Flashing #48: Conspiracy Fiction

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Just a heads up – I’m not far enough ahead with next weeks stories to set them to autopost. I’m going to try, but getting married three days from now and taking a cruise next week makes that task a bit difficult. So next week might be another break. But there’re good stories this week so, you know, deal with it.

I once again didn't get to do any detailed editing with this one. Sorry. Off to see a harpist now, apparently. 

And, of course, there’re more stories at the main page.


“I need to see it.”

Jeremiah stands on the pier, hands filled with stacks of papers fully documenting the psychological profiles of hundreds of missing kids and the families they left behind. The kids all seem to have psychological defects ranging from extreme temper tantrums to outright autism. The parents tend to be young and lazy and Catholic, the types of people who would subconsciously see their missing child as a blessing from God, a reprieve from their suffering, forgiveness for the sins that landed them with a 24-7 type of child. And all of these files were found at the Department of Health and Human Services. And some of the newer files are for children that have not gone missing. Yet.

“See what?”

Hedge Brown seems particularly antsy today. His collar is pulled up higher than normal, his hat lower, and his eyes can’t seem to rest upon any one thing in particular. He shifts from foot to foot as if avoiding a sniper and his voice has an edge to it often reserved for junkies and snitches.

“The pens – I need to see the pens. I have nothing unless I see the pens.”

“Just take what you have and go public with it. You go to see the pens and this whole thing falls apart. You won’t come back.”

Jeremiah tries to argue his case but Hedge Brown swiftly turns around and walks towards the shadows. “Just give me an address!”

Hedge Brown pauses and looks down at the ground. “136 Raleigh St. Southeast. Get in, take your picture, get out. I risked too much for this.” Hedge Brown continues on, leaving Jeremiah alone on the pier holding 95% of his Pulitzer Prize.


136 Raleigh Street is in the perfect neighborhood for a secret of this magnitude. It’s across 295 from Bolling AFB, for starters, and it’s in a neighborhood populated with people who don’t ask too many questions and who’s mere presence tends to scare away people who would ask the right questions. The house itself is unassuming – no cars parked out front, no light on, and way too small to house any sort of secret lab or pens. Jeremiah assumes Hedge Brown’s information wasn’t entirely reliable but he decides to check out the house anyway.

He walks up to the front door and notices the types of lock you’d never see in a neighborhood like this. Computerized, with a thumbprint scanner. The door itself seems to be reinforced and the windows, he notices, are actually made of glass so thick it’s practically impossible to see through it.

This is certainly the house, and there is no way he’s getting inside.

As he begins to walk back towards his car he notices that there’s some steel bulkhead entry doors that undoubtedly lead towards the basement and that they’re marked with a yellow piece of tape – Hedge Brown’s signal. Jeremiah goes over to the doors and gives them a tug. The doors swing open and the lights go on downstairs. Jeremiah hears a rustle of hooves, the whining of children, and a hellish shriek that begins as a murmur but slowly builds to a crescendo of ear-splitting wails. Jeremiah enters the basement and quickly closes the doors to keep the sound inside as best as possible.

And there they stand. Despite all of the evidence he’s seen, he can’t even bring himself to believe it. Unicorns, their fur radiating light, their horns humming with life, their jowls coated with blood and flesh, their eyes burning with the hatred of every hell, their mouths letting forth the cacophonous symphony of heartache and misery, their spiked hooves stacked with the dismembered bodies of long-lost children and assumed run aways, looking like the worst shish kabobs ever conceived.

Jeremiah is captivated and frightened as the unicorns slowly move towards him. He notices the device he’s only heard about – the crux of his story – the final piece to a puzzle that includes several government agencies, hundreds of conspirators, and millions of deaths. The AIDS generation machine, powered by Unicorn tears altered by the flesh of children, pumping out vials of AIDS and packaging them into boxes destined for American ghettoes and third-world countries.

Everything makes sense now. But before he can reach for his camera, before he can snap off a picture of the Unicorn/AIDS farm, the bloodthirsty creatures are upon his, impaling him and carving him up – sharing him amongst themselves. The thrill of the kill and the howl that comes with it can be heard for miles. Hedge Brown hears it from his home in Old Town, and he knows that yet another reporter has failed to uncover this conspiracy.


posted by Jason at 1 Comments


Blogger Max Cascone said...

I like this one a lot. I don't know why, maybe because I really wasn't expecting unicorns.

2:18 PM  

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