Psychedelic Prophet: Book One

By Glenn A. Segal

A clandestine agent from a distant star recruits a band of eclectic prospects to accomplish a perilous mission. He misrepresents himself as the Messenger, a biblical-like prophet, and launches a new religion as a cover.

When his recruits turn him into the Grateful Dead, the fun begins. This cat can heal the stricken and manipulate the forc

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Jul 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648951169

Glenn A. Segal

Glenn Segal is a fifty-six-year-old family man living in Northeast Philadelphia with his wife Joanne, daughters Kelly and Samantha, and son Jacob. He is employed as an optician and realtor. Lively discussions and travel are his goals for the future.

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Acknowledgments

This book is dedicated to the memory of T. J. and Raymond Filoon. Both individuals inspired me to tackle the delicate subject of death and belief in a higher power.

First off, I want to thank my wife Joanne for her support and unfailing good humor, which is so precious to our family and my state of mind. Our daughters Kelly and Samantha are rare jewels that will forever sparkle in my heart. Our son Jacob is a never-ending source of pride in our lives. Our granddaughter Rylee, a beacon of joy.

I would like to thank the customers of Deja View for your fantastic support and well-grounded advice.

The agents of Prudential Prime Real Estate, RE/MAX ELITE, for supporting my dream.

I want to thank Stan, Rebecca, and Craig of Sunrise Optical. It is a pleasure to work with you.

A special thanks to my sisters Elaine and Karen for believing in me. Also to Joe, Kara, and Matt for your support.

For your opinionated feedback, a thanks goes out to Butch. Thanks to Lorrie Caplan-Shern for your timely suggestions and valuable logistic advice.

Other contributors are Greg Devlin, John Dudden, Marty Neimen, John Dubek, and Jack Neville.

To Mike Shaffer, contractor extraordinaire, thanks for bringing Mr. Greenstein. Jim D., thanks for your participation.

And last, to a kind soul who kept me company while I wrote in the wee hours, our dog Sadie, a real sweetie.

Main Characters Illustrated

An Unexpected Detour

In a rural secluded retirement enclave northwest of Philadelphia, a stoic figure sat at a sophisticated computer console, his fingers dancing nimbly across a virtual keyboard. The man had neither a social security number nor fingerprints on file. Gray dominated his hair and beard, yet his pewter eyes sparkled with an intense radiance that commanded immediate respect. It was mid-January in the year 2004.

He began an abbreviated countdown.

Three.

His efforts to save the planet were now in motion. Within twenty-four hours, two disciples would accompany him on a quest to enlighten.

*     *     *

Snowflakes swirled around a pickup truck as it cut through the night. Bob Griffin concentrated on the road from behind the wheel as Lisa Holmes continued to talk about their future from the passenger’s seat.

*     *     *

Two.

*     *     *

A near record storm was finally winding down after a weekend of ice, snow, and below-freezing temperatures in Eastern Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains. As the couple travelled east toward Philadelphia on a dark stretch of road, the pale half-moon slid between wind-driven clouds.

*     *     *

One.

*     *     *

Coming around a bend, the steering wheel bucked, then suddenly spun out of Bob’s grasp.

*     *     *

Zero!

*     *     *

Bob’s tarnished red 1994 Dodge Ram, whom he affectionately called Molly, careened off the paved surface, plowed into a snow-filled meadow, and there came to an abrupt stop. Before Bob and Lisa could react, a buzzing filled their ears, and they lost consciousness.

*     *     *

So far so good, the stoic figure observed.

*     *     *

Bob squinted from a harsh brightness accompanied by a far-off drone. Maybe it’s only a spotlight, and the noise is from a generator, he thought. Where am I? He turned from the glare and noticed Lisa standing beside him. She was wearing a shiny green-and-burgundy one-piece number, and her brass-colored locks were gathered in a ponytail. He blinked. A moment earlier, she had been wearing jeans with a sheepskin coat, her hair hanging loose, falling past her shoulders.

Hey, Lis, you okay? Where are we?

How should I know? I’m scared. Can’t feel my body, she complained.

Bob searched his surroundings but failed to determine any sense of distance. The whiteness dazzled his eyes. He couldn’t even tell what they were standing on.

A voice sounded. Do not be alarmed, Lisa, Robert!

What! Who’s that? Bob asked in a shaky voice that didn’t sound like his own.

I am the Messenger. The reply seemed to press them in from all directions.

Where are we? Lisa stuttered, her rouge lips barely moving.

Are we dead? Bob wondered aloud.

No, you are in a realm I’ve created so that we could…uh…get acquainted. Do not be afraid. I require your assistance. I will use the name Mathew Wells during this visit. You will receive further instructions. For now, good night.

Lisa’s head slid forward as if she had nodded off for a second, then jerked awake. She found herself sitting inside Bob’s truck in the middle of a snowy meadow. She turned her head to find him dozing beside her. She punched his arm, none to gently.

He awoke dazed and stared at Lisa. Wha…What’s your problem? he grunted at his bothersome lover.

Oh, I don’t know, Bob. You were asleep behind the wheel. We’re not on the road, and you’re asking me? Let’s ask Molly, maybe she has a clue!

Lis, the last thing I remember…Came around a curve, was straightening out when the wheel twisted to the right from a tremendous force of some kind. I don’t know…wait…someone asked me to help him. Damn, that’s strange. Lis…Lisa, what’s wrong? You’re shaking! He put his arm around her for support.

She pulled away, her lose bangs dangling in front of cobalt eyes. Moonlight splashed across the freckles dotting a trim Celtic nose. Stop! What did you just say about a man asking for help? Lisa questioned.

I remember a man’s voice. He said he was the Messenger. You were right next to me, but where the hell were we? Bob asked. All I remember is coming around that bend and good old Molly swerving to the right—like I’m talking g-forces here. Then the truck skidded off the road, into this field. I thought it was a dream, a dream with incredible resonance. Except for one visual—you standing beside me. You were wearing a super-tight outfit that seemed to change color. Next thing I knew, you punched my arm. He rubbed the spot absently. That brought me out of it. What just happened to us, Lis?

She maneuvered on the seat to search his coarse angelic face; gazing at it, a burst of recognition lit up her own. I remember now. Except the part about what I was wearing. There was this loud voice. Beneath the sound of the words, a humming…seemed to twang on every nerve ending in my body. You could feel each word deep in your bones. Bob, I know you heard the same thing I did.

Hey, I’m not denying it. I’m just at a loss right now.

Well, you’re supposed to have all the answers, Griffin.

He grinned at the lascivious minx testing him; even in the face of bizarre occurrences, she kept the score.

So what’s going on? Lisa asked. She looked calm, but her pulse was racing. How could both of us have the same dream or hallucination?

Bob deliberated. Whatever really happened, I come away with the impression…we’re to help this Mathew Wells accomplish a task—a mission.

Through this exchange, Molly’s engine hummed smoothly. Feeling more alert, Bob backed slowly out of the field, his monster tires guaranteeing success. Once the rubber hit the asphalt, he stamped on the accelerator, and they were on their way.

What the—Where did all the gas go? I filled the guzzler on Friday when I went on a beer run. There’s only a quarter tank left.

Since Bob’s dashboard clock refused to work, he asked his copilot. She checked her cell. Ten forty. Then she read her watch. Twenty of eleven. Can’t be. We turned off 611 just past ten, Lisa objected to the evidence of reality.

This shit isn’t even funny, Bob said.

Hearing a click, Lisa flinched. The Pearl Jam disc Bob had loaded what seemed like minutes earlier popped out of the player.

The couple proceeded down an even smaller road that snaked through Rydal, Pennsylvania, an exclusive neighborhood featuring generous parcels wrapped lovingly around humongous dwellings. State-owned land of wooded hills and shallow valleys garnished the township.

Lisa’s father, Nicholas Holmes, owned a lucrative real estate company, and his success was mirrored by the size and splendor of his veritable palace—a rambling contemporary two-story mansion meticulously positioned on a ten-acre lot.

This was Bob’s immediate destination. He and Lisa were heading home from a three-day ski expedition at the Griffin family log cabin near Big Boulder, a destination that had provided hours of exercise and laughs. Bob thought back to the fun they had before the storm began in earnest.

The slopes were ideal, a packed powder base, with temperatures approaching thirty. A stiff wind out of the northwest whipped the light snow into swirling curtains of white. Chris Santore and his girlfriend Beverly proved their superior slalom skills once again. Chris often claimed he owed them to their savior, Jesus Christ. Bob took these opportunities to jokingly declare, I’m a believer in a lame Evangelical imitation. Bob’s best friend, Kevin, concentrated on the tubing area. Bob had also bamboozled Scott and Meissen to tag along for kicks, and even those two ended up having a blast.

Scott repeatedly fell off the tube on his tenuous journey up the mountainside. He had to resort to crawling across the slick surface, then lunging at his rubber conveyance. Meissen, due to his ingestion of OxyContin and Bombay Gin, nodded off by the time he reached the top. Scott craved the opposite effect, injecting crystal meth directly into his bloodstream by the hour. Bob and Lisa’s friends were diverse.

Now, all that was in the past. Bob had to get his act together, return to the real world. First thing in the morning, he had to install an engine into a late-model Buick.

As he approached the gate, a uniformed sentry scrutinized the interior of the truck to eyeball Lisa. Once she gave her four-finger I’m okay signal, the security guard allowed them to continue up the expansive drive.

Bob pulled up to a fountain, dark and still in the winter starlight. He hauled Lisa’s belongings from the truck, up a set of marble steps and beneath an arch and into a vast entrance hall. With no one in sight, he dropped her bags on the Italian tile, gave her a quick kiss, and said that he loved her.

Lisa whispered, Don’t tell anyone about the episode until we know more.

Okay, he agreed, even though he knew that he would mention something to his younger brother. I’ll call you tomorrow! he yelled over his shoulder. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out, Lis.

Walking away, she turned and placed her index finger vertically near her full lips. In his anxious state, Bob disregarded a basic rule: talk softly or be recorded by one of her dad’s countless fiber-optic ears.

Lisa walked through the sitting parlor and into a well-lit breakfast room, which led to a gourmet kitchen.

Didn’t know you were back yet, sis, Lisa’s younger brother Sean remarked as he studied the contents of the refrigerator. We debated whether your crew would make it home tonight. What a storm!

Yeah, a real blizzard. We could hardly see our rides from the cabin.

Her brother found what he was after, grabbed a fork, and headed for the stairs. In the family room, Lisa’s mom talked on the phone. Lisa walked over to her chair and kissed her cheek. Sharon Holmes followed Lisa with her eyes and smiled. She held up her index finger, which meant I’ll be with you in a moment. True to her gesture, she disconnected and asked her daughter to retrieve a Benson & Hedges from across the room. The obedient daughter brought her a cigarette and lighter.

Some mess out there, huh, kiddo? Did you and your friends have fun on those mountains?

It was all right.

Wuz wrong? Did you and that Griffin fella have a fight?

Guess I’m tired.

Well, put on your PJs and relax.

Coming to Grips

After Bob left the large hall, he jogged down the steps and jumped in his truck. He turned down the heat and then slipped Molly into gear. Circling back to the gatehouse, he tried to piece together the facts.

Okay, so what do we have here? I’m driving along the same road I’ve used plenty of times. We’re turning, and Molly—he slapped the leather-covered steering wheel to get the pickup’s attention—pulls out of my control, hops over the curb, and comes to rest in a field. That’s already strange. But no, that’s not even the bizarre part. At the same instant, we’re transported somewhere else. Yes, Doctor, I said transported. Lisa and I are standing side by side. Not in the truck, not in a snowy field—somewhere else. An out-of-body experience shared by both of us? And, oh yeah, let’s not forget the voice. ‘I am the Messenger.’ Give me a break!

Bob rolled out of the driveway as another thought surfaced.

How did we get the same information? A shared delusion? I don’t think so.

He cruised toward the city, questioning his sanity and keeping under the speed limit. He wanted to tell his dad when he got home, but tell him what? He opted to wait rather than come off half-cocked.

The Griffins, or what was left of them, lived in what is known as Northeast Philly. Their section, Castor Gardens, was a budding ghetto populated by a generous mix of Spanish, Asians, and African Americans. Not very many Anglos were left in this neighborhood, yet the Griffin guys felt comfortable there. Bob’s father George, younger brother Jimmy, and a chocolate lab named Mo comprised this struggling family. Bob’s mother Sandy was taken from them in a devastating automobile accident some ten years ago. They say time heals all; no one told the Griffins.

George was a superb auto mechanic who happened to be employed by Nicholas Holmes’s business partner, Herb Lerner. That is how Bob and Lisa met. Lerner’s BMW boasted a prolific sales department that kept George and his staff of mechanics quite busy. Jimmy, the youngest member of the family, attended Father Judge High School. Unlike many of his peers, he enjoyed reading, especially classic sci-fi, and he also invested his time on the internet, honing impressive digital skills.

Bob zipped through the house, heading for the fridge. After close inspection, he grabbed a loaf of bread and lunch meat from the drawer and reached for his beer. Now he was set. George and Mo came up the steps, the dog galloping, George performing more of a shuffle. Bob tried to temper his dog’s jubilation, but Mo hurtled toward his favorite human, almost knocking Bob over. The dog had a big canine smile, his tail swishing back and forth.

Take her easy, you crazy lab. I see you, calm down. Bob and his dog made quick work of the sandwich.

Hey, son, how was your excursion into the never-ending blizzard? Mr. Griffin asked, a thin smile clinging to his somber mug. He wore a ratty jogging outfit and white canvas sneakers. A perpetual shadow lingered on Bob’s father’s jawline no matter how frequently he shaved. Get any from that wealthy vixen of yours?

No, Father. I respect her far too much to allow us the act of fornication before we are joined in holy matrimony, Bob lectured with a straight face. I’m shocked you would entertain such notions.

Where’s Jimmy at, on the computer?

Probably, if he’s not in the garage tinkering with his bike.

Mr. Griffin began to yell. Jimmy, your bro’s home! Come up for air, say hello.

From the basement, a gangly dark-haired kid emerged.

Bob smacked his brother’s head as a show of affection.

How was your weekend, Jim? Bob asked. Dad drive you up a wall while I was away?

Nah, he was tolerable this time.

Bob folded his arms, leaning against the windowsill.

Were you working on the cycle this weekend? I know my tools are right where I left them, right?

Sure.

Do me a favor…anyway. Clean up the mess you didn’t make in the garage, then go to sleep. But…hold up one minute. Need to ask you something.

Bob turned to his dad. Are you going in early tomorrow, or can we do a quick turn at the table?

Don’t need to be in until eight, so I’m game. Think I’ll catch up on some sleep. Griff, as his coworkers called him, rubbed his eyes before examining his eldest from the foot of the stairs. You feel alright? Look kinda pale. Too much partying, or are you coming down with something? Get some rest! George called over his shoulder as he lumbered up the stairs.

Bob signaled for his brother to sit across from him at the dining room table, which rose above the tattered green carpet like a megalith, dominating the room by its size and stature. Even though its surface was scarred and pitted, it still held a shine. Fashioned from New England Birch, this caramel rectangular affair suffered from a common deformity. The southeastern leg was shorter than its three counterparts, which produced a rocking jerky motion for those who sat at that end.

There were two additional pieces of furniture stationed in the room. A cherrywood breakfront guarded the passage to the basement steps. Leaning against the far wall, an overburdened maple hutch teetered beneath layers of books, magazines, and numerous bush league trophies Bob had accumulated during his formative athletic years. Water-stained gypsum panels sagged from the mottled framework of the drop ceiling holding them in place. A grease-encrusted hexagonal chandelier hung ominously overhead. A single window allowed diffused moonlight to enter the paneled interior.

Bro, listen, something’s up. It might turn out to be important.

Jim noticed a glaze to his sibling’s eyes.

I’ll tell you more, as soon as I find out what’s going on.

What are we talking about here?

That’s just it. Right now, I’m not sure. Bob gave Jimmy what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Tomorrow I’ll know more. Just be ready to approach whatever it is with an open mind.

Jim sprang to his feet. Whatever you need me to do, I have it covered. I’m down with it. But why the drama, the clawing suspense?

Bob often felt he couldn’t measure up to his brother’s mental capabilities. This undertaking might provide him the opportunity to change that assessment. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have more to discuss. For now you need to straighten out the garage and get some sleep. Say no to the net, he ordered, sending him to the nether regions.

The perplexed mechanic stepped into the living room. Collapsing into a worn cushion, on a once-noble sofa, he caught an accurate reflection of himself in a crooked antique mirror. His blond hair looked flat, his face washed out. Even the jade beams of his eyes lacked their usual depth and sparkle. Sinking into the foam-and-velour trenches, he wondered what tomorrow would bring.

*     *     *

Mr. Holmes was in his home office. He talked slowly, summoning the precise diction for the caller’s benefit. With the tips of his fingers, he massaged bloodshot orbs as he sat behind a custom mahogany desk. Do not give it a second thought, Mr. Harrison. The paperwork will be completed in the morning, and the whole matter sewn up by midweek. Yes, I appreciate your honesty. Well, thanks…You also. Good night.

Mr. Holmes stabbed a button, disconnected, and then mumbled, Asshole. Holmes stood and glanced at a row of screens built into the wall. No sign of Lisa’s arrival on the readout. At the wet bar in the alcove, behind the wooden monstrosity, he poured himself a single-malt Scotch and water. Sharon? Did Lisa come in yet? Mr. Holmes asked the intercom, considering that maybe he had missed the flashing light that would indicate to him that a silent alarm detected a breach in one of the outside doors.

She’s in her room. At least I think she’s up there, Mrs. Holmes whispered.

He pushed a different button. Lisa? Lisa, are you there?

Yes, Dad, I’m here…Not feeling well, was almost asleep. Can we talk tomorrow?

Well, alright, young lady, he replied, disappointment in his tone. I’d thought you would have dropped in to say hello. Did you enjoy the weekend? Without waiting for an answer, he added, I sure hope Bob drives that prehistoric truck carefully on the ice. When his daughter did not respond to the bait, he left her with Good night, doll. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you in the morning before class.

Lisa murmured a good night. She hated that moniker, which is why he used it. She slid back into her four-post bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart pounded like a runaway bass line. She felt both exhilarated and scared. What happened earlier tonight in that field? And what did this Messenger from God want from them?

A Blast from the Past

Monday morning arrived too fast. Bob’s alarm was set for 6:30 a.m., and by 7:00 a.m., he sat at the dining room table, washed and dressed. Here was the Griffin family hub. The table held them together, focused their energy. George moved around the kitchen, preparing a toaster oven egg ensemble for Bob and himself. Jimmy sat across from his brother reading a Heinlein novel while chomping heaping mouthfuls of Cocoa Puffs as he slurped the milk in his cereal.

As they were missing Kevin, they decided to forego the morning ritual for once. George carried the provisions from the kitchen and settled in his chair.

All three looked up as a boom echoed through the living room followed by a stiff ozone breeze that caused the Griffins’ drapery to billow. From the foot of the steps, a ripple of movement caught their attention; it pulsed in their direction once before taking form.

Mo whined through his nose from a choice spot under the bow window. Right there in the middle of their living room, shimmering like a foil party balloon, was Sandy Griffin. She looked radiant.

Turning to face her three guys, the vibrant redhead giggled, revealing a sad but playful countenance. You should see your face, George. She had to admit, it seemed improbable at best, she was visible again.

Her boys began to cry, tears of delight streamed

down their faces. They felt a bright joyful satisfaction. What had been impossible yesterday was possible today. Sandy spoke to them! After all the years of yearning to hear her voice…Just for a moment, reassuring them that everything would be alright.

George, George! Snap out of it. Her pale hands came together, and a muffled thump reverberated through her former home. Her voice had an urgent undertone.

Griff stuttered, S-Sandy? Sandy, is that really you, babe?

Of course it’s me, you grease monkey. It seems Robert has followed in your footsteps.

That’s not good?

That’s perfect, the ghost replied, smiling like the proud new mother she once was. The pleasure she gave him while alive transcended time and space, affecting him to the marrow.

Now she turned her cool gaze on her sons. I…am extremely proud of both of you. Look how big you’ve grown, my baby Jimmy. And my beautiful Robby. Her head cocked to one side as if she heard voices they could not.

Now listen, the purpose for my visit is to give instructions to Robby and Lisa Holmes, who I’m guessing is your girl.

Bob confirmed that inquiry with a nod of his head.

You and Lisa have been chosen.

Bob’s mind reeled at the implication, yet he could not decide if the two events were linked.

"This is a crucial juncture in the history of the Earth, and you’ll be right in the middle of it. Tonight, you and Lisa will arrive at the Patterson Retirement Enclave at seven