THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: STOP THE WAR (Patreon)

The night after Doctor King died in Memphis, Beth and I drove out into the desert to finally do something about it all. First, I got the pistol from my dad's place while he slept off his drunk. Next, we drove to Stanislaus' house in the hills, pistol whipped the maid, and took the book, the substance he had prepared for the ritual, and his notes, and then we drove an hour east, to the Rodman Mountains in the desert. It really seemed important then, and now I can't clearly say why I did all that. It wasn't like me. It wasn't like Beth.

We did it, but it all felt very far away.  

I recall thinking that Stanislaus wouldn't know anything about any of this until we were done, if we were lucky. After? Well, it wouldn't matter. 

We met Stanislaus in 1965 while I was in the middle of my degree in Ancient Near East languages at UCLA, and I wasn't the attraction, it was clear he had a thing for Beth. Heck, we all did. She was in languages as well, but her beauty towed a menagerie of the strange and rich behind her like a cloud, all jockeying for position in the hierarchy of her affections. For some reason, she chose me though. Maybe it was because I was clueless, or obsessed with other things. Maybe it was precisely because I did nothing to ingratiate myself to her, and she was surrounded by sycophants like Stanislaus all the time. I was novel only in comparison to the everyday.  

Stanislaus was a kid born with too much money and with it, too much time, who always seemed to be going somewhere, but in the literal sense. He was forever in transit. Flying to Colorado. Berne. Vacationing in Tahiti. Yet somehow he posted decent grades in the languages program, though his spark sometimes appeared rudimentary compared to Beth or myself. In the third year I found out he had a man taking his coursework for him, and he merely dabbled in it himself, and then only because of the family book. Still, in the moment from time to time, he would demonstrate exceptional skill in a way I found confusing. 

Stanislaus' family is old German. His grandfather was a famous member of the SS who was hung at Nuremberg, a name you would all know. Something which the family strangely and readily appeared to bring up in conversation in a way that didn't seem quite normal. This was always followed by the explanation that his grandfather was a monster of course, and the noose was too good for him. In the second year we knew him, Stanislaus showed me the book.

Latin. 1500s, perhaps? Leather bound, peeling. Partially burned. But exceptional. Unreal. I had never seen anything like it. Reading up on it later, it was clearly some sort of expurgated version of the Necronomicon, sanitized to remove the more gruesome artworks I knew to be in the original (I had seen two grainy photostatic copies of pages from the Miskatonic collection in my first year). On the inside front cover was inscribed in spidery hand O WORMIUS, and beneath it, a swastika stamp, and legend: AHNENERBE SS. Stanislaus said it was a family heirloom. That it was special. That it had things in it which could change the world. I dismissed it as the five drinks I had seen him down that night, but my obsession with the book only grew over time.

It really grew after the fire. On a July evening, Stanislaus showed up in his normal hippy garb, sat down, and we all set about getting monstrously drunk. At one point in the evening, he leaned over and said: on July 29, 134 sailors will die in a fire on the Forrestal in the Gulf of Tonkin, then he leaned in, hugged me, and laughed. I recalled the moment clearly, even after all I had to drink. And I drank a lot more when, a week later, the news came out over KHJ just as Stanislaus had predicted. Later, he said, it was from the book. A ritual in the book.

Show me, I said and he did.

The book showed us all many things. But always side things. Always ancillary events. Still, it was amazing, and enriching. Beth and myself became rich almost by accident. Stanislaus was already rich, of course.

Later, Stanislaus began to tell us about what he called the grand ritual. This, he claimed, could not only see the world, it could change the world. He was preparing for it for some time. It required...rare...elements, and a near photographic memory of the complex chants required. Fire. Isolation. The book said "ye operaytor might work his will upon the worldye in its entyre, and know the face of the one that opens all doors." But Stanislaus would not say what he planed to "work". But I believed he could. I knew he could. Stanislaus was not a man of our time. He didn't fit in. He wasn't about love and peace and a better world. His mind moved along darker, more private channels, barely kept behind his perfect white teeth.

Then, Doctor King. The riots. The theft. The silence of the desert, miles off road. Miles from anyone.

Then nine hours chanting. Eating the prepared item for the ritual. Beth and I meditating as the sun set.  

Then, Stanislaus.

"Hiya."

My legs were asleep, and I stumbled and fell standing and trying to back up. I had heard no one approach. No car. Beth let out a little shout.

There Stanislaus stood. Dressed in a paisley shirt, ankle boots and purple corduroy pants. He seemed so real and so perfect, it made me feel like the one out of place.

"Stan," I started, but he held his hand up. Beth stood, finally, and began backing away, with a blanket pulled around her shoulders. Eyes wide.

"You have my book," Stanislaus said, in a not unkind manner, taking a step towards me, I lunged forward and picked up the book which was face down in the dust, and held it protectively.

"This is a book for the world," I said.

"I wrote it," he said, smiling, "I should think I know what it is for."