such. But I must end it now. I have failed once again."
Just at that moment, the helioscreen flickered briefly, and a bright light emanated from near the sofa. The figure laying there started to move, almost imperceptibly at first, then gradually more hurriedly, as the light above him intensified. The air was rent with the sudden burst of music from the speaker system built into my condopad, "What God Wants, God Gets" booming out at full volume. I held my hands over my ears, but kept my focus on Mr Waters as he stood up from the sofa and was enveloped by the light. The light intensified and grew even further as it enveloped the twelve disciples as well and those it touched seemed to be peacefully content with what was happening. I wasn’t so sure though. The scene was surreal, yet frightening. The music seemed to increase in volume, through my hands, as the light grew.
Then, as my focus was directed towards movement on the HGS and I saw Mr Gilmour being wrestled to the ground by the WAS IS squad, a sudden deafening voice encroached on my mind. "Hello, there. Love to everyone and peace to all." And in a blinding flash and deafening explosion, they all disappeared, Roger, Dave, my Grandfather and his eleven BBS mates. Poof! Gone!
I started to cry. The full realisation finally hit me. God got what he wanted in the end and it didn’t matter what any of us had to say about it. He is nature personified and nature had run its’ course. I started to shiver. I was shaken by my sudden revelation. I started to black out at the sheer enormity of it all.
I sit bolt upright in my chair. Where the hell am I. I survey the area immediately before my eyes. Familiarity reaches out to my consciousness, my faithful IBM Aptiva and it’s associated monitor, my well beaten keyboard, and worn down mouse sit in front of me. The half smoked packet of Winfield Red’s and a cold milk-curdled cup of espresso by my side. Ah, I think. I must have been dreaming.
I look out the window. The world is still the same. It is the year 2000.