Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife (83 page)

Out in the depths of the swamps, the diplodocuses and the other long-necked herbivores were starting into their sunset chorus, and a big carnivore, maybe a T-rex, was baying in triumph after an evening kill. By the rusting Buick, Mr. Thomas and the Mammal with No Name were taking turns drinking mint juleps from a plastic bucket while, overhead, pteradons were circling for one last snack while they still had the light. Jim knew that when darkness fell, the flying saucers would commence their nightly display. Of late, the UFOs of the night had been big and bright, close to a continuous traffic pattern. Paradoxically, however, no abductions had occurred, unless of course the aliens were now targeting some of the smaller dinosaurs for microchip implants and rectal probes. When, on one occasion, Jim had speculated about how it was that he hadn’t been abducted a second time, Semple’s answer had been simple, to-thepoint, and not especially complimentary. “They’ve had you once already, and besides, you’re a self-involved idiot who still insists on wearing foul-smelling leather jeans after all these relative years. What would any fastidious E.T. want with you?”

Jim had mixed feelings about alien abduction. He knew he would be exceedingly reluctant to go through the process again, but on the other hand the encounter with Epiphany and Devora—even though he still believed them pure illusion—had been one of the most memorable sexual thrill rides of his entire continuance, and had, after all, in its own strange way, brought him to Semple. Now and again he fantasized about somehow reuniting with the two space beauties and organizing a foursome with himself and Semple. He suspected that Epiphany and Devora were so formidably exotic that Semple might well have agreed to it, but he could hardly see how that kind of negotiation could be conducted with the big-headed little aliens.

As these thoughts passed idly through Jim’s very slightly fogged brain, Semple herself came out onto the porch. “You never tire of watching the sunsets, do you?”

Jim smiled and nodded. “I guess it’s a legacy from living so long in LA. The worse the pollution, the more awesome the sunset.”

“Bloody red sun of fantastic LA?”

“That’s about it.”

Semple was wearing a long, black, almost transparent peignoir over a leather bustier, sheer black stockings, and five-inch Lucite heels, and Jim knew that in this instance it wasn’t for his benefit. “Igor?”

“He was getting fractious and required a little attention.”

“And where is he now?”

“Probably curled up in a fetal ball in some dark corner of the attic, nursing his cuts and welts and fondling himself while he relives his memories, detail by painful detail.”

Jim had long since ceased to allow the psycho-erotic content of Semple’s relationship with the diminutive butler to upset or bother him. “So he’ll be in a fine mood tomorrow?”

Semple smiled. “Bright and early and more anxious to please than we’ve seen him in a long time. We might even get breakfast in bed.”

Jim sighed and shook his head. “Is the way we exist weird or is it weird?”

Semple moved beside him. “You know as well as I do that none of the old lifeside criteria apply here. Here in the swamp it’s just us. We set the standards. Whatever we do has to be normal because we are all there are.”

The first of the UFOs moved across the sky; a cluster of the small, skittering red spheres that Jim always thought of as the jokers. Mr. Thomas and the Mammal with No Name both looked up and then glanced at Jim. Mr. Thomas’s speech was slurred from the mint juleps. “Here they come again.”

The dancing red spheres were followed by a pair of Adamski saucers, close together, line abreast with under-apron searchlights raking the swamp. Semple took hold of Jim’s hand. “The Bee Man is coming.”

“He is? How do you know that?”

“I can feel it.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“You think it will be like the last time?”

Semple squeezed his hand harder. “It might be even more extreme. Plus we’ll have the honey.”

Jim turned and looked at Semple. “Is this love?”

Semple laughed. “Maybe.”

Two large triangular spacecraft swung over the house. Semple’s hair began to stand up on her head, and Jim could feel his own doing the same. “For all we know, its an eternal cosmic punishment,” she continued, “but it doesn’t seem so bad. Or maybe it’s just another fake-out by the gods. Who the fuck knows for sure?” She moved close to Jim and kissed him. “And does it really matter? We’re here, we’re dead, and, by and large, we get along. What more can a human being hope for in eternity?”

A third triangular UFO swung low over the house, hurrying to catch up with the others.