[chapter THIRTY-NINE of MIKE EYE’s The Aqueous Transmission]

AL RODNAM SUDDENLY APPEARED ALL-TOO-SWIFTLY ATOP THE treacherous grounds of an astonishing bedlam that had all gone to Hell.

And the nuclear explosion was yet to make impact.

The tragic conditions of Fucked-Earth were far worse than the old man had Imagined; they were not nearly this bad when he had first started holding Fletcher Munsin’s charismatic form at the edge of Bry Dellows not long ago, just after the Thirteen Hawks had had their Andromeda Biodome Truth Revelation. He was totally taken aback and remained in a state of total shock for an elapsed amount of time unknown to him…  all Al Rodnam finally decided he did Know after eventually shaking off the bewilderment was that it was indeed more than a short amount of time. And he didn’t miss making the chilling, mental note that this could all just be as he now strangely felt it to be, and Nothing more…


And, as unusual as it was, Al Rodnam Now felt himself Becoming altogether erratic and distraught at his tendencies to become so easily Distracted on his lowly way to the pond of the Aqueous Transmission! The Opportunity Now Given Here, he suddenly realized, must swiftly come to be taken right away. The old man tried thinking of nothing else save for sharp, running thoughts of a drilling sense of precisely how critical this moment was for him. He caught a ripping rush of icy, raw frenzy right-eat straight through him as he suddenly Came to the Awareness of the dire urgency of his willful Hand to Come Out ‘n’ Play Artfully during this mere consecrated Incident. All that he was trying to think about now was how he was to navigate successfully through and past his next obstacle, however horrid he could Imagine it to be, and in but a flash of an Instance. The Wise Godhed swiftly pounded himself repeatedly on the Head with a couple of angry fists as he cursed himself out and shouted aloud to himself to stay focused and concentrate on his destined Final Destination.


It stank of dying things unrecognizable. The guru now beheld nothing he remembered from the times he had made Bry Dellows his Home, indiscernible objects before him all covered in impenetrable filth and caught in wreckage that spanned out as far as the Eye could See. There were uncontained bonfires everywhere. Ash and smoke and heat and dirt all swirled together before the mystic and his mouth remained partly dropped wide open and dry, Unconsciously taking it all in.

Shortly, after becoming able to douse his dilemma of being in a downstruck daze, he shook himself free from his sucked-in stance and moved onward.

Al Rodnam took a few cautious steps forward at first. He then walked not a dozen more paces ahead before he saw…

A colossal drift of thick and heavy, smudgey smoke in the near distance suddenly altogether slowly blew away in a mock-theatrical dramatic fashion to extravagantly reveal a mind-numbing display most Horrifying. And it came scattered with ear-piercing, panicked screeches. The retarded little Loombugs were everywhere, all howling a wild gibberish most enthusiastically as they frantically raced that way and this, not a One of them having a Single clue as to what they were doing or where they were going.

What Al Rodnam noticed next was how many of them there were.

So many of those filthy, doomed Loomy fuckers runnin’ amuck! he thought to himself. What a disgrace.


Scrambling fro and to like terrified, overly erratic creatures of pure madness amongst bonfires burning uncontrollably, the murky, foreboding sky overhead, in mirrored aquatic fashion, was filled with shooting stars that were chaotically shooting to and fro, these unstable astral counterparts of the Bugs releasing entirely the pent-up energies they had been Harvesting for their entire lifetimes in an instance, and flashing ever-so-brightly across the sky wildly. Electro-plasmic confetti blasted about the Cosmos continuously from every direction, and One Loombug expired upon Fucked-Earth for each fiery flash.

The Last Godhed swiftly darted through the mayhem of the far fringes of Bry Dellows toward a bluff by-and-by as fast he could, picking his way cautiously, but quickly, through the looming grey smoke clouds and harrowing odorous smut rolling softly, amicably on by.

And upwards and out of this Godforsaken Hollows Al Rodnam would hasten! 

Beyond this Damned, defiled, deathly domain of the despicable, Dark Mother’s Harvest would he catch brief downtime to collect himself, he thought. There, and only then, would he begin using his super-intuitive senses in full glory to Mind the Magical Staff of Lachrylon and straightaway tap into its wet, conductive properties that would reveal to him his way across the Fucked-Earth wastelands, and to the pond of the Aqueous Transmission.


He dashed on, but with a slight slouch about his great wooden staff, onwards as fast as he could through the mayhem of the all-disturbing, most-devastating display of ungodliness all around him, the hi-fi psychotronic sub-space and free-radical holographic interferences of electrical electrons surging forth about him with utmost iniquity, these multidimensional perceptual blocks assaulting hostilely the full-range of the Last Godhed’s neural senses as he stumbled fastly over the dust and death, and in a terribly hostile manner, it would come to be. The old man felt clinging to him an elongated single moment of Sorrow that would continue Haunting him Forever. This was the land he had helped create.


At first, Al Rodnam was having a fairly agreeable time considerately traversing the bumpy grounds of the doomed village borders, but he Knew that this wouldn’t last long. The old man briskly scampered on and over abandoned bulky pieces of slimy, grotesque Loombug body parts, a whole slew of which were ripped apart and scattered everywhere over the mounds of dirt.

And if the old man wasn’t now fully concentrating on reaching that most relevant Body of Water that had somehow reemerged — and nothing else — he may have taken more heed of the unbelievably vile, most extremely disturbing stench of otherworldly rot wafting through the collapsed community. It was impossible to ignore it altogether, however, and portions of the putridity from the acrid Bug carcasses managed to eek their way past the old man’s mindful barricading of his inner nasal cavity. Al Rodnam was able to shake it off, though, as he held in his thoughts images of Lachrylon and the Pond of the Aqueous Transmission. And along with that, and only because of the sheer magnitude of this most sacred undertaking, he was soon able to temporarily shrug off his Intense Lachrymose Emotions tearing away at him and focus on the most dire, necessary task at hand. Which was the compassionate thing to do, he thought. The considerable thing to do. And, in some sick, sad way, free of distortions.

Concentrating so hard on not being distracted, the old guru missed seeing at first, but soon could not help noticing all about him as he hobbled forth, strange translucent crystalline clusters that had abruptly become plentifully strewn about the gore-infested grounds of the Unholy Hollows. They looked like pieces of petrified ruby-colored ornaments of some kind, and they were glowing softly. Their intricate subtleties started to slow the old man’s pace just a bit as fascination took over him. He thought it absolutely necessary for some reason to take a slight gander at these twinkling red items. For a quick moment, the last Godhed gambled with the lives of a race of people, albeit people corrupted, yet people he had promised to help grow and entrust. Seeing what a High Mystic such as himself could See in the aura of all the dazzling red discards that dotted on by his path as he hobbled forth, Al Rodnam was willing to wager the loss of everything he had been involved with, personally, for the last thousand years. Just to see what the hell these glowing things were.


The Last Godhed briefly set aside his haste, took a quick look about himself, and took a knee before a large cluster of the glowing red stones and started analyzing them intently. Picking a couple of them up, he saw small stone tablets petrified inside the ruby translucence and instantly made out a different Runic inscription upon each one. He noticed at Once that the depictions did not look like the Runes he had initially instructed the Mother to work with. And they were inscribed in Stone! During the early days of Bry Dellows, Al Rodnam had fiercely informed the Mother — and multiple times Passionately — that the Runes she was to Apply with her Bugs in her village be etched in wood. “No wonder things took a turn for the worst… the all-seeing guru mouthed to himself curiously with a slight frustration.

This creeping grave dread! 


Fascinated now, he snatched up a few more of the glowing ruby clusters to take a look, and each one had a small Stone false-Rune tablet locked inside, the symbol etched upon each One having distinctively deviated modifications from the uncannily similar original Rune symbols of which Al Rodnam Knew and perpetuated. The original Rune symbols he had etched into the Staff of Lachrylon.

He threw down the petrified pieces of the insulting tainted gems in Rage. He was furious! How could he have let this happen?! The old man slowly started gaining a clearer understanding of why shit had gotten so fucked at Bry Dellows.

Just then, a fat, fetid body slammed into Al Rodnam and the guru abruptly stumbled aside, tripping over the very crimson stones he had just dispelled toward the cynical-seeming Earthlands, nearly falling flat on his face. The stumpy Loombug who had made contact wavered slightly, her blank face totally iced-over in a lost confusion. She then abruptly shifted her whole upper body swiftly from the Last Godhed with a schizophrenic steadfastness, and trotted absently away. But before she could get very far, she rather neglectfully fell down in over-dramatized fashion, quickly got back up, paused, then spun back around neurotically. She managed to slip and fall but again was able to easily pull herself quickly back up, this time hobbling away in a tread of dysrhythmia, the shrill of the most piercing of womanly shrieks to suddenly and crudely be released from the Bug’s throat, miraculously assaulting the air in choppy, deep and guttural exclamations most distasteful. Before Al Rodnam could experience fully the aftereffects of a decent dose of Horror from what had just supposedly happened to him, two more expressionless Loombugs lurched up to the locale, bumping into each other as they approached the old man…

The Last Godhed was close enough to see straight into the Loombugs’ Eyes, and for the very first time in the traveled mystic’s long life, Al Rodnam was thoroughly Horrified.


The old man wished he could disappear briefly, or momentarily “stop time,” perhaps, even, or even morph into his native giant air-dolphin identity and swim away at Once! But Al Rodnam Knew that in order to properly carry out his High Duty and accomplish his mighty Charge from Lachrylon, he had to remain in his old-man human-form during this “final gesture” of avoir throughout the entirety of his Last Mission during this Final Fucked-Earth shit-shamble over to the Pond of the Aqueous Transmission. For the first time in history, Al Rodnam cursed himself out in the name of Lachrylon — something he never Imagined himself doing, ever.

The old man halted his hobble after having trudged almost hopelessly at least a mile in the direction he felt just naturally pulled to. He was either all the way out or on the fringes of Magdalena’s Bry Dellows by this point. Panting heavily, with sweat dripping off his forehead, he raised his dark wooden Rune staff up before his bust considerately, and almost didn’t notice — in fact, almost completely missed Seeing — slight variations in the revered Runes enscrawled upon the mighty Staff. The old man Knew instinctively, and without question, that the Runes he had just Seen on his own magical Staff were not the Ones he had scrawled into it during the time of the Founding of the Mother’s Bry Dellows. And he thought he Knew just exactly why…


Keeping the Staff of Lachrylon held out staunchly before his countenance so that he could keep an Eye on the Staff’s Runes as he walked on, Al Rodnam again began moving as quickly as he could, courageously trekking on rather briskly despite the stiff slouch he harbored due to the lack of aid from his staff. On he went, and in the direction he knew was away from Bry Dellows. A staunch, War-grade determination beset the ol’ man’s Eyes and hard lip as he continued onward. —Let’s go.—  —Here we go, — was what he said in his Head to prepare himself.

It was not for at least another twenty minutes along his way, Fucked-Earth time, that Al Rodnam psychedelically Saw out of the corner of his left Eye what he had been anticipating. All twenty-four Runes on the Staff of Lachrylon that he still held up before him — suddenly as a quantum leap — had just slightly, subtly metamorphosed back into the original depictions he had First carved into its wood, during that most mindful crafting of the sanctified staff from its original Four Sticks. Al Rodnam now Knew for certain that he was past the boundaries of Bry Dellows.

Keeping his pace while continuing to hold forth abruptly the mighty Staff before him, Al Rodnam was Passionately seeking, as he kept on, a more familial bondage with a growing psychic, magnetic pull he could feel growing stronger and stronger through the magic of the Staff. And he continued to advance briskly onward and further from the Mother’s subtley sadistic Homeland.

Al Rodnam thought this a great instant to attempt intentionally evoking within the Spirit of Lachrylon his Divine presence and purpose at present.


The real Runes that had reformed upon the mighty Staff the mystic clutched most manfully before him gradually started faintly glimmering an organically lucid trans-luminescence the further he got from the Village in Ruins, the pale, High silvery liquid-light of the Runes coming to emit ever-so-keenly outward, a robust rustic radiance that was, to old man’s relief, most reassuring in its ratification.

Al Rodnam paused in his tracks for a sec to behold this synchronous instance of serendipity in Pure Wonder, his anxiety mostly rapidly slipping away, the frenzy of the environment diminishing, its aural assailants dissipating. Somehow, the High Telling Light that now shot from inside the peeling, yellowing core of each of the High wooden staff’s emblazoned symbols — now all clearly correctly marked on all counts — seemed to hallucinogenically shine out from the Staff while refracting its Force straight around and off of the fiery Rune symbols’ swervy curvature with slick, stark jilts of staticky cosmo-logical tinctures that no doubt bore a godly reassurance, Al Rodnam Knew.

And the Last Godhed then almost instantaneously completely forgot about the Wicked womanly High Deception he was then meant to smugly accept and hold dear to his Heart, and without question, during this Doomsday; the pretend ‘purposeful act’ he was then supposedly obliged to elicit upon being graced with the Staff’s Holy Golden Luminescence: an official High acknowledgement that the Staff of Lachrylon the old man had crafted many years ago could now fully function to its Highest capacity, Once personally fused with the potent, pertinent powers of none-other-than…  the mighty Lachrylon.


The old man would herein keep to his wise, deep self that he had personally planned long ago that during this Twelfth Hour, it would indeed be the cloaked Force of Solaria, not the Power of Lachrylon Lachrylon’s self, that would seep into the mindful human pores of the Last Godhed via the Dark-brown Staff of hickory he had Once crafted in the mighty Lachrylon’s Honor.

After a while, he could See it — the enigmatic Pond of the Aqueous Transmission shimmering in the distance, hovering peculiarly over the land. His Eyes and mouth wide in surprise, the last Godhed took more haste toward his destination. But as he got closer to it he noticed that it didn’t seem to be getting any larger. He then realized that the pond was already evaporating…

Run, Run, Run, — RUNNN, Al Rodnam! You just run, young man. Run as fast as you can. It all Comes Down to This, man. You must succeed. You must NOT fuck-up! Runnnnnnnn…………

He was within fifteen feet of it now, sweating freely, racing up to the floating wetness as fast as he possibly could, his arms raising up above his head to form the arch of a dive formation. His jaw was clenched to total numbness. He meditated profoundly on his ultimate devotion to Lachrylon. And Solaria.

Even as his arched fingers came in euphoric contact with the Water, he was thinking there was a possibility that only part of his wrinkly, hairy body would make it down and into this fastly-evaporating, most pertinent pond. He caught the grim flash of an Intense Mental Vision that showed the pond rapidly closing in around his thighs, leaving his legs behind…  He vigorously physically shook the disturbing image from his mind as he somehow, perhaps mercifully managed to make it all into the pond in One piece…

He was completely submerged.


For a timeless instant, Al Rodnam lent his Reason for Innocence as he floated Underwater in fetal position, caught within the grey Waters of an embryonic murk faintly recognizable and drifting on and onwards to… 

He Gave Himself Up completely to the Pleasantness and True Sublime Nature of the protective maternal Watery drift he Now felt ensnared in, so soothed in.

And then the very spine of Al Rodnam’s Essence was altogether yanked out from under the Last Godhed’s phantasmic personal inner control room, and the old man felt himself being commandingly sucked evasively, and everpresently emptily, into a splashy, gurgling tidal rift that fastly propelled the mystic over and into the lost and forgotten, dark, dark, shadowy corners of a Godforsaken crook of the crux of Hyperspace.

The ordinarily sharp, vast Consciousness of the guru that had just been entirely tripped up due to his aquatic Passover, began slowly and steadily returning to his etheric Spirit Awareness in a gradual multidimensional silver-stream gathering of its lost and found sacred holographic data-chip counterparts, Coming Now in a spectacular liquidic spillover, to sharpen the Consciousness of Al Rodnam into the High Union of Divine silvery Hydro-fibers the Last Godhed Now Came to Actualize as his new existence, and he was rapidly powering up with benign electrical charges of High Awareness!

Then the Last Godhed altogether plasmatically liquefied into a subtle nest of Consciousness fibers that brought Al Rodnam not only back into his High Awareness, but joined with his Oversoul Consciousness Identity Once again, although caught in a perplexing predicament within the commanding confines of a very small, silvery enclosed compartment that just so happened to be voyaging throughout the depths of deep-space strangely, suggestively auto-piloted to an endless looped course along a programmed familiar algorithmic stellar spiral.



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Mike Eye found his passion for literature early in life, and has been reading and writing imaginative stories since elementary school. After working for several years on his own material, Mike Eye finally self-published his first novel, The Aqueous Transmission, in 2016. The author describes his debut tale of dark lore having been completely influenced by TOOL. He studies obscure sciences and philosophies, and is currently working on the sequel to his first novel. He has an incredible ear for music and also enjoys going alpine skiing and taking nature walks in the vast forests of his native New England. Mike Eye’s blog can be found at DarkEsoterika.com.

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