The Clearlake Conspiracy
Chapter 1 - The Package
Dead bugs, and splinters make for one hell of a taxedmery visit but Caroll was smitten with my latest find, a three legged fern-tounged, Spiny Warscher. Caroll was at least pleased my specimen was sans skid marks and tire imprints (unlike the last one which I “stumbled” upon after a full day of having my head blazed on Berjzen catnip and their version of some kind of pornagraphic, chocolate Harvey Wallbanger) with its lush fur-coated belly and teal eyes, or at least what passes for eye in this part of… well let just keep some things secret for both our sakes. No one want “them” to be brought into this.
Caroll mumbled something from his squeaky work stool but I wasn’t paying attention. My conscience had been piqued by a strange note I saw written in the sky that night. I couldn’t tell if it had been written for me or if I was just some cosmic eavesdropper on a discussion well above any pay grade I could imagine. “Damn, man!”, Caroll yelled. I turned to face Caroll and the Warscher spatchcocked across his desk. In his blood covered hands was a manilla envelope. “What the hell kinda crap are you trying to pull?”, he quipped.
I grabbed the envelope. It was thick. Covered in stains and wrinkles but there wasn’t any blood on it. Yet, Caroll’s hands and the carcass were soaked red. Neither of us said anything. We just stared at the envelope. It was a standard manila envelope; similar to the kind used at the “ranch” to pass papers from office to office. I noticed a strange smell when I popped opened the flap. It was an odd smell, like something between my dirt floor basement and the pancakes special over at the all-nite diner on 132. Inside was a stack of old discolored paper. I pulled out the stack of twenty or so pages. Caroll wiped off his hands and came over, “What is that?”. I didn’t answer. I was too busy reading what I had just found. I thought they were letters of some sort, or maybe poems, but then I realized these were song lyrics. As I scanned each page I found cryptic references to my own experiences and memories, but I didn’t write these. Did I?
- Conrad Gonzo