Operation: ENUD

“We’re not alone.”

“What?”

I’m staring at the rain drops sliding down the outside of the passenger window, leaning my head against it. 

“Just something I have to say.”

Jacoby, my best friend, looks over and squints at me in abject confusion for what becomes a tense, contemplative ten seconds, during which several possible explanations for why I just said what I said run through my head, though none are satisfactory. Suddenly, at the exact moment the first syllable of bullshit beginning what no doubt would have been an utterly useless response, the phrase “Hello, is there anybody out there?” from Pink Floyd’s "Comfortably Numb" blasts out of nowhere from the car speakers, saving me. The joint I keep on me in case Pink Floyd starts playing unexpectedly is lit. Hits and exhales and smoke rings and coughs are blown out in slow motion, in correspondence with the song’s vibe. The speaker’s volume comes down to a reasonable level during the second verse, which is odd since neither of us touched any of the radio’s controls and since the radio is currently turned off. Outside, chaos—in the skies and on land—reigns o’er all. 

“So you gonna tell me why you said ‘we’re not alone’ like it was something you just discovered that I wasn’t already aware of? Like it wasn’t the exact words the president used today to end his address to the nation? Like, are you just fucking with me orrrr…?” I stare straight forward as he trails off and inhale the joint deeply while considering this. 

“Well…” He vexes, eyebrows raised.

“Well, um…” I begin, blowing smoke out and coughing while handing him the joint back, and I’m thinking: I hope a Led Zeppelin song plays after this.

Gilmour’s Strat fades to silence and, all out of favors, my wish is not written.

“Look I uh, sometimes I, um, forget what people know and what people don’t,” I say, lighting another joint as the confusion crescendos more intensely over Jacoby's face and thinking on my feet I quickly, for clarification, add: “You know, like in time.” Another pause. Jacoby’s jaw is dropped, dumbfounded. “Like where we are at in the overall timeline.” I continue, drawing an arc in the air with my palm. This clarifies absolutely nothing for him and he looks at me as one might look at a man eating a mouthfuls of rocks.

“Maybe no more Pink Floyd joints for you.”

I want to enlighten him as to why things aren’t making much sense but what exactly does he want me to say? That I know how this is gonna end? That none of this is real? That no one has freewill? I mean, I could tell him these things, tell him what I know, but then my ending probably will not be of the more peaceful variety. Several orange streaks trailing from what look to be giant balls of fire light up the night sky ahead of us. 

A few weeks ago I had a dream in which I was told everything. The narrator—who or whatever that is—explained it all to me and then basically gave me the same powers that the spice gives Paul in Dune. If you don’t know what I am referring to go watch the 2021 movie Dune: Part One and if you happen to be reading this in October 2023 or any time beyond watch Part Two after that. Normally if something is a book first I would recommend you read the book, very ironic given the knowledge I now posses, I know, but in this case the movie(s) is (are) better. But for the love of the narrator, do not watch the 1984 one by mistake. You should read that book though. And listen to that album (for track five only). Also that's not to say the Dune book is bad by any means, it’s well worth reading if you’re interested in seeing where George Lucas stole all his ideas from. And if you do like the first one, the sequel—Messiah—is much better. 

Anyway, I’m not sure where these thoughts are being typed out or if any of my opinions on books or movies or music will be relevant to whatever universe or realm they are now and have always been recorded in, but just in case they are, I’ll throw in one more: the Fight Club movie is way better than the book and the ending makes way more sense with the themes of the story. I just hope the movie made out of my novel is—

“Aye, dude, are you fucking alright?” Jacoby, bewildered, snapping his fingers at me. “You were explaining this dream you had where some sort of narrator gave you powers like Paul from Dune? You were about to explain further what exactly that meant then you just stopped talking and stared off into space? Hello?”—He knocks his fist on the dashboard—“What the fuck is wrong with you? What powers do you think you were granted in this dream that are like Paul from Dune? And I’d like you to explain cause’ obviously shit has hit the fan and the only reason I’m in this car with you is because you somehow knew shit about me that only like two people have ever known, so I might be inclined to believe whatever you have to say, but I need to know what the fuck you are talking about right now. What the fuck is Dune? I don’t know Dune. What happened in the dream and what powers are you talking about?” 

This is not cool. The narrative is changing. I was told not to tell the details to anyone. Now I’m saying out loud what I think are thoughts without realizing it and Jacoby no longer seems to know who I am. His character is being rewritten. Memories are being erased. We saw Dune in theaters together two years ago. Whatever ungodly creatures I am set to heroically destroy (along with everything else) parked their ship in the location I was told they would two minutes from now. I am still unsure if I’m saying any of this out loud.

“The spice in Dune basically, for certain people, allows them to see the fourth dimension,” I believe I’m explaining, “It allows them to see time like a river almost, like... imagine a river, on the left is the past, on the right is the future, the center is the present, only in Dune the right side sprawls out in all different directions, Paul can’t see the exact future, just ones that are realistic possibilities based off actions in the present.” I pause, glance back over at him. “You get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. But there’s a problem. What you’re saying is fucking crazy, man. You’re telling me you can see the god damn future? That you had a dream where some guy who said he was 'the narrator' told you you could see the future, and… now you can? Similar to—let me get this straight—powers a character from a 1960’s sci-fi novel receives from inhaling a psychedelic powder called spice? Do I have that right?”

“One key difference though.”

“And what’s that?”

“My river only goes one direction, on the right side. There are no other possibilities. Unless the narrator wants there to be.”

Each man’s thoughts in this plane of existence is recorded to a certain degree is what god or what devil or what writer explained to me in my dream. In fact I was told the only thoughts that actually exist are the ones that can be discerned by other beings far into the future. These thoughts are the only things represented from this place, from this time, from me. But the voice warned they are always subject to change. Always at his discretion. He decides who shoots and who drives. Who lives and who dies. Who’s friends or enemies. Who’s heroes or villains. These aren’t things in my world left up to chance. These are things, according to the voice—the writer—that really come down to simply what makes the most sense based off the situation you’ve written yourself into so far.

The situation Jacoby and I have been written into involves aliens. We were best friends and then we met by chance instead. I convinced him he was the only one who could help me save the universe through having intimate knowledge on his life that I couldn’t possibly have known. Now we are racing against time to get to the alien's ship which is of course wreaking havoc on major cities across the world. There will be blood, sweat, tears, action, sacrifices made, promises broken and kept, dialogue such as “Let’s give these alien bastards a taste of their own medicine” and “If Glorbashborg the head alien wants a fight then bywellgoshbygolly he’s bloody well going to get one” and “Unnamed main character, I’ve always loved you” and “In order to stop the aliens, you’ve just got to let go” and “JACOBY NOOOOOOOOOO” and “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH” and “MY LEG, MY LEG” and “DO YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY?” and when the love interest is introduced “Drop Dead Legs” by Van Halen (track five from 1984, way cooler than “Hot for Teacher”) is played on the sound track followed by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana as the high schoolers begin moshing the aliens to death and finally “Back in the Saddle” by Aerosmith as our hero, me, literally rides a nuclear missile through the air on a saddle while swinging a rodeo rope wildly above my head (this has never been done before) as I careen towards the alien HQ to put a stop to this once and for all but I know now thanks to my narrator that’s not my real ending my real ending is when the writer stops writing and you, dear reader, stop reading.