Before Lasetter passed out…

Lasetter makes a random comment…railing against the random Universe…

Removing the odd shaped flask from his mouth, Lasetter muttered to no one in particular while gazing at the glowing seal in the murky water below…

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to elect idiots who fight over it centuries later. You hear  me! You hear me!” He was screaming at the clouds now, in total meltdown mode.

“Yeah, I updated this famous quote by a guy named George Santayana. Uh…that’s not Santana the guitar player from Mexico…that’s another guy with a name that sounds similar…a writer…oh f*ck it, google him! Google him! Doesn’t anybody read anymore! Nothing makes sense! What’s happening?!”

…and then he passed out.

More later.


Characters will be named after bloggers.

A comment about my on-going story. In sequence.

In appreciation of your support, I will soon be naming characters in this story after some of my most frequent and intelligent commenters. You know who you are. Of course, it’s never too late to START leaving comments either…


Lasetter: Immortal and Insane?

An ongoing story. In sequence or not. Thank you for the comments.

The penis shaped flask certainly seemed to be drawing a fair amount of attention from the patrons of Mersea, a famous seafood restaurant on the Avila peer with the bastardized spelling of the French, Merci.

The women, almost universally, to a single mind in fact, were revolted and disgusted by the penis shape—especially when Lasetter made such a big show of stroking it, sucking it, squeezing the balls of it and swallowing all the whiskey that shot out of the tip in fast, streaming jets while pretending to gag.

The pussy-whipped men…those who had been married five years or more, quietly moved away from the insane homeless looking fellow bringing their wives to safety at the far end of the pier. Fish and chips in hand.

Some men, and a few women, were magnetically pulled closer to Lasetter and cheered him on by raising their shot glasses in hand and yelling “Salude! Salude!” downing their own whiskey in a mutual celebration of life. Some were even brazen enough to grab the flask as it sat in front of Lasetter, wrap their fingers around it, stroke it up and down in rapid succession then jerked it suddenly until the whiskey flew out of the tip in long streams flying into the water below only to disappear into the murky depths forever.

In front of Lasetter was the endless Pacific, stretching as far as he could see eastward. The sun was dipping into the green, murky ocean, the clouds were darkening, and the sky was a crimson red. This view made Lasetter a bit melancholy, even amidst all the gaiety surrounding his odd shaped flask.

The crimson red sky with the darkening clouds reminded him of home. A home he could never forget. For just a moment, he placed the flask down slowly on the wooden rail, gazed sadly at the sea lions diving for the French fries being tossed over the side by the children on deck, and reminisced about the good ol’ days and why he was here.

Whether Lasetter’s story was true or not, no one knew. But no one bothered arguing with him anymore. He was too old. Too wise. And had made too many contributions to science.

His eccentricities aside, Lasetter told everyone he was immortal, and not of this earth.

“What planet are you from?” Paul would ask, pleased to play along.

“My planet doesn’t have a name…” Lasetter would say.

“Then what would you call it?”

“It’s not what I would call it…” Lasetter always responded, “What matters is what humans call it.”

“Now you know what I’m going to say,” Paul uttered.

“Yes, yes” said Lasetter, “so let’s get to the end game. Your SETI scientists haven’t given a name for my planet yet, because they haven’t actually found my planet. They have given the sun that circles around my planet, like your earth circles around your sun, a number.  They are calling it KIC 8462852.”

This is about the time Paul began thinking of Lasetter as brilliant, but insane. But he would always play along.

“So does that number have any significance?”

“Yes,” Lasetter would answer, before he got tired. “Think of those numbers like the longitude and latitude of a map. It’s a location in space. Your SETI scientists have located our Sun, but not our planet.”

“How did that happen?” Paul’s final question.

That’s when Lasetter really opened up.

“I’m from a type III civilization as measured by your Kardashev scale. My people have harnessed the power and energy of our entire galaxy by surrounding our suns and stars with Dyson spheres.

Think of Dyson spheres as satellites with solar panels, trapping all the energy of our sun and stars while beaming the energy back to our planet for our own use. That’s how I got here, in fact. We have so much energy we can travel the entire Universe.”

“Sadly, it looks like you humans won’t make it past a type I civilization at the rate you’re going…”

Lasetter snapped out of his reminiscence and returned to the present. He was at the pier, staring into the ocean. The crowd had moved away and his penis shaped flask had already lost it novelty.

He slowly placed it back into his breast pocket and order shots, in regular glasses, like everyone else.

This earth’s alcohol was good. Almost too good.

He threw the seal a French fry. He could see three seals dive after his food. He noticed one glowed with an eerie, hazy hue.

That’s when he knew Akira was right. The seal, right in front of him at Avila beach, was glowing with a radioactivity caused by the nuclear meltdown further east than his eyes could see. It had been contaminated by the radioactive nuclear waste leaking from the Fukishima nuclear meltdown.

Lasetter’s lifted his head slowly and turned it to gaze over his right shoulder. Less than a mile away, across the little hill and beyond the calm waves that lapped the shores of Avila beach, stood the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant.

These things were everywhere, Lasetter thought. This planet is doomed.

Akira knew. Lasetter knew. But no one else seemed to be able to figure it out.

Which is why it was imperative to get Paul’s nanite bed into mass production.

You may not be able to stop the destruction of an entire planet, but you can prepare people’s minds to accept the inevitable.

Lasetter stood on the edge of a precipice. Paul’s bed had become his personal mission. Saving humanity was now his personal goal.

Besides, he had nothing better to do and was viewed as a useless drunk by most. He would show them.

He knew that changing the consciousness of entire human race could do more for the Universe than the Dyson spheres of his planet had done for his entire Galaxy.

Yes, mankind was important. And the good news for Lasetter was, there were only two people he had to control to accomplish this mission.

The rest of the people, in fact, everyone on this pathetic planet, could be manipulated easily by the profit motive alone.

Lasetter only had to be concerned about Paul. And Akira.

Just two people stood between him and bringing the human race into an entirely new, elevated consciousness.

Paul he had figured out. He had already forged Paul’s name and gotten the bed into mass production.

DARPA was all over it and production was moving fast.

It wouldn’t be much longer until these beds were everywhere.

Paul and he would have some whiskeys, a few laughs, and they would be buddy-buddy again in no time.  

But that girlfriend of his. This Akira bitch. Where did she come from? Who was she, really?

She was with child, too. Lasetter could smell trouble. Woman trouble.

He might have to get rid of her. Permanently.

Lasetter knew it would be for the good of the planet. Nay, he laughed out loud, heads on the pier turning to stare at the crazy old man… he might have to get rid of Akira for the sake of the entire Universe.

Lasetter removed the penis shaped flask and shoved it in his mouth, hard.

“Suck on this!” he yelled.

The heads on the pier slowly turned away.

More later.