The Fangs: A New Breed

By Watts Trine

What is human nature, and who are we in the forest of life? Where in our family tree does humanity begin, and with whom will it end? How have we expressed humane, and why should it matter? The living answers to these questions become deeply relevant as a focused woman and a distracted man are forced to learn what a child already knows. Fatefully embraced, they find out how the reality of our truth is stranger than any fiction, and why it is that whoever we are, wherever we go, whenever we live, whatever form we wear, people are people, with all that entails...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Watts Trine
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370360703

Watts Trine

Watts Trine is a man from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, United States, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way, Virgo Cluster, ...( Convenient to the Great Galatic Wall )

Book preview

( ) THE FANGS ( )

( A NEW BREED )

* A SUDDENLY CRIMINALIZED SEGMENT OF SOCIETY *

( Part 1 of 2 )

Watts Trine

Copyright © 2016 Watts Trine

All rights reserved.

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( * )

Only fools and those malign snap a judgment from half the story.

What is human nature, and who are we in the forest of life? Where in our family tree does humanity begin, and with whom will it end? How have we expressed humane, and why should it matter? The living answers to these questions become deeply relevant as a focused woman and a distracted man are forced to learn what a child already knows. Fatefully embraced, they find out how the reality of our truth is stranger than any fiction, and why it is that whoever we are, wherever we go, whenever we live, whatever form we wear, people are people, with all that entails…

*

Watts Trine is a man from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, United States, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way, Virgo Cluster…

( Convenient to the Great Galactic Wall )

*

My undying gratitude to the woman who foresaw the light in this work.

This book is dedicated to all of the women in science.

Now it’s your fault too!

*

( An African Odyssey Through European America )

* Interpreters read in more than they read out *

Unknown

( The Second ) THIRTEENTH AMENDMENT

to the

Constitution for (of ?) the United States of America

( Section one )

Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, EXCEPT as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

( Slavery Expanded )

( Section two )

Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

( Slavery Federalized )

*

Table of Contents

Chapter A

Chapter B

Chapter C

Chapter D

Chapter E

Chapter F

Chapter G

Chapter H

Chapter I

Chapter J

Chapter K

Chapter L

Chapter M

… A Told Story ………

( Chapter A )

The archeological site was a mess.

The whole area was pitted with excavations, and scabbed with tarps; a wounded place, not yet healed by the weather. Diverse pieces of equipment lay scattered about, in various stages of repair, or disrepair. From above, it looked as though giant children had been playing in the mud, and being kids, they had left their toys laying in the dirt.

A few people milled around, as if trying to appear busy. At least one of them was working, although in slow motion. She crouched over a rock peeking from the side of a dig, tempting the skull from the earth grain by grain. While she had known what she was doing when she began her workday, at this time, she has no idea that she is anchored to stone, echoing a long dead deer. Her mind is elsewhere, elsewhen. Now, she is merely a memory in motion, her body living a dream.

Her name is Sara.

She heralds a new breed of selective scientist designated archeobiologist. Since the discovery of organic remains preserved within a petrified bone, contrite scientists around the world have been drilling, cutting, and even breaking into ancient fossils mining for a nugget of flesh. While the odds of striking it rich were low, occasionally someone found a vein and the rush was on to refine what was left, and quickly sell it for far more than its weight in silver, gold or platinum.

Mementos of history, heirlooms of life. Priceless, yet marketable.

Deoxyribonucleic Acid, or DNA, is the ancient treasure so eagerly sought by the hoard.

Little limericks of life written in blood with the lyrics that we live by and humming the rhythm that sways us.

Copyrighted.

In the hot light of the day star, Sara’s noble title and wealth of knowledge seemed laughable, at that moment, like swine dragging pearls as they wallow in the muck. Her dutiful dirty work felt endless, yet her professional patience equally unbounded. While the task before her was mind numbing, for weeks she had performed the delicate surgery as a labor of love despite the strain and her abrasive temperament. Pausing for a moment to change her stance, she studied the results of her effort, critically, momentarily un-enthralled in the process.

Even though Sara deeply appreciated the comical relief of a saber-toothed deer and had long ago learned the difference between tooth and fang, she saw tooth, but felt fang.

She almost smiled through the juxtaposition, but as an objective scientist, it would be poor form to laugh at the objectionable subject. She nicknamed it Bambo anyway. She might giggle about it later—everyone else would. At the moment though, it was just a very fragile pain in her back which she poked and prodded as delicately as she had the rock-solid memory of the deer. While the long teeth nestled on the stone caught her eye, her gaze naturally fixed upon the fangs. Like horns on a bunny, they seemed out of context and the poor deer got no respect for them, much as the crafted jackalope. Merely bemusement.

Gazing at the oddity, Sara mused, ‘Even if nature is a competent scientist with a messy lab, nature at times seems to work while drunk, like some artists.’

What or who selected that adaptation? Why would a deer evolve saber teeth? What did the wolves think? Did they hesitate to chase the deer or did they even notice the fangs as they ate? Sara laid a calloused finger on the crown of the skull—nope; there was no mystical union with the deer spirit. Nature wasn’t telling why it gave fangs, or sabers, to Bambo. She would just have to figure it out for herself in her domain. She resumed unveiling the deposits her mind neatly folded away, not really seeing the head that was to be the butt of many a joke.

Soon enough the skull would move again to the lab and then perhaps a saber-toothed deer would naturally move its own skull again in the lab. Sara couldn’t wait to get it back home to the laboratory where she could shut out the world to study it a piece at a time ad nauseam. She actually liked to study herself sick, like a junkie who knows the vomit is coming, but after that, bliss. Sara really couldn’t help herself. She was an addict, hooked on knowledge—the hardest stuff. Sara had to be ordered and threatened before she would take time off of work. At such times she worked at home. The change of scenery refreshed her.

Sara was the kind of dedicated soul who, at her time of dying, would have already dug her own grave and laid the flowers, neatly.

*

At long last, Bambo was freed from the rock of ages, yet not quite born again.

Sara lovingly clothed the skull with rubber, her hands gliding through the caress that had been laboriously ingrained. Elsewhere within, her mind arranged the battery of test that they would subject the relic to. The dream of finding viable DNA within the old stone thrilled her beyond belief, momentarily tempting her into the suspended flaw of belief; for belief, by its nature, is never real. Life is always beyond belief. And yet, at her core, she believed in the real world.

Maybe with all powerful knowledge they could bring this long dead deer back to life, or at least parts of it, anyway.

Parts like those fangs.

With her back to herself, Sara needed to lean against the crutch of her belief, against all reason, but as a scientist it was her forbidden fruit. Still, even she was not just an archetypical scientist—cold, calculating, and mechanical. Being human, she hoped, and believed—at least a little—quietly, privately, and desperately, but most of all, painfully, hobbled as she was.

Sara had faith that she could heal, herself and everyone else, with the stone cold dead.

Think about it. What a glorious tribute to the long reach of life being born again would be. Could be.

Soon, death may no longer be the end, but merely a respectful moment of silence preceding a new life, after death.

Can you believe it?

Just try to imagine a resurrection.

BEHOLD………………….… A REAL, LIVE, RESURRECTION.

Maybe yours.

Forget philosophy, religion, and all of the empty hopes, for eternal life may not be granted, yet perhaps it can be gained. A life might live again, and again, and again—the frothing crest of a standing wave in the river of time, self-aware, and self-fulfilling.

Forever, if feasible.

A seed of knowledge about the tree of life should and could germinate from the fruit of her labors that she held in her hands.

Maybe Sara really could march with the fleur-de-lis and supremely live an eternal moment as she tossed the bouquet to chance.

It was her time to shine, and even though secreted within all of her veils, she blazed bright indeed burning both ends of our past and future.

Sara coveted the power to procreate at will as a goddess-given right, with she naturally endowed, and entitled, so like two-thirds divine Gilgamesh, semi-divine Sara hunted immortality to our mortal end.

Whether deer, dinosaur, or Donna the delinquent didn’t concern Sara.

She just wanted the ability to bestow life selectively and perfectly; not in the accident prone, crude, and precarious fashion of sex, but in the purposefully segregated, sophisticated, and ordered manner of science.

Left to her own devises, Sara could not rule this world, not even with all of her might, yet perchance she could rule the next, and end her mortal plight.

If Sara couldn’t be queen, she would settle for goddess. A woman should aim high.

Keeping one eye up and ahead, she gingerly placed the protected fossil in a crate and gently attached the lid.

Case closed.

*

With her primary goal accomplished, she had no interest in the rest, but as a devotee she helped to pack the remaining equipment. Sara occasionally glanced at the packaged skull to reassure herself that it had not trotted off. When the truck was loaded, Sara shoved a worker from her treasure box and carried it to the truck herself. She fumed at the absent driver as she sat in the backseat with the small crate in her lap, hugging it with lust and love, impatient to leave. At last, a worker climbed behind the wheel and they were off. She could hardly contain herself and occasionally did not as the truck bounced along what passed for a road in those parts. Sara cradled the box like she would a baby while compensating for the jarring as if her arms were gyroscopically balanced. With her misplaced parental concern growing into alarm every couple of minutes, she cursed and threatened the driver to no avail.

His name was Jim, and he didn’t care about curses, or threats.

Those were part and parcel of the gig. If they could have found someone else to do the job for the price, they would have. Everyone else’s work was the most important work in the world, while somehow Jim’s limited contribution threatened to ruin everyone else’s grand designs.

He typically ignored the displays and worked as he was waged—minimally.

If asked why he kept the job, Jim would have no real answer. It sure wasn’t the measly paycheck, or the much hyped sense of adventure. He did enjoy having the highly educated needing his help. He especially liked to deflate the enlarged egos that surrounded and sometimes enveloped him, with his real world experience. Basically though, Jim had just strayed into the job, and had yet to stray into something else.

At the end of the day, he just wanted his pay, his drink, his smoke, and a decent waitress to lie with for a moment of truth.

With that thought, he drove faster, bounced more, and smiled at the cursed threat flung from the back.

Between her volleys of harsh language and muted hand signs, Sara tried to review what they had done in the field to take her mind off of the hell ride. It almost worked until her head bounced off the ceiling. Sara loaded both lobes to blast the driver. Suddenly, the forest fled and the airstrip emerged from the landscape. She sighed, relieved, and shouldered her volley for the next transgression.

Her end was in sight.

As they loaded the plane, she fretted over securing the skull in the cargo hold. While she had insisted upon holding it in her lap, the flight crew had firmly refused. With the object of her obsession restrained, Sara buckled herself to the floating chair, closed her eyes, and settled down, much to the relief of the other passengers. As the plane began to taxi, she tried not to warp the armrest, but it did bend out of spec. Sara hated to fly. If nature wanted people to fly, it would allow a geneticist to grant living wings. Otherwise, flying seemed wholly unnatural, for a human.

With an airplane, you needed both a wing and a prayer, plus a parachute.

Yet, like a zealot, Sara signed her soul that she denied, again, and endured, sure that all hardship would be rewarded, eventually and everlastingly. To her, any tribulation would be worth the success of her immortal quest and her eternal attainment of her infinite due. If the plane began to crash, she would fight her way to the cargo hold, retrieve the totem of her madness, jump from the plane, and cushion its fall with her body, saving her deer baby. From a splinter of belief trapped within a locked partition of her mind, Sara pretended that she could survive a plane crash, while knowing she could not. Sara was such a wreck that she was kindly served alcohol, even though the small airline made no such allowance.