From the Desk of Doktr Downdraft

~ From the desk of Doktr Hampton P. Downdraft ~    

DULCE

NEW NEW MEXICO 

APRIL

2046 

I don’t have much time. Not enough to tell this tale with my

customary flare.  

Hopefully,

I can remain lucid long enough to share  

a sufficient, albeit dull, Reader’s Digest version.  

Recently,

the ‘Bug Whisperer’ paid me a visit, and already I feel the dreaded C-33 virus,

more readily recognized by its moniker, the ‘Satan-X’ variant, coursing through

my plaque-clogged veins. The victim of a dreadfully excessive assassination, I’m afraid.       

My

name is Dr. Hampton P. Downdraft. I was born in West Virginia, former United

States of America, in the winter of 1962.   

For

46 years, I lived and worked nine stories below the Dulce Municipal Office

Compound. Down in the ‘Tubes’ where the Deep State is working with... the

'Foreigners.'  

Being well-versed in developing multi-quasi-weapons, I ran the Semi-Alternate-Meta-Armaments’ Division.  

The zenith of that illustrious career was my discovery of the 119th element:  

Suc’mium Oxide.  

While Magnetism attracts/repels, and Gravity pushes/pulls, Suc’mium Oxide sucks/blows, sending bone and flesh to the Twilight

Zone.  

My reputation soared.  

I was admired, respected, even loved, maybe worshiped. For twelve years, I conducted bizarre, often grotesque

experiments, sacrificing tens of thousands of ‘small’ animals for scientific

progress and, more importantly, my advancement.  

Sadly, I was hindered by the ignorance of everyone around me. They had no inkling of

what I was doing... except how good I looked doing it.  

Case in point:  

3LR-#4,564-M   

Crappy was a ‘Lab Rat Stud,’ producing thousands of offspring in his time. But his sperm

count was dropping, and his children showed signs of genetic degeneration...

time for a new occupation...time for Lab #3.  

Attempting to ‘transport’ Crappy’s testicles to a different dimension would have been

inconsiderate had I given a rat’s ass.

(Excuse the vulgar language. The subject dredges up... what’s the word... Emotions!)  

With no concern for the lab rat’s feelings, I made some final adjustments to the

mini-mouse restraints. I utilized my watchmaker’s tools, loosening the tiny paw cuffs and tightening

the neck collar and hip shackles. Unfortunately, I had trouble with the steam-powered

tweezers as they fogged up my aviator goggles.  

With no data available save for the five dirty gin martinis (3 olives) I guzzled during a late supper of calamari and asparagus spears, I made a well-estimated, brilliant, wild guess.  

“HOKHAY,

Shwa-shee...hic... Waddaweegawt?...hic”  

I mumbled to Kwa-Jee, my

Gen-FU assistant. She replied,  

“The musculus, 3LR-#4,564-M aka

Crappy, weighs 269 grams. Unfortunately, somebody got stupid and never made the

equations; therefore, there is no accurate data to report.  

.000778 grains of Suc-Ox per gonad has been placed securely on his lower scrotum, and for the

record, the wild guess you pulled from your ass is a dangerously underestimated

decision.”  

“Aaw...hic...FuG iD. Lez Duu tHizz...hic...!”  

“The implosion sequence will be

triggered when reaching 96 degrees Celsius,”

Kwa-Jee continued, “sending Crappy’s copulatory

apparatus to alternate reality; MilkDud-37...you hope.”  

“Shuddup an... hic... pushduhh budun... hic!”  

The payload harness dis-engaged, dropping the Suc-O× onto its designated target;  

An endless moment of frozen silence until;  

‘BOOF’  

A tiny mushroom cloud rose from Crappy’s shaved genitals, followed by a strange

sizzling, like crinkling cellophane.  

“eeeeeeeeeeekkk??” Asked

Crappy.  

“eeeeeeeaeaeaeeaeeAARRRRGG?!!"  

Grossly underestimating the payload required, Crappy’s package got stuck between worlds. Drifting

forever in a sea of dark antimatter.  

The semi-disappearance of his stuff was odd, even for Lab #3 standards. Where his plumbing

used to be was now just an annoying smudge like a bad airbrush job. Like his

junk was only kinda gone.  

“Let’s take a selfie with it!”

Kwa-Jee insisted, pulling out her new iPhone

72.  

No one present that night could recall hearing a rat scream before this event.  

Except A-Bomb Willy, who, for reasons best ignored, was present at Nagasaki during

‘Fat Boy’s’ detonation.  

He saw rocks turn to glass and glass to stone. He watched people melt and flaming

birds fall from the sky. A-Bomb Willy heard everything scream that day.  

My old friend, Willy. We would spend hours sipping cognac, smoking Thai sticks,

pretending to share analysis;  

“And this is L3R #466, King

Louie, we called him.”  

“Where’d his face go?”

Willie asked.  

“It relocated to his penile helmet.”  

“You’re an idiot, Hampton.”  

“Ya

think?”  

Those were exciting scotch & coke and coke-fueled

times.  

Until

‘RatGate.’  

What began as a minor incident grew dire as the days passed. Who would have imagined

an orbiting Lab Rat could wreak such havoc?  

Had I dominion over my compulsive obsession to maintain the Alpha Dog status I had spent a lifetime cultivating, I

might have foreseen the advancing maelstrom.  

My reputation soured.  

The continuing Suc-O× failures tarnished my sparkling

image.   

With its cargo of precious thoughts and valuable insights, the wreckage of my

profound mental Armada was swept onto the shoals of

failure.  

Immoral, yes... Immortal, not so much.  

What I perceived to be respectful admiration from my colleagues was actually

scornful tolerance. When asked for an explanation, A-Bomb Willy, not one to mince words, answered me as directly as laboratory decorum would allow.  

“Because you’re a douche bag,

Hampton.                             

Now GID OWDA HEER!”  

.

. . 

Spending a half-century in the Tubes left me with an inadequate understanding of the

upper world.  

So, I tried the tried and true ‘close your eyes and place your finger on a map’

technique. My first stab at it took me to Guangzhou, China. The second pointed me to the Mariana Trench.  

An online psychic, certain that Cincinnati, Ohio, was my personal Nirvana, urged

me to visit. By coincidence, she had a spare bedroom needing a paying

tenant.  

Hypno-therapy

revealed my subconscious yearning for an architectural career in Vitsyebsk, Belarus.  

After a protracted visit with the nearest commode, a guideless Ayahuasca journey sent

me, against my will, to the Crab Nebula.  

Then, after losing my findings, the ‘Swine from Lab Nine,’ as I called them, were

engaged in a futile attempt to re-create the subtle nuance of my visionary ‘Hollow Brains Theory.’  

So, I took their

Ouija Board.  

At first, Ouija seemed like just a childish game. Until I placed my fingers on the

pointer.  

“Mr. Ouija...Please tell me where to go.”  

I cannot explain what happened next. What I can say is the pointer moved

aggressively from one letter to the next, spelling;  

‘IT’S MS

OUIJA ASS HOLE 

NOW GEDOWDA

HEER’  

It then jumped from the board, careening across the lab, coming to rest in the 'eye

rinse' sink.  

I took [Satan's] Ms. Ouija's advice.  

~ From the desk of Doktr Hampton P. Downdraft ~    

Dear Human Race,

For the love of God, discard your useless belief systems and HEAR

ME!              

On July 4, 2046, one minute before midnight, the Meta-Schism will begin.  

Matter will no longer matter! Everything will

be nothing! AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN!  

Our only recourse is to think happy thoughts,

and maybe it will go away!  

Suc-Oxide experiment #13,975, better known as ‘RatGate,’ was a typically brilliant concept of mine. The logical

next step toward the understanding of my impressive new element.  

The plan was simple: shoot a lab rat into low

orbit wearing a fanny pack filled with Suc-Ox. All of my equations pointed to a lackluster outcome... oops.  

I mean, come on, people. How was I supposed

to know that exposure to the vacuum of outer space would send Suc-Ox

hurtling toward the Event Horizon at 100,000,000 times the speed of

light?  

And what might happen once the Suc-Ox has gone beyond the Big Bang? Your guess is as good as

mine, and I'm guessing all Hell will break loose. Hairline fractures become jagged cracks. Frayed fabric

becomes gaping rips. Gentle streams grow to raging cataracts of Doom;  

A=SO2.                                                 

Annihilation Equals Sucmium Oxide Squared.  

I take full responsibility for this

unfortunate mishap and wear my moniker, ‘The Destroyer of All That Ever Was and Ever Will Be,’ with mostly shame. And even though it’s a cool nickname, I would appreciate y’all’s forgiveness.’

Dr. H.P. Downdraft

June 15, 2046  

JULY 4, 2046 

Carrying his Suc-Ox payload, Lab Rat #172,953 (Mr. Mustard) 

crossed the Event Horizon, entering

into before time.                                                                                      

 The schism, sounding like a

million fingernails on a thousand blackboards, ripped space/time apart.                            

Like distant kettle drums, a low, irregular throbbing came out of the east.   

Each pulse sent vibrations through the Earth’s upper crust, causing a worldwide

epidemic of restless leg syndrome, which in turn led to an exponential rise in suicides.  

The upper atmosphere flashed like a thousand distant thunderstorms. And the colors!

Gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, brain freezing colors.  

Bulldog-urine-yellow

to pig-excrement-brown.  

Nasal-phlegm-teal

to my-roof’s-on-fire-grey. Gang-green. Fresh-bruise-purple. Wet-rust. The devil’s palate.  

The schism, now a chasm, tore through the neighboring realities like a calving

glacier, exposing countless epochs of holographic anti-gravitational meta'matter,

severing theoretical strings once attached to possible

probabilities, exhibiting a continuous

continuum of epic annoyance.    

Mere letters lined up in neat little rows can never describe what happened that night.   

The cosmic crack appeared everywhere, and everyone felt it in their own unique way.   

Little

things.   

Like your dentures inexplicably fall out. Or the urgent need to shit your pants.  

Built-up methane in a Porta-Potty explodes, killing 23 at

Disneyland Relief Station # 9.  

A sudden sinkhole appears on the 16^th

fairway gallery at the Masters, swallowing everyone in Section 4B.  

Little

things.  

It rains rat brains in London for three weeks. 

Manhattan vanishes only to reappear in Brooklyn.  

Pigs begin speaking French.  

Everyone in Iowa wakes up the following day with their holographic twin hogging up the

bathroom. There is a sudden

worldwide urge to smoke milkweed. Dogs develop a paralyzing fear of rabbits.

The Dead comes alive. The Living goes dead. Clocks slow to a crawl, eventually

stopping altogether (obviously.)    

I could go on all night, but I think you get the picture. There is no need to discuss the moon

flipping 90 degrees, showing us its dark side, driving thousands of astronomers

to madness. Or how upside-down cakes turned into right-side-up cakes, driving thousands of pastry chefs insane...