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Mr.
Dante sits in front of the curious stranger whilst spinning on his swivel
chair and chewing at a Paper mate pen. His arm reaches over the desk,
pressing the tape recorder's pause button. He frowns, collecting a few
silent thoughts, and then scribbles secretively in his notepad.
John Green is seated opposite the interrogator with fingers twiddling
nervously under the table. He tries to get more comfortable on the wooden
Spartan chair as his body aches. His cuts and wounds have now stopped
bleeding since being tended to by the Police stations resident doctor.
He glances at the photographs of himself laid out on the tables surface
that had been taken earlier by police, when he was found unconscious.
He winces at the sight of his own body, naked and cut up, shuddering as
he observes that there is more blood on his vulnerable frame than there
is bare flesh. He can feel the scars on his body sting.
Mr. Dante is not happy. They have both been fighting it out in this bleak
room for two hours now. The frightened victim looks around, glancing at
the yellow and brown smoke-stained ceiling. The walls seem to have been
recently repainted magnolia. The officer begins searching for something
around his person. "Where's that bloody handkerchief?" he moans,
as if the individual in front of him had stolen it. "Shouldn't there
be another officer present in the room?" John asks tentatively.
The plain clothed officer halts his search and smiles. "We are a
busy force, lad. And besides, you're not important enough... Forget all
that nonsense that you've seen on television; this is reality. Social
realism, my ass." Dante laughs.
"Oops, touchy subject that, isn't it, Mr. Green?"
"What is?" John answers.
"Your bloody ass."
John does not respond, knowing that whatever he says will condemn him.
The officer writes a few more lines in his pad. The harsh brightness from
the single light shines upon his balding head. He sips up the last dregs
of his cold coffee whilst puffing at his cigarette, and then squashes
the filter into an ashtray. With the same hand he pokes an index finger
into one of his nostrils and pulls out a large green bogey, placing it
underneath the table.
The captive begins to feel a nagging itch in his own nose but refrains
from mocking the incident before him. He is scared; his hands rest on
his knees as he plays out the submissive role of a guilty schoolboy. Mr.
Dante slowly strokes his hand under the table's surface upward, feeling
all the hardened notches placed by many other officers over the years.
"Ok, Mr. Green... I haven't got the time or the inclination to dwell
on your perversions. So let's have a nice easy time, and we can both get
some sleep tonight. You've refrained from informing me of anything that
is useful; it's time for you to tell me what happened." Dante clicks
the record button on and leans back into the comfy, swivel chair as the
tape machine whirrs.
"So, John Green..." Dante lights himself another cigarette.
"Tell me exactly what happened, so we can have you write out a clear
and uncomplicated statement." "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell
you," answers John. "Now we've been here before, Mr. Green,
and I'm getting extremely bored and very tired. And you are definitely
going to be sentenced if you keep withholding evidence from me."
Dante's pen taps slowly and menacingly on the table. Tap.... Tap... Tap...
John sits awkwardly, looking down at the floor, away from the interrogator's
gaze.
"Don't ignore me, Mr. Green; I'm not playing games. I need you to
tell me the truth. That is all I am asking from you, just the truth. What
can be more simple than that?" "It isn't that simple, Mr. Dante;
you're not ready for it." "Try me..." "I need some
space and time before I can say anything... So I can figure out how to
say it; it isn't easy." "We have no time to give you, Mr. Green.
There is no way out of this situation, unless you give me the information
that you seem to be deliberately hiding from me. So be a good citizen
and help us to help you. Look at the images."
Dante picks up one of the photographs and holds it up for John to see.
"What happened to you here is not healthy by any stretch of the imagination;
you've got to realise that. I want to get the bastard or bastards that
did this damage to you. You are either scared that whoever attacked you
will hurt or kill you next time you meet, or you are hiding a perversion,
which, as you know, is outlawed in any sane and reasonable city or country.
So which is it, Mr. Green, perversion or fear of losing your life? Either
way we can help you." Mr. Dante stubs out his cigarette and places
the photograph on the table in front of John.
John squirms inside, knowing that if he did tell the truth, he would be
labelled as depraved, an insane individual or an obsessive liar. He precariously
picks at one of his scars on his leg, drawing blood. He feels it slowly
trickling down his shin and then into his sock. A silence dominates the
room as John realises that he has to say something quickly. Maybe he should
tell the truth, get the whole thing over and done with. Nothing can be
worse than this unbearable, psychological torture, surely.
He looks up at Mr. Dante, acknowledging that the officer knows that this
is the moment of possible truth or a bloody good answer, anyway, but which?
Truth or lie?
"I'm waiting, Mr. Green..."
"Can I have a coffee?" asks John.
"Will you tell all?"
"Yes, yes, I will," John answers.
Mr. Dante gets up and walks over to the door, opens it, and shouts, "Could
someone get us two coffees, please?" An officer from outside immediately
responds, "Will do, Governor," bringing two hot coffees. John
takes one of the plastic receptacles from Mr. Dante. The heat from the
coffee cup burns his fingers, and John spills half of it onto the table
and the floor. Suddenly, John begins to cry.
Mr. Dante walks back to the door and then shouts, "And some tissues,
please!" The same officer hands a box of men's' tissues to Mr. Dante;
he places the box onto the table. John does not notice, as his hands try
to cover the tears on his face. "I'm sorry; it's all too painful,"
John bawls. "There's nothing wrong with letting it all out, boy.
Go on, let it out. Yes, that's it; let the pain out, lad," says Mr.
Dante, resting his hand on the distraught victim's sore shoulders. He
then goes back to his own seat and pulls out a couple of cigarettes.
"Have one of these; I think you need one." He lights up two
cigarettes and hands one over; John takes it and inhales in between sniffing
and sobbing.
"You will never know what kind of torture I've been through, Mr.
Dante. "You're probably right, Mr. Green, but never forget that everyone
has experienced pain in some form."
"That's not very comforting, Mr. Dante." "It's not a skill
that I'm adept in, sorry." Mr. Dante sips at some more coffee. "However,
I am able to recognise and empathise with other hurt individuals, Mr.
Green. I'm not that cold. A tad moody, but not cold hearted." "I'm
glad," answers John, still sobbing, soaking up his tears with an
abundant amount of tissues.
"I must say, I haven't seen anyone cry like this for a long time,
not since..." Mr. Dante suddenly stops.
A moment, a memory, and a place of infliction that until today was tucked
away, instantly finds its way back to the here and now. It is he, who
now suddenly feels vulnerable and not quite his usual self. A sensation
begins to overcome him, a feeling so disabling and traumatic that he can't
think of anything else to say. He is lost for words, and that reliable
mask of being armoured, which has always protected him abruptly vanishes
in seconds. His mind shifts back to a time when he was much younger.
John, so deeply involved in his own torment, hands still covering his
face, does not notice Mr. Dante's change. Mr. Dante focuses on an image
of himself in a room alone in his bedroom. It is late evening, and his
parents are not in the house. There is no babysitter to look after him.
The child of six sobs, experiencing the deep chasm that loneliness gives.
He is in his bed under the covers, staring into the darkness, feeling
the void. He closes his eyes and sees the blackness, the emptiness inside
his head. Is this what it is like when you die? He asks himself. Is it
like having your eyes shut perminantly? He cries so loudly that his voice
reverberates around the room. Out of the darkness a figure slowly appears.
He stops crying and shudders, caught in the crux of fear, as the mysterious
figure steps closer towards him. He suddenly feels a warm sensation seep
into him, as if a godly soul or spirit entered into his troubled heart
and gave it a tender stroke. He relaxes and smiles, realising that the
stranger is not a threat, the dark figure strokes his head, comforting
him.
Mr. Dante's mind swiftly switches back to the situation presently at hand.
He takes a large swig of coffee and turns the tape over, pressing the
record button on once more. He is now ready, back in sync to deal with
the sobbing person in front of him.
"It's time for some answers, Mr. Green," utters Mr. Dante.
"Yes, of course," says John, wiping his face dry with the remaining
tissues.
John pauses for space and then says, "I had sex with someone in the
woods."
"Yes, that's better. We like admissions," answers Mr. Dante
in a sharp tone.
John's fingernails dig into his palms as he can feel himself getting deeper
into trouble. Mr. Dante picks up a clipboard and begins to read a written
account of how he was discovered. "You were found naked and unconscious
in the woods, bruised and cut up badly, at 2:30 am this morning. Can you
explain to me how you came to be so brutally beaten up?" asks Mr.
Dante.
"It all got out of hand. I met this guy who seemed friendly and safe
at the time in a bar. After a chat we went to the woods for a bit of fun,
and things got nasty." "Okay, so we now know that you are a
practising homosexual. It's a good job that we are here to protect all
of our citizens, no matter what their ill-informed agendas are, isn't
it, Mr. Green?" "Yes," John sheepishly answers.
"So who was this violent person?" "I can't tell you; we
had only both just met each other for the first time last night,"
John answers, trying to sound convincing.
"It sounds to me as if you were cottaging. You know that this kind
of activity is illegal, don't you, Mr. Green?"
"It was my first time, Mr. Dante, honest. I had no intention of doing
such a thing. I was curious." The interrogator scribbles a few words
in his pad and then looks up at the transgressor. He notices the prominent,
dark rings under the young man's bloodshot eyes, the paleness of his skin,
and unwashed hair. John is quiet. He looks down, scanning a pan of his
sweaty hands. He keeps his head down, not wanting to look into the eyes
of the man seated opposite.
"Were you both naked when this happened?" asks Mr. Dante.
"Just me."
"Did he ask you to take all of your clothes off?"
"He undressed me; I just went with the flow."
"Didn't you feel scared or worried that something might happen?"
"The moment seemed right; I thought that it was exciting and worth
the risk."
"Was it worth the risk?"
"What do you think?"
"I think that you are bullshitting me!" shouts Mr. Dante. The
officer paces slowly around the room, methodically waving his Paper mate
pen in the air like a conductor. "You are going to tell me right
now what was really going on between you and that unnamed individual.
Maybe there were more with you, a whole gang of the bloody shirt lifters."
"You're just getting excited now; I've told you the truth, Mr. Dante."
"Don't you dare talk to me like that, you snivelling, bummed-up,
little toad of a nobody." Mr. Dante swiftly switches off the tape
recorder. "If you want to leave this place intact and with your perverse
scars mended, if you want to go back to what you call a normal life without
my officers trailing you everywhere, you better pull yourself together
and take responsibility for your actions by telling me exactly what happened
earlier this morning."
Mr. Dante turns the tape recorder back on and waits silently for an answer
from Mr. Green. "This isn't right; I should not be here; you can't
treat me like this," moans John, walking over to the door. "You're
not going anywhere, Mr. Green; sit back down!" Mr. Dante points at
the chair.
John sits back down.
"There's a good boy."
Mr. Dante sits himself back into his own swivel chair. John begins to
cry again. "I'm not falling for that one again; stop all this bloody
weakling crap and pull yourself together!" shouts Mr. Dante. "But
I know that you will not believe me, anyway. The truth is too dangerous,
too outrageous. You'll just laugh at me, and I'll be stuck here forever,
it seems. All because I will not be able to tell you what you really want
to hear!" bellows John, shaking in his chair.
"I'm a grown man, Mr. Green; I can handle the truth, no matter how
absurd it may seem. If you knew what us officers have to endure, you wouldn't
be so afraid of telling me such things, believe me," answers Mr.
Dante, lighting himself another cigarette. "Okay, this is your absolutely
very last chance to convince me of what the truth is, or we will pester
you when you are released from here."
John takes a quick sip out the plastic cup of cold coffee and takes a
deep breath, gaining a few seconds before he decides to tell all.
"You're not going to like this, Mr. Dante, not one bit," utters
John hesitantly.
"Well, it better be good. I've wasted too much time with you already,"
Mr. Dante retorts. "The individual that I met last night..."
John pauses. "Yeah, go on; I'm all ears."
"He's not from this world," John nervously squeaks.
"Say that again," says Mr. Dante in a sceptical tone.
"He is not human." John grips his hands tightly under the table.
"I'm not happy with this, Mr. Green," says Mr. Dante, switching
off the tape recorder.
"I am not happy with this nonsense at all. You're making a fool out
of me," he groans.
"Please, let me finish. Why would I dare to say such things in a
place like this?" John bellows, scratching at his wounds.
"Maybe your just nuts," answers the officer sarcastically.
"He's from another dimension," John whispers.
"Another what?" sighs Mr. Dante.
"An alternate dimension."
"Okay, so this friend of yours from another dimension cut you up
and raped you, did he?"
"Well..." John hesitates as he hears the tape machine clicking
and spinning, collecting all the verbal noise.
Mr. Dante suddenly turns it off, stands up, and sinisterly towers over
John. "You're a masochist who enjoys the excitement of being beaten
up by an alien?" Dante laughs. "No, wait a minute! Or was it
a gang of vicious alien poodles from Mars who had been planning to invade
our planet and by chance met you in a pub, abducted you, and took you
into the big, dark woods to gang bang you into a state of total submission,
so you would tell them where our leader is? Or was it a gang of mutoid,
three-legged zombies who wore Marilyn Monroe masks from Venus?" Mr.
Dante laughs to himself hysterically, switching the tape recorder back
on.
"I'm going to leave the tape running now, so I can play this to my
colleagues. We need a good laugh in this place." John looks at the
closed door ahead of him. Dante blocks the way. "Get that idea out
of your head, lad. I want to get to the bottom of this, so you're not
leaving until I say you can!" exclaims Dante whilst prodding his
pen into John's chest.
"Now you're in trouble, Mr. Green," Dante snarls, puffing at
another cigarette. "We come across nobody's like you everyday, and
you're worth nothing in the grand scheme of things." "You shouldn't
talk to me like this; I've done nothing wrong!" John complains. "You've
done loads wrong, and I've been listening to your utter and complete bullshit
for long enough, boy! So don't you start telling me how and what I can
and cannot do or say!" Mr. Dante paces around the room.
"You've got me wrong, Mr. Dante," John answers, now feeling
completely helpless.
"Tell me something, Mr. Green. Do I have a beacon stuck to my head
flashing 'total idiot'?"
John does not answer.
"Well, do I?" he shouts again more forcefully, pointing his
finger to his own skull.
"No."
"Good. You're going to a cell now. I've tried my best to help you
and to be honest; I'm not interested in bothering anymore. You can rot
in that cell for all I care. Oh yeah, I'm going to get you tested for
narcotics abuse as well. You're either totally wired or a fucking loony."
Mr. Dante calls for two officers to escort Mr. Green to his cell.
Mr. Green, bruised, lies on a lumpy bed in a single cell with a single
light bulb that has been left on to teach him a lesson. He shifts his
body about, trying to get comfortable, but is unable to get settled as
he keeps resting his weight on different scars.
John can hear some of the officers outside laughing, and he knows that
the joke is on him. He closes his eyes, covering them with his hands,
shielding from the penetrating glare of light. His body begins to heat
up; he lifts his tired frame up off the lumpy bed and walks around the
room, pacing.
He undresses and throws his clothes in the corner of the room. He begins
to rub at his body softly, caressing the wounds. "Bastards, the lot
of them," he whispers, poking his fingers into one of the scars on
his arm. He then scratches at some of the other gashes, drawing blood.
The excruciating pain is harsh as he fights against the urge to faint.
"Must stay awake," he quietly squeals.
Crimson liquid drips onto the floor. Not able to stand anymore due to
giddiness, he sits down and leans his back against the cell wall. Tears
trickle out of his eyes and down his cheeks. He feels that he has always
been an exile, he has always felt out of place and lost; it's as if he
had been put here on Earth by mistake. As more liquid continues to stream
out of his eyes, he peels away at areas of his flesh, which were once
cuts but are now chasms pouring out blood.
His eyelids are heavy. "Must stay awake," he cries to himself.
A large red puddle forms around his legs; his weak arms collapse onto
the floor.
I'm so tired. The room now fades, but he can still hear the officers outside,
joking in their pack. The shabby cell disappears as he begins to fall
into unconsciousness.
Mr. Dante pulls a coffee out of the vending machine. He's feeling tired.
He didn't go home; there was no point. It is only about three and half-hours
since the questioning had ended with Mr. Green; it is now seven thirty
a.m. He looks out of the window as the rain cascades hitting the concrete,
thumping loudly.
There was something about Mr. Green that had intrigued him; he feels as
if he cannot and should not let him go. He decides that he is not going
to let him leave the premises until he had got closer to something more
solid. He feels troubled and uncomfortable about being extra tough on
Mr. Green and knows that there was a significant reason why they had met.
A turning point in his life, but what kind of turning point? How can a
meeting with such a snivelling shit be so important? He sips at his coffee,
staring into the rain as it plummets.
"He's gone, Sir!" shouts one of the officers.
"Who's gone?" barks Mr. Dante.
"John Green, he's just disappeared, vanished," says the officer,
confused and scratching at his head.
Mr. Dante swiftly walks through the corridor towards the cell. Two other
officers stand outside the room, looking in.
"Excuse me, lads," he says, brushing past them, stepping into
the cell. "What happened; how did he get out?" he shouts. "There's
no sign of escape, Sir; it's been locked all the time. I opened the door
to give him his breakfast, as you ordered, and there was no one here.
All there is, is blood, and it's spread all over the floor, Sir; it's
everywhere."
He looks at the blood on the floor, and his eyes wander around the room
to see if there is any way that the prisoner could have gotten out. "Okay,
lads; leave me here for a few moments. I need to collect my thoughts about
this." They both leave. He can hear the rain outside, and it seems
more relentless than before. "Fucking masochist!" he shouts
to himself. Suddenly, the blood on the floor begins to dry up, evaporating
before his eyes. "What is all this nonsense?" he cries. He swiftly
leaves the cell, enters the main office, and sits at a computer, searching
for Mr. Green's details. It becomes apparent that all information on him
has been erased.
After
all the excitement has died down, Mr. Dante goes back to the questioning
room, shuts the door, and sits silently with himself for a few moments.
He spins, groaning and runs his fingers through his balding hair, in his
chair, switches the tape recorder on, and waits for the conversation that
had happened in the early morning between him and Mr. Green to start.
The spoils rumble, and he waits. Suddenly, a lump forces itself into his
throat as a different voice is heard on the machine. Shocked by the strange
quality of it, he jumps up and turns the tape recorder off. He counts
to ten, lights himself a cigarette. "I've heard that voice before",
he says to himself, but where? He then switches the machine back on and
sits himself down on the swivel chair once more, trying to relax.
The voice arrives and it sounds metallic, as if it was someone talking
from inside a steel bucket. "Hello, Mr. Dante," says the eerie
voice. "John asked me to leave you a message explaining the truth.
He said that you were not interested in his truth... Of course, it is
your own choice of what is real and not real. After all, three-dimensional
limitations and a one-dimensional attitude trap your people, so listen
and learn. Realise what reality really is, and try to accept this truth
and not what you might think it could be."
Mr. Dante, nervously lights himself yet another cigarette. "I first
met John when he was much younger, eight years of age. At that time he
was feeling very lonely, and his parents were always leaving him on his
own, locked in his bedroom. It was his tears that reached me, like a message
or what you call a radar signal... There is another dimension-in fact,
there are millions of them out there, but our dimension is closely in
contact with yours. It seems that your scientists and governments have
hijacked the search for other life and, in their narrow vision, have been
looking in completely the wrong place. Other life forms do exist in coexistence
with us all, all of the time. It's just that no one is usually receptive
enough to be aware of them, except, that is, for young children. This
is because they have not been constructed and de-educated yet. It's your
emotions and nothing else that can open doors to other worlds. Your mind
is an antenna receiving information everyday, and sadly, you are not trained
correctly to intelligibly receive these signals yet; but you all do have
the capacity to receive an abundant amount of sounds, feelings, intensity
and small forms of limited telepathy. Your scientists have always believed
that logic, mathematics, and concepts, formulated at an emotional distance,
can aid their search to answering big questions about the universe. They
have been wrong for a very long time; it's been within you, all of you,
all of the time. Your emotions, your subconscious, are just as important
a tool as your brain."
"We have only recently created the technology making it possible
for us to stay in your dimension for more than just a few hours. It was
only a few hours ago, in your Earth's time, that we perfected this transporter.
When we cry, it is because we are happy. When you cry, it is mainly due
to some sort of emotional pain or turmoil. Our link with your world, ironically,
would not be possible if it were not for your tears. Your planet is in
pain, and we can feel that pain: It interferes with our happiness. Until
a few hours ago, as I said, we could not enter your dimension for more
than a few hours. The main reason why we can do this now is because we
have collected a mass amount of your world's tears. When a saline liquid
escapes your lachrymal glands, moistening your eyes, it enters, cutting
through space and time, into our dimension."
"This strange type of painful rain has threatened the ecology of
our world for a long time. It has always arrived suddenly out of nowhere
at irregular intervals. At first, we thought it was phenomena localised
to our own planet's issues of waste, yet we did not know the reason why
it was happening. We had to find out why because the droplets have been
corroding our atmosphere for centuries. And when the drops of tears from
your dimension physically touch us, we instantly feel unhappy."
"They enter our zone and appear into our world horizontally, unlike
your rain. We discovered that the droplets were not from our world after
noticing that they left tiny, little holes, and small portals in mid air.
At first, those holes were just the size of one of your golf balls. Then
we decided to collect all of the tears, millions of your tears, and by
using a large vat of your saline liquid and then feeding it into a spray
gun, we were able to create a doorway large enough for us to enter your
world. From then on, our mission was to find the source of these hapless
tears, so we could in some way stop the continual erosion of our world.
The problem was that the only humans who could see us were your Earth
children. And when we asked your children to inform your elders, they
were laughed at and ignored. Even though older people like you cried,
they were too corrupted, hardened, and set in their stubborn ways to be
open enough to see us."
"Whenever a mass of tears entered into our world, we would collect
it and enter your dimension to see what was happening. The problem is
that the tears lose their strength very quickly, so we have to be quick
to react when it happens. And we can only go to the place where the tears
had actually come from."
"On our first major visit a massive surge of tears entered into our
world and started causing immense depression to us all. We were forced
to see what was going on, and it hurts me to say that it was a disturbing
spectacle to witness... You humans called the incident the Vietnam War."
"Then we had to visit the Gulf War and many more slaughters that
your male kind of the homo sapien species seems so keen to inflict on
everything living. We witnessed the disturbing carnage as you all ignorantly
obliterated each other."
"It was the time around the Gulf War when I first met John. He was
very young, and he felt very isolated. I found it hard to leave him on
his own in the dilapidated state that he was in. We became friends, as
my visits grew more frequent. Whenever he cried, I could visit him. As
he grew older, he began to cry less; his pain started to be less obvious
to him, and he started to bottle it all up inside. I knew that he would
need me soon though, and I have been waiting for him. Even though in his
heart he was crying out for me, something was stopping him from letting
the tears out. This, of course, was even more traumatic for him because
we loved each other."
"In our dimension, gender is not just limited to two types of beings.
There are many types here, in many different forms, shapes and sizes.
Our sexuality is not restricted to such an external code like yours. We
are lucky enough to know what we are without certain regimes imposing
political or religious agendas."
"John soon began to inflict pain on himself. The frustration of not
being able to see me due to his tears not arriving tormented him, but
he discovered that whenever he cut himself up, tears, caused by the intensity
of the pain, would escape from his eyes. I was not keen on this method,
but he would not stop. Every time his tears entered my dimension, they
made me feel so mournful. I found it difficult not to to see him; the
opportunity was there, and he needed me. The problem was that even though
his tears were intense, for some reason I could only stay here for a mere
five minutes at the most. The droplets were not strong enough to keep
the doorway open for an efficient amount of time, no matter how much he
cried. Your life cycles are shorter than ours are, and our time rate is
much slower. We live longer in our world but grow older more quickly in
yours, so it is not a good idea to stay too long in your dimension."
"He carried on with this process of self-infliction to his own body.
To him, it was worth it. And then the inevitable happened: The more pain
he inflicted upon himself, the more he got used to it. In fact, he started
to enjoy it because it meant that he would see me again. Soon we had to
find different places to meet other than at his flat; the neighbours kept
on complaining about the noise to him. One time they called the police,
your friends. They thought he was being attacked when they heard his screams,
so we resorted to visiting each other in the woods in the early hours
of the morning. There, no one could hear his screeches of agony. Recently,
it has gotten so bad that I kept finding him unconscious, with his body
splayed out on the ground in a pool of blood. And that's how your officers
found him, all sliced up, last night in the woods."
"I am glad to inform you that this tragic tale has a happy ending,
Mr. Dante. We have been able to transfer John into our own world, and
he and I are both living in harmony, minus the pain that had originally
brought us together, yet kept us apart at the same time. As soon as he
entered our dimension, all the wounds that had been self-inflicted vanished.
All I can say now is please forgive us for taking him away from your world:
It had to be done. Our race realises that it is not good for our dimensions
to meet, and if it were to happen more often, the effect on both of our
worlds would be disastrous. It would be like an implosion if the portals,
the windows between each other's world would be too big. We know that
humanity is not ready to resolve its issues, and we cannot let ourselves
be damaged by this fact, so we are now solving the problem of the tears
that have been polluting our atmosphere. It will not happen again. This
is the last time that your race and ours will ever meet, Mr. Dante."
"And oh yes... John wishes you well."
Click!
Mr. Dante sits silently. A feeling of immense emptiness overwhelms him.
He lifts himself out of his chair and rewinds the tape machine; he wants
to hear the voice again, but alas, there is no sound. He panics, checking
to see if there are any faulty connections. He turns the volume up to
its fullest level. Nothing.
Not a sound, except the hissing of white noise and the chugging of the
spoils spinning around and around.
Mr. Dante cries.
THE END
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