[LATEST UPLOAD: Wednesday November 6, 2019 – 4:00 pm Central Time]
The noise and smells of everyday people overwhelmed Queenie.
Tiger gripped her leg as a group of male teens passed by them on one of the busiest corners on the wharf. Queenie was more aware of people than usual. After one week at Claridge’s, she’d become weary of them. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
“We’re not stuck up, are we, son?” Queenie said as the kid put both arms around her leg and hugged it tight until he saw the teenager’s backs.
Queenie placed a hand around the boy’s face, insulating him from the scene.
Through the myriad of bodies and the squall of their angst from discontent, Queenie focused on the boat, which people like her began boarding. “That’s where we’re going, son, on that boat! To America.”
Out of nowhere, Heatherington jumped into her line of sight. He held papers and was saying something. Queenie couldn’t be bothered finding out what he was saying. All she knew was he had the tickets he promised her in hand.
And as he came closer, she tried her best to look happy. But she wouldn’t be satisfied until she was on board that ship—her and her son.
“We’re here,” Botham, the son of a Polish immigrant who fled to America at the start of the century to escape persecution, announced in his drab boring-as-beige manner. The fact he had that adversity in his background hadn’t affected Botham. It hadn’t given him an edge, nor did it dull him any further. He and his family had successfully integrated into the new world. Botham carried on the family businesses when his parents passed away. His mother was a seamstress and his father, a printer.
Tiker pulled back on the reins as Botham pointed to a barn at the end of a dirt road just ahead.
The men’s singing coming from the wagon being towed, whittled down to just York as the horses came to a halt and Tiker wrapped the reins around the handbrake.
“Wade in the water, wade in the water, children wade…”
In-between Tiker and Botham, was Sovrin a ten-year-old boy. From the waist up, Sovrin appeared normal.
It was in Tiker’s nature to look for signs in people—he’d been doing it since he was a child. And judging from the look on Sovrin’s face, the barn, and the homestead Botham pointed at meant something to the child. Maybe it reminded him of his parents.
“And?” Tiker turned to Botham.
“All will be revealed in due course,” Botham responded, and then he used the back of his hand, pushing it forward for Tiker to take the reins.
NEW ORLEANS 2019
“We want you to consider the title of HANNIBAL AMMER…”
As far as Miller was concerned, from that point on, Mr. Businessman’s lips moved, but nothing else registered. Sound was a hum of the warm feeling inside. The smell was indescribable—he’d never smelled molasses, maybe this is what molasses smelled like. His fingertips tingled…
“You have forty-eight hours to make a decision.” Mr. Businessman said, and then he slid an envelope in front of him. “Snap your fingers, twice!”
Miller obeyed the command without thinking. “Hey!” He blurted. “How’d you do that?”
“You’re awake, but just enough. There’s channel nested in between what has been defined as hypnosis, mind control and telepathy. A vortex where everything rises to a crescendo if you like. Let’s put it this way—you’re flexible but not vulnerable. Programmable but not hackable. You communicate by listening and only talk when you must. And when that happens, you’re smooth as a motherfucker!” Mr. Businessman’s voice and what he was saying teetered on the sublime for the FBI special agent.
He had questions for Mr. Businessman, like, isn’t HANNIBAL AMMER a handler? And wasn’t he white? Miller was fresh out of training with no experience. Maybe this was still part of his training.
Beep, beep, beep!
Miller heard the alarm inside the bar before it penetrated the channel known as sleep.
“Dang!” He said as he climbed out of the deep slumber that had sent him deep into the unconscious layers of his mind.
“Phew,” he gasped as he reached for his iPhone and Beats headphones. Donning the devices, he heard Anderson .Paak and Kendrick Lamar divulge a perspective in TINTS.
Note: Emotional Techno Fiction is a sub-genre of Metafiction, a construct of Postmodernism.