EXCERPT: Ancient Equations by L. A. Banks

CATEGORY: Promethean Origination and Impacts

RULE 1824.2: Weird Science Is No Substitute For Love

SOURCE: Ernest Lassiter, organic farmer, Ph.D.

VIA: L. A. Banks

One problem with writing stories about mad scientists is creating a believable character. How many of us can really identify with obsessed geniuses hell-bent on taking over the world?

Luckily, our next story gives us a mad scientist we can all understand. Sure, Ernest Lassiter is a lot smarter than most people. He’s got doctoral degrees in quantum mechanics, quantum physics and biology, and he can do crosswords in languages that have been dead for centuries. And yes, he’s a little quirky, living on a diet of sprouts and veggies that he grows himself on his organic farm in a remote corner of Pennsylvania’s Amish country. But under it all, Ernest is just like the rest of us: desperately yearning for love. He’s been lonely a long, long time, and he’s itching for some female companionship.

It’s not easy to find Ms. Right when your standards are as high as Ernest’s, though. With a little inspiration, and a lot of brilliance, he comes up with a way to bring the perfect woman into his world. She’s hot; she’s sassy; she’s a dream come true.

But is he man enough for such a goddess?

Ancient Equations
by L. A. Banks

Ernest Lassiter flipped over the funeral notice and drew on the back of it, sketching the symbols used in the Egyptian Book of the Dead to send a soul onto its everlasting voyage. He then added some symbols for reanimation used in Voodoo ceremonies, then the Cuneiform burial rites symbols. His years of poring through Cuneiform equations had finally begun to yield a pattern but what was he missing that connected them all? If he could just find the key, the Akashic Records would open to him, and he’d have access to the entirety of human knowledge and the history of the cosmos.

A funeral! Did they really expect him to stop his research  . . .  for a funeral? They had to be out of their feral little minds to even bother him with something so mundane; he certainly couldn’t spare time for it now, not when he was so close to a breakthrough.

Frustration stole his concentration. He flipped over the funeral notice again and stared at a photograph of his recently deceased uncle.

He’d tried to tell them—every single freakin’ member of his family who later died of cancer or some abominable disease. Tried to explain that it was all an evil profit plot to keep people sick—because sick people made some sectors of industry gazillions of dollars . . .  and this worldwide, diseased way of life was created by the food and drug cartel, who were in collusion with big pharma and the whole medical oligarchy. But, like frightened cattle, none of the family he’d once had would listen to him.

Rather than listen or do the hard thing—namely changing the bad habits forced on them by the constant battering of the alpha and beta waves in their brains by subliminal advertising—the people he loved chose to do the harder thing, which was to die a long and painful death due to a preventable disease.

And now they were all gone. Every single living relative that he had cared about.

His cousins were still around, but he considered them a waste of protoplasm, so they didn’t count as family. All they did was eat, sleep, shit, fuck, and consume. What was their true contribution to society? Did they do anything but breed more of themselves to buy more of the crap that made other people rich?

The problem with knowing as much as Ernest did was that people thought you were a kook, a quack, or—at best—an eccentric. The problem was that people mislabel and misdiagnose you as a borderline Idiot-Savant as a kid, until the ignorant people administering the tests realize, duh—you’re a genius.

Ernest tossed aside the funeral notice with disdain and left the wide lab bench that doubled as his mail desk. He needed a cup of green tea.

He knew he could crack the code on reanimation—more importantly, on bringing intelligent life though the veil between worlds. It was all about energy. Nothing that was created could ever be destroyed. It had to still exist somewhere in some form—and if people created entire mythologies about super beings, then they had to exist somewhere in some form . . .  simply because thought was matter. It created matter.

So what the hell were they thinking inviting him to some dead relative’s funeral?

The purpose of said events was so pedestrian. If his family grieved the man so badly, then why not spend the time to figure out how to raise him or maybe to prevent his type of unnecessary death in the first place. As far as he was concerned, people died who didn’t have to because they were constantly being poisoned to death by a toxic environment for profit. He hated the hypocrisy of attending such sentimental, superstitious rubbish.

Uncle Fred’s funeral was the last one he might feel obligated to attend, but in reality, he was distant enough to his uncle that, a no-show would be acceptable. Sending flowers and a sympathy card was out; it was part of the death profiteering system that he couldn’t abide. Uncle Fred, if he was still living, would have understood. Now that he was gone, the point of his understanding was moot. And anybody else could kiss his ass.

Off the grid was how he liked it. Ernest set his teapot on his wood-burning stove and leaned down to stoke the fire. Living this way was the only way to live, as far as he was concerned, and a primary reason he’d gone out to Lancaster County. The Amish had it right—live off the fucking grid. Solar panels on the roof, a generator in the garage, candles and lamps . . .  Which is not to say he was without modern conveniences: flashlights and enough of ammo to start a small war were among his concessions.

He was living proof that it was feasible to grow your own food without being held hostage to the major seed corporations that had genetically-altered every goddamned plant in the land, and actually held a monopoly on seeds. Seeds! They cornered the market on seeds so that developing nations couldn’t feed themselves without poisoning their land, because in order for the seeds to grow they had to buy special fertilizers and patented pesticides that wiped out vegetative scourges (and bee colonies right along with it) so that the evolutionary process of plant hybridization and strengthening just stopped dead in its tracks. Those motherfuckers had stopped species evolution!

Ernest held his head with both hands, threading his fingers through his dreadlocks, feeling an anxiety attack coming on. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and then slowly lifted one bare foot to rest against his inner thigh in the yoga tree pose.

Yes, there were ways to combat the evil system. He had to stop stressing. One could compost from organic food sources, replenish the earth, grow your own shit—literally and figuratively—and then eat food that hadn’t been sprayed with pesticides. Well water—any water in the land now, truthfully—with acid rain and toxic run off was a problem. The general public will be fucked, but not Ernest; no he’d be fine, thanks to the mint he spent on water negative ionization systems. He’d read Dr. Masaru Emoto’s work on infusing water with intentions to heal. It worked and he had bumper crops. He’d been disciplined and followed the scientific wisdom in books like Back to Eden, and didn’t eat flesh of any kind—not even fish, and now that they screwed up the Gulf with that massive oil spill, he definitely wouldn’t. But the water was already jacked up in the streams from strip-mining and city sludge before that even happened—no matter how pristine they looked.

And he wouldn’t allow the mind-raping cartels to bore into his thoughts with the brain-rot of television. There were enough books in the world and he had all kinds of research to do, anyway. The only other partial compromise that he’d conceded to was that he had a retrofitted car that burned bio-fuels; still, one had to register it with the enemy state to be legal and not be hassled. Yes, he even paid taxes so the rat bastards couldn’t come and take his land. He had a cell phone, just in case, but nobody had the number. It was for dialing out only; he didn’t want incoming calls. Had to have a P.O. Box to get his book orders, which meant submitting to at least a debit card and a small bank account, but the rest of his earnings from inventions and selling crops, he immediately transferred into gold, which went in the bomb shelter.

[End Excerpt]