[DL] Story: Mir and far

[Soothsprayer <hercubadger@yahoo.com>]

 The Weird West – 1876

The skies were as dark as the inside of a beer fridge
with tumultuous clouds rolling inwards down from the
nearby mountains. Lightning tore through the night sky
swifter than stout (not to be confused with a stoat,
which would be a much nastier effect both visually and
physically for the one imbibing) through a teetotaler.
A dust trail wound its way through the valley as four
horses lathered their way towards the village in the
distance. These horses had come a long way and from
the haste of their riders the journey was no where
near finished. 

“We’re not going to make it,” muttered the furthermost
rider as he swept his leather duster off his thigh and
patted his mount reassuringly. “Should never have
stopped for that curry…” he continued. 

“Enough already,” replied a large gentleman riding
along side at speed. “How were we to know they’d
actually be on time for once?” The remaining pair of
riders remained silent except for the encouragement
given to their steeds.

*** 
“Riders approaching from the east, master,” whispered
an acolyte for the Church of the 23rd Circle. The
acolyte was dressed in the latest fall fashion for
cultists, a fetching floor length black robe made out
of the finest economic black material with pockets
(for chalk, ritual daggers, and mints) and a matching
sash. As you can imagine Cultist wear hasn’t changed
much across the ages. When your greater concern is
pronouncing your diabolic master’s name correctly (and
do they get more than slightly miffed when you stumble
over the fourth series of “arcxekrtchg” sounding
syllables. Do they accept your throat bleeding as a
valid excuse? Oh no! Not as if your diabolic master
was named anything decent like “Sid” or “Dave.” Not
even a slightly dodgy “Sabastian” or “Fabio.” Nope,
they all seemed to be named by throwing a wet cat on a
typewriter and taking what ever comes out the other
end) the concept of changing the style of one’s
“work-wear” just doesn’t come into it.

A great cackling come forth from the atrium nearby. As
far as cackling goes this wasn’t too bad but it did
sound a little forced. A true master at the cackle
arts knows to sound enthusiastic as well as sincere. A
good belly laugh is all fine and well but a
magnificent cackle is what is really called for at
these times. Something that could chip paint off the
walls and frighten dogs from kilometres away. 

“The fools, they are too late! Let them come and
witness our glory. The summoning is near completion!
Nothing can stop us now!” Cried out the Grand Master
of the Church of the 23rd Circle (and amateur
astronomy club). There was a slight pause while both
the acolyte and master waited to see if uttering the
famous “nothing can stop us now” line was going to
cause any problems. Since smiting wasn’t apparent
instantaneously, the Grand Master continued. “Let us
complete the sacred chanting and drawing of chalk
animals on the floor so that our summoning is
complete.”

The ritual was taking its toll and the parishioners of
the Church of the 23rd Circle were looking more than a
little worn. Black robe sleeves had been rolled up and
there seemed to be more chalk on the churchgoers than
on the floor. Even so, the floor and walls were
bedecked with a vast array of line drawn animals,
smiley faces, landscapes, and even a few limericks.
The temple itself was ablaze with light as the
multitude of required candles were burning from just
about every flat surface they could be sat on, taped
to, nailed in place, or merely held by the chanting
with gusto acolytes.

“Chant my minions, chant like you’ve never chanted
before!” Shouted the Grand Master. “Once we are
complete the world will be ours. As our reward for
this summoning, we shall be gifted with a weapon of
immense power. A weapon of vastly advanced technology
that shall sweep our enemies away like so many
discarded tissues. This weapon shall strike with fire,
with iron, and with the energies of the sun! We shall
reap our revenge against all those who stand in our
way including my high school P.E. teacher who claimed
I’d never get anywhere in life. So it shall be!”

“Tell me what you want, what you really really want….”
Chanted the churchgoers in unison. 

When the time was right, the Grand Master stepped
forth to the perimeter of the summoning circle to
complete the ritual. With well practiced sweeps of his
arms the Grand Master drew the “Little Meowing Kitten
of Channeling” between the already present “Smiley
Face of the Four Corners” and the Strangle Doodle
Resembling a Man’s Genitalia of Ultimate Power.” Once
the last whisker was drawn on the kitten’s face the
summoning circle lit up with an immense brilliance as
a nefarious gateway sprung into existence within. From
deep within the gateway something approached. The
Grand Master jumped up and down in glee as his
promised weapon was delivered. Strangely, it was
getting rather hot inside the temple. Really hot. The
Grand Master saw a bright light and then……

 High Above the Pacific Ocean – Six score and
few years later

The Mir Station had long outlived its usefulness (kind
of like politicians in a way) and now was returning to
earth in one final act. The station’s orbit had been
allowed to decay past the point of no return and with
the add of a few skillfully (here’s hoping anyway)
engineered burns from onboard rockets, had been pushed
even further back down into the gravity well. The
station’s exterior burned white hot as metallic
attachments and projections tore off to immolate
themselves across the horizon in a smear of light. A
fraction of its former size (here’s hoping), the
remains of the Mir station  plummeted down to a watery
grave. That was, until a globe of silver light
expanded from a point directly beneath the station to
swallow it without a trace. No record of Mir’s passing
would be found later. It was if it had vanished from
this world and into another.  

 The Weird West – 1876, 15 minutes after the
first time.

The flash of light reached the posse first, then soon
afterwards the intense heat. Seconds later all four
were blown off their collective horses by the wall of
air pushed outwards by the blast wave. Once the posse
had recovered enough to look towards their intended
target, they found no sight of the temple and were
instead greeted with a smoking crater. “Well I’ll be
buggered…” mouthed the posse leader.

The Moral of the Story –.  Just because the Evil has a
name, doesn't mean it has to also be smart. Think
once, think twice, think - don't worship the stupid ones.

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