A Time of Great Distress

By Mary Quijano

Ben and Jake, a pair of brilliant, quirky, college students buy an old analog TV at a garage sale, and as it turns on they see a fleeting glimpse of three reptilian creatures standing next to the presidential candidate at a news briefing. Once Ben and Jake adapt their old TV to pick up the reptilians clearly, they begin posting videos to their new vlog to warn the world of a reptilian takeover. As the vlog grows in popularity, the reptilians begin a smear campaign to discredit the boys forcing them to flee Los Angeles and move to San Francisco.
As soon as the new president is inaugurated, he begins his program to divide the nation into warring factions,. A vignette of the effect of one of his acts on an Iraqi woman dramatizes the outcome on a personal level. This juxtaposition of human tragedy against political theater becomes a recurring theme in the novel. While President Trope fumes over crowd size, a heat wave stifles California, and a brief sketch shows the effect of the desert heat on an illegal immigrant child separated from his mother during a border crossing. The horrific experience of Hurricane Maria, related from the viewpoint of the mayor in San Juan, Puerto Rico is played against the subsequent paper towel-throwing visit by the president two weeks later. During these incidents, the reptilians' influence over presidential powers and policies grows, as they replace more and more of his cabinet and advisors.
Other dark forces taking over the world creep into evidence during the bump stock massacre in Las Vegas, told from the POV of the mass murderer. Shortly thereafter the Tubbs fire destroys Ben and Jake’s mobile home, forcing their move to Seattle. The boys are making a lot of money as their vlog exposing the reptilians gains sponsors, but its success draws increasing attention and concern from the reptilians as well. Jake’s mother moves to Seattle to be with her son after being threatened, but accidentally gives their secret location away when she purchases something with a credit card. They spot the pursuing aliens just in time and escape by taking the ferry to British Columbia.
Book Two places increasing emphasis on worldwide natural disasters, while still following the reptilian-provoked intrigues in the White House and the attempts of Ben and Jake to warn the world what’s going on. California wildfires destroy the town of Paradise, a tornado rips two children from their father’s arms in the Midwest, and a locust plague hits Eritrea. These incidents, coupled with the reptilian takeover, cause the boys to finally accept what Jake’s mother insists, that the reptilians are actually demons, and the world is in the end times.
More apocalyptic moments seal this: The Australian bushfires, which seem to have a sentient mind behind them, begin tearing across the country at about the same time the new pandemic begins. A market worker in Wuhan dies from the virus, and a nurse in an NYC hospital is overwhelmed by the sick and dying, while Trope, thinking he has godlike powers, questions why the virus doesn’t just disappear at his command. Meanwhile, a Rohingya refugee is caught by Typhoon Amphan, and a black man is murdered under the knee of a white policeman in sight of the entire world, causing global riots of hatred and division. Finally the president suffers a stroke and is replaced by a reptilian. Ben and Jake head to Rome in an attempt to get an audience with the Pope, but they must flee to Northern Italy when the pandemic breaks out in Rome. They later return to Rome, but are discovered by reptilians in the Vatican, and escape to Jerusalem where they begin posting their final salvo of videos and messages, warning the world about the demons and reciting Biblical prophecies about the End of Days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Quijano
• Release date: May 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215189542

Mary Quijano

Mary Quijano is a published author of 5 novels, 2 novellas and 3 screenplays. She has 5 children, 9 grandchildren, 1 dog, 2 cats, 2 goats and a plethora of wild chickens, and lives in the most beautiful place on earth.She teaches 6th grade students at a small public charter school near Hilo Hawaii, spends weekends surfing in the lush country setting of Pohoiki bay near her home in Pahoa, travels once a year to Hillsong Conference in Australia, once a year to Cali to visit her grandchildren and children, thinks too much, rests too little, laughs a lot and always takes a chance when it comes along. Good life!.

Book preview

Part One

Lizards in The White House

Chapter 1

In a Backroom Somewhere. Early 2015.

Everything is in place, what we’ve been working on for decades can begin.

I still can’t believe he’s the one you chose for this; who will take him seriously?

I agree: He’s an idiot, a buffoon, surely there were better options, a third member interposes, crossing his stubby arms.

So are the majority of the voting public, the leader replies calmly. He’s a brand, that’s all that matters, all people follow anymore. Celebrity and Brand.

A game show host?!

The man knows nothing about politics, a fourth member of the party reasons: He thinks running a country is the same as running a business.

It is, in a dictatorship. You’re fired! The third member makes his hand into a mock gun, jerks it back in simulated recoil.

A couple of snickers are heard. The group leader silences them with a scowl.

His ignorance is our bliss, gentlemen, he assures them: He’ll be easier for us to manipulate if he has no idea what he’s doing. Besides, three quarters of the people in this country don’t have a clue what he’s supposed to do either, and could care less how the country is run as long as it doesn’t negatively affect their bottom line.

He’s arrogant enough to pull it off, I’ll give him that. Thinks he’s better than anyone, smarter, sexier…

Not really, the leader demurs. He’s actually insecure as shit. Which makes him all the easier for us to control…flattery costs nothing.

But what about his reputation with women? We run him as a liberal democrat, the evangelical right will tear him to shreds, he’ll never win the election against their self-righteous backlash!

And their billions.

"Which is exactly why we will turn him into their candidate, a poster child for the glories of salvation."

You’ve got to be kidding.

Do I ever kid? We have some of our own already positioned to make this happen.

You’re serious; we’re actually going to make this clown the new leader of the free world?

Hilarious laughter erupts.

The sound is especially chilling, a feral sort of caterwaul coming from thick scaley throats that expand like bellows to emit the noise, this cadre of movers and shakers members of a particularly large reptilian species not native to this particular planet.

Chapter 2

Ben and Jake and the Garage Sale TV

Late May 2015

Jake

It’s chilly for Southern California, typical late spring weather: low sixties and a thick, wet fog that turns the dust on the windshield into a thin smear of brownish muck with each pass of the wiper blades. We’re finally heading home after working in the university tech lab since 8 AM: My neck is cranked, my eyes burn, and my empty stomach’s giving a threatening rumble… so what does Ben do? He pulls over at a garage sale.

Little dude, I’m starving, what are you stopping for?

Call me little dude again and you’ll be walking home. Come on!

He’s out of the car before I can protest, poking amidst the piles of twice recycled junk, his left hand jammed deep in his pocket, as if it holds any serious money to protect.

What are we doing?

I like garage sales, what can I say?

I think about making a derogatory comment regarding his upbringing, something to do with cramming a family of five into a two-bedroom apartment and buying everything second hand, even food, just to save money. But I keep it to myself: Sometimes Ben is surprisingly sensitive about certain things.

Hey, check this! He says, disappearing behind a table full of smelly clothing.

I lift a skeptics brow at the hidden treasure: It’s an old TV, gotta be from the 80’s, with the big fat behind that tells me it’s pre-transistor, meaning vacuum tube technology.

Little…that is, Ben; what are we going to do with that thing? I guarantee the only thing you’re gonna find inside are rat turds.

Just then a fat little man with a big mustache and no hair on his head, if you don’t count the tufts coming out of ears and nose, waddles up to us, shifting from foot to foot like a used car salesman that hasn’t had a bite in a week. No, no, I cleaned out the inside before I put it on sale. It actually works fine, boys…or at least it did last time I had it on. Owned it ever since 1985.

And that’s probably the last time you had it on. Come on man, I say; really? And vacuum tubes? Where we gonna get new ones if some of these need to be replaced?

I got a whole box of them, never used, he says, pulling out a cardboard container from under the table of old clothes. I used to be in the TV business, did my own repairs. Got a tube tester too. Let you have the whole kit and kaboodle for a hundred bucks.

Do we look like we have a hundred bucks? says Ben. It’s the first time he’s said anything, and I’m impressed. I thought he’d be so enamored of this electronic junkpile he’d blow any negotiations.

The man takes a step back to look us up and down. College students I’m guessing.

You are guessing right, my man, I say. Full time…and you know what that means.

So how much do you have?

Ben looks over at me with a tiny transparent smile, pulls out two twenties from his pocket and hands them to the guy.

The old man shakes his head: Not enough boys. I might give you the TV for, say, fifty, but then there’s the tubes and tester.

Not much use for vacuum tubes and tester with no TV, Ben observes.

The guy is backing away. I pull a ten out of my jacket pocket and slap it down on the table: Fifty for the whole thing and we take it off your hands today.

What can he say? He takes our money and we carry a useless old TV and a bunch of equally useless parts to our aging Ford. Ben is so happy he can’t stop grinning, even though it makes his eyes almost disappear.

The things I do for love.

Then we go get pizza and a six pack and I’m more or less content again.

Ben

I can hardly wait to get my hands on the thing. I didn’t major in information technology because I hate technology, duh. And this, this is like unearthing a T Rex fossil would be to a paleontologist: No, no, even better: If it actually works it would be like finding a frozen wooly mammoth carcass and cloning it back to life.

I hold my breath as I plug it in – good, no sparks of electricity from the surge protector – and then, looking over at Jake with greatly exaggerated excitement mimicry which involves torso wiggling and bouncing eyebrows, I turn it on.

It stares back at me, its face as blank as some of the slower undergrads I tutor for a little extra cash.

Damn.

Told you.

I shake my head: Don’t even go there Jake; You know I won’t give up until I get it to work. This is just the first step.

I unplug the set, then carefully remove the back panel and peer into the chassis. It’s more than a little organic: There are wires of different colors running around the inside like blood vessels or nerve fibers. They connect to a series of fat glass vacuum tubes of various sizes and markings, and all of these are connected to some box at the tapered rear of the glass picture tube, a moderately explosive device shaped roughly like an enormous Hershey’s kiss.

Shit. This looks complicated.

Did you read the little warning sign? Jake says, coming up behind me to point. Danger, high voltage.

Hmmm.

So what’s the plan.

At the moment the plan is a plan.

I go grab a drawing pad, sit down at the back of the TV console and begin to sketch carefully and intricately every wire and every tube in their exact location. I label the wires by their color, and the tubes by their markings – letters and numbers etched in their surface which designate what kind of tube it is, its amps and stuff like that.

By the time I’m done my eyes are heavy and the cat is starting to sniff around the inside of the chassis as if it might be a new cat box worth exploring, so I screw the back on and call it a night. Jake is already snoring by the time I crawl into bed beside him. But the noise just makes me smile.

Next day is Sunday, and I have to meet my parents for morning mass. If I don’t show, they will come find me, and that’s about the last thing I want right now, them finding Jake here in my bed instead of goldilocks

That’s a bridge I have yet to cross, and it doesn’t help to have Jake remind me – yet again - that he already told his mother about us weeks ago.

Yeah, but my parents, they’re super-Catholic, you know. And Asian parents kind of think they have proprietary rights over your life until you’re at least fifty.

Dude, my mom is a born-again evangelical Bible beating hymn singing holy rolling – did I mention born again? – Christian.

Yeah, but you just give her something to forgive: My parents are less about forgiveness than flagellation.

And so the Sunday argument goes.

I’m back by noon, and after we share the breakfast Jake prepared in my absence – petulantly, no doubt – I begin my google search on vacuum tubes and analog CRT TVs, deciding I’d better find out what I’m doing before I do it…that danger–high voltage thing did get my attention, even if I tried to pass it off as no big deal.

So while I’m finding out about diodes and cathode tubes and phosphor and the Mullard-Phillips tube designation, my buddy Jake immerses himself in his own research work: He’s going for a doctorate in Information Technology Management, and is about a year from completing his dissertation. My first stroke of luck was getting him as a mentor for my own undergrad work, my second was when I discovered he was also to become my best-friend and – it turns out - the love of my life.

I didn’t know I was gay at the time, although I had my suspicions: But Jake was smart, funny, and a techie geek like me. We nerded out on video games and theories about multiverses and interstellar travel though wormholes and time warps, how the anti-gravity propulsion of UFOs really worked and how many aliens were watching us from another dimension right this very minute. One thing led to another and, as they say, the rest is mystery. We also share a mutual ambition to someday be rich and important in our respective fields, me because my parents expect it: I have an older sister that’s already a doctor and a brother that’s a lawyer, so if I am not at least CEO of a major technology company by forty I will have some ‘splainin’ to do. Jake, on the other hand, just wants to be rich so he can give his momma a lot of stuff she never had.

How’s it going wannabe-Doctor Bradley? I say, coming up behind his chair to look over his shoulder. I’m taking a break from the old TV.

You have no idea, he tells me, running his fingers across his Rosta braids, trying to tuck some stray hairs back into the places they escaped from. It’s been over a month since his last braiding session – his younger sister in cosmetology school does it for him when she has time – and although he washes it regularly, eventually the whole thing gets pretty out of control, like a fuzzy black halo.

No idea about what? What it feels like to have that kind of hair? To be black …excuse me, African-American? What?

All of the above, but I was actually thinking how sick I am of this damn dissertation: It’s so much work and bs for that title of Doctor and three letters after your name. He shakes his head, giving a large sigh: but I got to get it done no matter, cuz it’s for my momma.

Here it comes. Okay I’ll listen like I never heard the spiel ten times before; I know it’s important to him.

She worked so hard after papa died, going back to finish college, getting that teaching degree ….against all odds, that’s what they told her; she did it against all odds.

I know, I say. Your momma’s great.

Five kids too: all by herself she raised us. That’s why I got to succeed. When I do, I’m gonna buy her a nice house out of the city, maybe down by the ocean. And a pretty new car to drive. And she won’t have to work anymore, not unless she wants to.

I know, I say, feeling a sudden urge to hug him which I ferociously resist. I steal a quick look, thinking how beautiful he is, tall and lean, that rich coffee-colored skin, full lips, long black braids. He’s so cool he doesn’t even know. My only affectation out of dweebdom is my ponytail. I’m short, skinny, have sallow skin, straight black hair, and squinty-eyes – okay, epicanthic folds, not squinty – behind thick dark rimmed glasses.

Well, at least we have that in common, the glasses: I’d run into doors without mine on and he claims the same jeopardy.

He raises a brow questioningly, and I shake my head, look away, wondering what he could possibly see in me. Then I go back to my research on the inner workings of old vacuum tube, analog TVs. I take my laptop over to sit in front of the backside of the TV and compare the diagram on the screen with the thing in front of me, trying to make sense of it all.

Okay, I say at last; I think I got this. Time to start tube testing.

Actually it’s time for dinner.

Okay, dinner first, then…

Then we have No Man’s Sky …..we were in the middle of trying to kill each other last Sunday, remember?

I sigh, grin, shake my head. Okay, partner, game night it is. Then it’ll be testing twenty-two tubes time tomorrow.

I love to alliterate.

You’re such a dork you know it?

I’d go with the takes one to know one come back, but that would only prove his point.

Chapter 3

June 2015

Sammael

It’s time to set this in motion. Belhor has stepped to the front, taking advantage of the momentary confusion generated by my absence.

I watch them jockeying for position, amused.

You’re absolutely certain he’s the right one for this? The doubter is Cursion, of course. The anti-Thomas…always questioning everything. I suppose it’s his nature, his sole purpose to ferret out every secret of the universe, past present and future. What he does with them is anyone’s guess. But it makes him the perfect choice to replace the lawyer.

Do you question Belhor? challenges Vinea, his exquisite purple scales glowing with rage-energy. He’s such a butt licker, really. Not high enough on the ladder to exert any real power of his own, he affixes himself to whoever seems to have it at the moment. He’ll play the son in law perfectly.

Cursion, already a dull camouflage green, slinks into shades of brown. He senses my presence and is not stupid enough to get into the fray.

What could be more perfect than a grandiose fool who has the power and privilege to make others believe he’s a brilliant leader, in no small part because he believes it himself despite all evidence to the contrary? Vinea continues. He’s repeating things already said a hundred times as if he just thought of them.

He’s certainly arrogant enough, adds Baliel, inflating his squat, toad-like body in an attempt to appear more imposing.

Someone hides a snicker: Bali may be one of the principals here, a born trickster as amoral as he is clever, but his wide flat face and bulging cat eyes belie that power, and his pathetic attempt to embellish his visage with an artfully applied little mustache and goatee, both a brilliant shade of red, only make it worse.

True on both counts, Paimon admits: which is good, because he has to be convinced of his own bullshit one hundred and fifty percent for this to work.

There is no such thing you know.

What, Cursi? the other snarls, the crown of small horns surrounding his face rising in anger.

Anything greater than one hundred percent.

I do know…it’s hyperbole. But in his case it fits, because that’s how he sees himself, one hundred and fifty percent better than anyone else in every attribute a human could possibly have: genius, beauty, sex appeal, wealth…did I mention genius?

"Okay, I’ll give you that he already believes in his astounding superiority, Asmodai interjects; but how do we get everyone else to buy into such bullshit? He’ll need a lot of support, financial as well as political for his campaign."

I have the ability to make even the most skeptical people believe the absurd and ridiculous, Paimon snarls; and the more people that I get to believe in him, the greater his own delusional self-aggrandizement becomes.

I concede your point, says Cursi with a nod.

But why don’t we just replace him? Someone asks. I don’t see where the voice came from.

I agree, let me do it, volunteers Balan. I don’t think Trope sees his true self at all, or ever will.

He’s been hanging out near the back of the room, leaning one thick arm against the wall, his huge muscular torso flexed for all to see and admire. Two of his three heads are hidden in the alternate dimension, and the one he chooses to display is that of a man with a broad forehead, flat narrow nose and two large awkward horns above each flaming red eye. Not that pretty, despite the crimson scales. But his power is palpable.

His lack of self-awareness is to our advantage, Balan, Belhor retorts, snapping his serpentine tongue imperiously.

Now I step into the room from my other domain, startling most.

No need to replace him, I assure the group: he’ll be able to destroy everything quite satisfactorily all by himself. He has enough bottled-up hate inside to fill the universe; all we have to do is shake him up and pop the cap. You’re here to do the shaking and direct the flow.

Belhor is nominally in control of the cadre, but I control him, and he knows it. Ultimately, I control them all, though most seem unaware of that fact.

Now I remove to the other dimension, vanishing as if I was never there, and let him run the meeting.

His long slender body is covered in iridescent black scales, his blue eyes slightly protuberant, but it is when he opens his mouth to speak that his true nature is revealed: long sharply pointed teeth, hidden when the mouth is closed, are displayed in a terrifying overbite as he calls the meeting back to order, and a black tongue with blood-red tip snakes between those venomous fangs to taste the intentions of all those around him.

So, let’s go over your assignments, make sure you all know the roles and personalities of those humans you’ll be supplanting, he says pleasantly enough.

Everyone knows he’s not pleasant, but they hide their negative feelings behind a white noise of random thoughts.

So, who am I to be? Asmodai demands. He’s largest of the group, thick bodied and thick minded, and known for the vehemence of his arguments, often emphasizing them with a burst of fire from his wide lipless mouth. They all hope he’ll find nothing to protest today.

The list, Belhor responds, pulling out a sheaf of paper and waving it in the air with a clawed hand. Patience! The rebuke is solid; Asmodai shuffles backward, head down. Each of you has been paired with a human that supports Trope in his campaign: The basis of that pairing is the human’s particular mindset and positional power that most closely corresponds to your own.

He waits a moment, scowls at something his sensitive tongue picks up, looking around for its source. The white noise intensifies. He shakes his head, emits a warning growl and goes on. They all have influential positions in society: They are rich, they are amoral, self-serving and self-indulgent. Each one has an unreasonable degree of arrogance, considering what few attributes he actually possesses, and – most important of all - he sincerely believes in his God-given right to impose his world view on everyone else as if it is the only correct one.

Come on now Belhor, Paimon counters archly: most of these would-be kings have no world view at all, only their personal one, which is to line their own pockets by the manipulation of others.

There are nods, shrugs. Someone yells Get on with it, in a fake British accent, then laughs uproariously at his own joke.

Belhor whirls, snaking out his long black tongue, trying to discern the direction, but the culprit has quickly sunk into anonymity.

I smile, Belhor screams, and the room quiets.

"I will replace the man known as Stephan Millver, an extreme conservative who hates virtually anyone who isn’t white and ultra-right. He’s intelligent – more or less - and very assertive about his views. As adviser to Trope in his campaign – as well as after the win - my job will be to push presidential policies towards white supremacy to an extent Millver himself never dreamed possible."

He nods at the muscular, thick-bodied member across from him, who takes two waddling steps forward.

You, Cursion, will replace candidate Trope’s personal lawyer, Mike Cohort. He’s displayed a level of fidelity over the years that borders on perverse, and we must count on it to continue. Your job is to make sure good old Mike holds steady throughout the ensuing dramas that are certain to arise, considering Trope’s somewhat checkered past. You’ll probably need to fall on your sword for him, repeatedly and convincingly – although of course it’s not your own life and career you’re laying on the line, it’s Cohort’s, who I’m quite sure will be less than pleased when we return him to reap what you have sown. Belhor grins – a terrifying expression – and winks.

Cursion nods, shrugs. There is no return smile.

In any case, the time will come when this particular attorney will have outlived his usefulness to Mr. Trope, at which point you will exit the role of Mr. Cohort and become whoever takes his place in that capacity. And human Mike will return from his long sleep, bewildered as to how he could have been so stupid.

Do you know who?

Who what?

Who I’ll replace next?

You’re the one that’s supposed to be able to foresee the future, Cursi: you tell me, Belhor snorts. The sound whistles past his rows of the scythe-like teeth, making a queer howling noise.

I shoot a glance at my consort, who smiles.

Who have you got in mind for me? Balan demands, already growing impatient.

Your role will come later, as will yours, Zagan. Both very important, I assure you; but all things in their time. Belhor responds. Baliel, you will replace the man known as Paolo Manacotti; a wheeler-dealer with ties to friends of ours in Russia and China that can help this unlikeliest of candidates win the presidency. But like Cursi, your role as Paolo is time limited. You are only to accomplish this explicit goal, and then Paolo will be out of the picture as his illegalities catch up with him, and you’ll be assigned to supplant a different person. Asmodai, you will replace a human named Steve Bandan who has great influence through his website over certain malleable parts of the population. You, like myself, are there to strongly influence the campaign strategy as well as direct the path the new president will take following his election, but it is highly likely that Trope, knowing his personality and yours, will shortly decide you are no longer wanted in his circle.

"You mean I’m fired?" Asmodai cackles, a small burst of flame erupting with the noise.

If and when that happens, Bandan will return to his former life, and you’ll be assigned another minion to replace.

Why don’t we just recruit others of our kind for these second roles? Surely there are enough of us, he asks.

We can’t afford mistakes by lesser beings. We must be sure everything’s done perfectly, and you all are the best of the best, right?

Nods and grunts of affirmation are heard, large scaly heads nod, teeth gnash.

You gotta love this group, I whisper to Lilith..

"So, who’s left?’ She asks.

Two step forward, scowling at each other and jockeying for position.

Vinea’s purple scales glow and pulse with irritation; Paimon’s crown of horns are raised, making his head seem twice its normal size. Belhor shakes his head at the pair.

Gentlemen, please…there is no oversight. I have saved the best for last.

The pair glance at each other, all but preening.

Vinea, you will replace the candidate’s own son-in-law, Jerrod Putzer. He is such a nasty little prince to begin with, I almost considered leaving him in place, but I need to be absolutely certain this goes as planned. He already has undue influence over his father-in-law, so you will be positioned to bring that influence up tenfold. You will be in the candidate’s ear constantly, flattering and prodding, flattering and prodding, pushing our agenda at every step. You will take over more and more control of him and his ideas, both before he wins the office and after, especially as he goes mentally downhill from the pressure as we predict he will. As for you, Paimon, I’ve picked the perfect human for you to replace; Alen Jonas - an inveterate liar who’s already gained formidable power by getting the frightened and powerless – of which there are millions - to buy into his absurd conjectures, what they call ‘conspiracy theories’. It seems he concocts these wild fabrications for no other reason than simply to see how many people he can get to believe them, and as a by-product make him rich.

"He can’t be that good, a mere human: Are they that stupid?

Yes, and No. What he does is carefully place just enough thin slices of truth between the multiple layers of crap to make the rest of his bullshit sandwich taste like chicken. He has a huge following among the undereducated and underemployed masses that populate the so-called heartland, angry scared people who will rise up in great and vocal numbers, we believe, once he convinces them that Trope is the leader who can save them from all these evils. That’s your job.

And you picked me for this role why?

Come on, Pai, you’re the master of deception and mind control, a conjurer. It’s your special gift.

The reptile smiles: I just wanted to hear you say it.

I’m ready: When do we start? Asks Vinea.

Shouldn’t we study up on them first, find out their likes and dislikes, mannerisms, how they talk, things like that? Cursion adds, cautious as always.

‘I’ll be setting up the time for the substitution procedures, Belhor assures him, raising clawed hands to quiet the further uproar of questions. We will abduct them, link you to their minds, and everything they’ve ever known or thought or done will be downloaded into your own minds in a matter of seconds. Then we put the humans in storage and you take over their lives."

Soon?

Within the next few days. Be ready.

*****

The meeting ends. I turn to my lovely Lilith: Are you ready too?

I’m always ready Sammael, she smiles, sending a long sinuous tongue out to flick against my cheek.

Chapter 4

June 2015

Jake

It’s mid -June, that time when most college students go home, go on vacation, go to work, or go see the dean about dropping out: Take Your Credits and Run we call it. But Ben, despite pressure from his parents to get a summer job, has agreed to stay and help me with my doctoral research project instead. He assures them this will help him gain a lot of valuable insight and experience for his own eventual thesis work, which is partly true. It also means he can’t play the old ‘I did this for you’ card later when he needs a favor or forgiveness.

I have to admit it’s a lot more fun to do the work with him than alone: We play off each other constantly, mostly stupid puns and lame double entendres, and the snorts and guffaws get so loud that people poke their heads into our lab to see what the hell’s so funny. Just a little wit versus witless I tell them.

Each evening after we get home and have something to eat – usually take out, although occasionally one or the other of us will try his hand at cooking, which is usually a mistake – I watch the news or some mindless sit com while Ben tinkers with his new toy, carefully taking out and testing each of the vacuum tubes, finding a replacement as needed in the collection the old man gave us, and carefully inserting it back into the correct spot. He wears gloves to do this, as the slightest bit of skin oil on the tubes can cause them to explode once they heat up. Thank God for Google, as I kind of like his face the way it is.

He doesn’t realize it, and I’d never tell him, but he does look a lot like Bruce Lee, especially when he practices his Jujitsu in the living room while I protect the table lamps.

Now he turns to me with a grin: Push pause, he orders.

Right now?

Yes, right now. I want to see if this thing works, don’t you?

How much did we bet?

Ten bucks.

"So this is it? If it doesn’t turn on, I’m rich?’

It’s gonna turn on.

Go for it.

With a comic flourish, he plugs the cord into the surge protector, turns the power knob on the TV until it clicks, and stands back. For a moment, a long moment, there is nothing. Then slowly the screen lights up. But that’s all. It lights, but there is still no picture, and the only sound is static.

You owe me little dude.

I’m not little, and I don’t owe you, you owe me.

But it’s not working.

It turned on didn’t it?

But there’s no picture, no sound.

That will come in time, grasshopper. Patience….and pay up.

Double or nothing you never get a station to tune in.

You’re on.

Crafty Asian devil, he never let on about the converter box he has on order from a used parts supply house.

It arrives by UPS two weeks later.

Prepare to empty your wallet, he tells me.

"What is that thing?"

Converter box: It will make this old analog TV able to receive digital input.

Crap, I didn’t think you knew about that.

Research, my fine tall African-American friend, research. I googled it. When I place this external DTV converter box between the antenna and the TV, it will convert the incoming DTV/HDTV signal to a signal that is compatible with this lovely old analog TV.

He gives the box a fond pat.

Or so they say: How much did that thing cost you?

More than the TV, But I hope to win back part of the cost when I prove you wrong tonight.

So, are you ready for the final showdown?

It’s July first, more than a month since we picked up the old TV in that yard sale.

"As ready as I’ll ever be. Everything checks out, the tubes all light up, the converter box is properly configured, speakers work, picture tube is good…if it’s ever going to pick up a signal it will be today. And hopefully tomorrow and the next and the next, ad infinitum," he adds with a grin.

You’re so sexy when you speak Latin.

He shakes his head, does the eye roll thing.

Okay, I set the tuner to channel four like you said, that’s the closest broadcast station to us, so we should be able to pick it up even with these cheesy rabbit ears, I tell him.

Those cheesy rabbit ears were top of the line at Radio Shack.

"Were means on sale, discontinued model, right?"

Maybe.

Okay, so plug it in, let’s turn it on and see who owes who dinner.

There is a buzz, as the screen slowly lightens. We both lean in, watching intently for the first sign of an actual picture. What we get is not exactly what we were expecting.

As the scene comes into focus, the first thing I notice is that, standing just to the left of an overweight, flush-faced man in a red baseball cap, there’s a large, vividly purple reptile! A short distance behind it is another shorter reptile, somewhat toadlike in appearance, and farther back in the crowd to the right of the aging reality TV star is yet another reptile, this one with faintly glowing light blue scales, long legs, large eyes.

What the fuck!? I exclaim.

The words have barely left my mouth when the reptiles disappear, and in their place I see Jerrid Kushier, the oversized semi-animated Ken doll, standing next to his father in law; and just behind him, in what I think is about the place the second reptile stood, I recognize the smiling snake oil salesman that has some kind of role in the nascent Damien R Trope campaign, although I haven’t paid enough attention to know much else about him.

My first thought is that the bud I smoked last night is causing an inconvenient flashback. But when I glance over at Ben, I see the same expression on his face that I think must be on my own: Utter shock, stunned disbelief, puzzlement, and a weird flutter of excitement.

Did you see what I saw? I demand.

I don’t know, what’d you see?

Damn Ben, he always plays his cards so close to his chest I can practically see his nipples poking through.

Lizards. Reptiles….don’t say nothing, just nod yes or no.

He looks at me, squinching up his mouth as if he’s not quite sure whether I’m going to make fun of him or what. Finally he nods.

So, is that a yes?

Yeah.

How many?

Three I think, it was pretty quick.

That’s what I saw too. Point to the place on the screen where you think they were.

The news coverage is of a Trope campaign rally, so no one’s moved more than an inch or two. He points to Kushier first. I nod. Then he points to the man with the pasted-on smile behind him.

Yeah. Who is that by the way?

Pauly Mantaform…don’t you ever watch the news?

I don’t like politics; you know that.

Yeah, well maybe we both better start…look who’s running for office.

Seriously. But you did say you thought you saw three: Where was the third?

I don’t know, somewhere behind Trope, up on the right.

Yeah, that’s what I saw too…can you point to about where?

There are a number of people clustered closely together in the section he points to, and neither of us can be certain exactly who it is.

Might be that pretty blond woman, but it could as easily be the black guy behind her or the old dick head to her left.

Yeah….Do you realize how weird this is, dude?

Ben laughs nervously, which turns into a coughing fit: "I thought for