IF HE DIDN'T MAKE SOME MONEY SOON,
Tyler was going to lose the WeHo condo.
Pissed in the bathroom sink, staring himself in the mirror.
"Surfin' Bird" by the Trashmen on the little clock radio he'd had for years.
Last Oldies station going.
Last of the golden classics.
Lost to time, soon.
You too.
And god.
God damn.
Get a look at you.
"You've got to get it together."
Vicious and self-directed.
Failed fathers and coaches echoing in his head.
"Take your fucking. Life. Back."
Talked-up and told.
Tucked his tail beneath himself.
Stood tall.
Ironed-out his outsides.
Sucked in.
Shadows of abs.
"It's NOT OVER YET. You're still in the FUCKING GAME."
His business had failed.
As businesses do.
Its former doings are of no importance.
He'd rather forget them.
"Tyler, goddammit . . ."
Growled his own name.
Low dog growl.
Grimaced at the self the mirror suggested.
"I can't fucking do this anymore."
Fingers in the hair.
Ringing in the ears.
Music in the air.
Going C - R - A - Z - Y.
Gathered his breath.
Gotta try not to break anything.
Thought to self.
Racing through space.
Like a UFO ride.
Thought to self.
Thought to himself.
He thought to himself.
Tyler thought.
And cried.
Stripped off his tank top.
Left it inside-out on the floor.
Sought the shower's insights.
Steam in-store.
Drew the bath and turned on the head.
His bulb was lit and the light bled.
Devils' arguments within.
Embattled.
All hells' armies jousting, jostling in traffic for godspeed.
Good money gone rotten in fat dragons' vaults.
Satisfied.
Cartoon criminals chased each other round in his head.
Round in his head.
Round in his head.
Over.
His teeth ground.
He leaned on the sink.
The water ran hot.
And thank god.
Small favors and hard bargains.
Long odds.
His shoulderblades jutted accusatorily at the ceiling fan.
Angelic.
Stuck a hand in the shower splashed water on his face.
Undid his belt, dropped trou, lost socks, got in.
Drew the printed curtain closed behind him.
Leaned into the spray.
Thought.
Harder and harder.
It'll come around.
Harder and harder.
Somehow, somehow.
Heard it in his own head.
Kind of like a punk song.
Or folk.
Jazz.
Funk.
He could hear a hundred songs all at once.
A thousand songs.
A million overlapping.
Songs from here and songs from there and songs foreverlasting.
Permanently imprinted with all that he'd seen and heard.
Sometimes he wondered about his earthly origins.
He felt no kinship.
Felt kidnapped by the mothership.
Felt often that he was from some other ship.
Or a distant star.
Someplace hardly like this lair.
Far beyond the blue of firmer terrors.
He longed to be flung to home unknown.
Celestial sighs.
A different world.
A hundred songs.
A thousand songs.
A million overlapping.
Banged his head in time to them all beneath the shower head.
Looking like some fucked-up photo shoot.
Looking like a picture.
"I FIT IN. I FIT IN. I FIT IN. THEY DON'T KNOW.
I FIT IN. I FIT IN. I FIT IN. NO ONE CAN TELL."
Banged his head and bung his head and bowed his head.
I have got to stop smoking before the shower.
Then:
"Best to get the stink off ya though, huh?"
A literal 2-dimensional representation of a red cartoon devil appeared in his mindscape, wielding a pitchfork and wearing a long cape, looking for all appearances a pizzeria mascot.
"Yeah, it's me again . . ."
Tyler took a deep breath.
One in, one out.
Box breathing.
Expanding.
Dimensional.
Extradimensional.
Being.
Shit
Whoa.
Shit!
What?
SO—
What if you started a full-service aesthetician business where you "abducted" your customers in the middle of the night and took them away in a "UFO" where an F1-style "pit crew" performed as many services on them as was efficiently possible, leaving the end-user with the feeling of having been e.g. transformed, regenerated—
And so we're all clear in Tyler's → head ← he said "e.g." as "ee-gee" I just want to be sure we're all riding the same electrons here anyway—
— they'd feel made anew, reborn, bathed in the blood, new brave martyrs, no, wait — what the fuck, hold on — right, services company, not a cult, not a cult this time, NOT A CULT THIS TIME—
And so Tyler's thinking diverged for a while, took some turns and twists, but he thought on it all through the length of the shower, disappearing in thought.
And when he got out, he dried his hair and bits well enough, leaving the rest of himself wet, and did a soggy sprint to the nearest notepad to write down the idea that could save the condo and perhaps his very soul—
And she was under.
"I've been getting the treatments for over a year now."
"And you've never looked more radiant."
They tittered in the tearoom.
"June is that Joop! you're wearing?"
"It's 'Love in White,' Annette, you bitch, and you know it."
"You are not going to fucking believe this."
"What?"
"Crossroads did not. Take. My. Cocaine and Caviar tee."
"What?!"
"I know, right?"
"That doesn't make any sense. Honey, we paid a hundred-twenty for it."
"I remember."
"I remember too."
"A hundred-twenty dollar shirt with the sparkles and everything —"
"those were real Swavarski, too—"
"Swarovski."
"Real Swavarski! The salesman said when I bought it for you!"
"Well now I've got some dumb bitch looks nineteen-years-old saying they can't take it, 'we can't take it!'"
"I swear to god I should go down there and kill those cock-suckers . . ."
"Well, some good news."
"Yeah?"
"They took the True Religions."
"Angela! That's great. You've been trying to get rid of those for years."
"Right?"
"What a good little salesgirl."
"So Bobby, baby, I was thinking we could use some of the money—"
"A—"
"—some of the money to get me back on the treatments . . ."
"Angela the god-damn treatments are nine-hundred dollars . . ."
"They're 12 now, Bobby."
"Twelve-hundred fuckin' dollars!"
Bobby roared.
"It's a new economy . . ."
"I'll fuckin' say."
"Bobby I'm bringing home a tub of hummus."
"That's great baby."
"I love you Bobby."
"You know I love you too."
She didn't know yet, but the treatments were closing in on $2000 now.
"I require expert service."
Feline on the phone, purring.
It's cliche but some people are.
Just accept it.
Tyler swung from the supply chain like any other jungle rope.
Leaned into the torture device.
Strangled his budgets til they tapped out and bled black.
He'd done it again.
Paid off all the investors early.
That's that.
He's his own man again, moved out the condo.
Not for loss of deed but upward purchase.
Little house in the hills where the fire-trucks won't go.
"They like, can't turn around, or something," the young realtor had explained, helpfully.
He'd had a back patio chair broke in half by a falling palm frond just earlier this afternoon.
So he stayed on the lookout for meteors and airplane debris.
"Well I suppose in a sense I move bodies around in vans in the middle of the night. Many Californians have done this in some way or another. Some have even made a business of it."
His tuxedo still fit.
Still got it.
"It is good to be a part of a legacy."
They laughed.
Clinked glasses.
He could never remember this guy's name, but he was at every party.
You sign up
You go to sleep
We handle the rest
Our F1-style pit crew extracts you from your bedroom in the middle of the night. You are transported to our mobile surgical theater. Our team of licensed aestheticians performs a comprehensive suite of services. You are returned to your bed. You wake up transformed. Fully renewed.
☮ Cast Off Anxiety and Submit to the Flicker 👽
Everything in The Abduction, plus:
Everything in The Close Encounter, plus:
Hollywood Grove.
An old starlet is calling.
No, really.
She broke into film about the time sound did.
No, really.
Could be 120, 30, 40 years old?
A thousand?
A million . . .
Ageless.
Stars are forever.
Her name was Tannery Leather.
And it still is.
She never married.
She slept alone in a big bed.
Tech 1 and Tech 2 at the window peering.
Silver suits, grey masks, and large black eyes.
Still pools.
Silent.
Without the skip of a stone or a heartbeat.
The cold calm rational gaze.
Tech 1 holds the pneumatic frame, attaches suction cups.
Four corners, tight.
Tech 2 applies the cutting gel.
Tracing a rectangle.
The window separates soundlessly.
Feels like floating above-ground.
Infinite pools.
Silent.
Tech 3 appears now with the frame carrier.
Window lifted out.
Set vertical against the wall.
Tech 1 is through first.
Counts the steps in his head.
1 2 3 4 5Six to the bed.
Strafe around the dresser.
Tech 2 follows.
Carrying the sedation kit.
Tech 3 at the window.
Watching out at the street.
Hand to earpiece.
"Clear."Subvocal.
Proximate.
Near.
You hear it in your head.
Telepathically.
"Clear."Tannery Leather asleep on her side.
Beneath the ornate headboard.
Silk eye mask in vivid cheetah-print.
White nightgown.
Silk enough.
Pristinish.
With one arm tucked up beneath a feathered pillow.
Fat golden bangle on a skinny wizened bicep.
Tech 2 kneels at bedside.
Opening the kit.
A sublingual tablet.
2mg midazolam.
Gentle pressure.
Mouth opens.
Tablet tucked under tongue.
Pop the mouth closed gentle.
And then wait.
Forty seconds.
Her breathing deepens.
Slows.
Fifty, sixty.
Minute and a half and she's in heaven, or near it.
"Clear."Tech 1 lifts the sleep mask.
Checks pupil dilation with a penlight.
Nods.
Tech 2 unfolds the transfer sheet.
Medical grade.
Handles at six points.
They position it beside her.
They've got it all plotted out:
Tech 1 at shoulders and hips left side.
Tech 2 at shoulders and hips right side.
And on three, a lift.
Silent count, beneath awareness.
They've done this dance before.
Tech 1's fingers.
One,
and
Two,
and Three,
they roll her on the sheet.
Head supported.
Neck neutral.
Tech 4 appears in the doorway with the gurney.
Collapsible frame, locked wheels, sturdy.
Height adjusted to bed level.
All comforts considered in advance.
Techs 1 and 2 lift the sheet by handles, steady.
Tech 3 moves from the window to the foot of the bed.
Takes the bottom handles.
On three again.
1, 2, 3.They lift.
Move in unison to the gurney.
Set her down.
Let her down.
Easy.
Tech 2 secures the velvet restraints.
Cross the chest.
Cross the hips.
Across the ankles.
Just a whisper.
There'd be no need for resistance.
Tech 4 checks the IV port.
Installed in her arm in her last extraction.
Subdermal.
Invisible when not accessed.
Flushes with saline.
Patent.
Open.
Unobstructed.
Clear.Good.
All good.
Excellent.
Tech 3 returns to the window.
Scans the street.
Hand up.
Wait.
Passing car headlights.
Hand down.
Clear.Techs 1 and 4 lift the gurney.
Tech 2 folds the legs.
All move to the window.
Tech 3 outside first.
Receives the foot of the gurney.
Eases it through as Techs 1 and 4 angle.
Careful.
Carefully.
Forty-five degrees.
Through the frame.
Tech 2 follows.
Keeping pace, carrying the sedation kit and the tablet log.
With Tech 1 out last.
Retrieving the window.
Fitting it back in place.
Ensuring nothing juts.
The seal intact.
From inside it would look untouched.
A clean job.
Clear.They move down the side of the bungalow.
Gurney wheels silent on the grass.
Tech 3 leads, checking corners, alien head swiveling unearthly.
The van's parked two houses down.
Unmarked but for silver wrapping.
Rear doors open.
Ramp deployed.
There's Tech 5.
Waiting inside.
Full surgical setup.
Shadowless light.
Autoclave humming.
Tools arranged on trays.
Techs 1 and 4 roll the gurney up the ramp.
Lock it into the floor brackets.
Tech 2 enters.
Closes the tablet log.
Files it away in a seamless compartment.
Tech 3 retracts the ramp.
Closes the doors.
Moves to the driver's seat.
Hatch sealed, Tech 1 stays in back with 5.
Tech 2 takes the passenger seat.
Cracks a laptop, checks the route.
Clear.Looking good.
Three other pickups tonight.
Tech 3 starts the van.
Electric motor.
All's quiet.
They pull away from the curb.
Full stealth.
No headlights for the first block.
Inside:
Tech 5 begins the intake exam, with a blood pressure cuff and a pulse oximeter.
Baseline vitals are recorded.
Tech 1 prepares the steaming unit.
Distilled water.
Eucalyptus essence.
Measured precisely.
Nothing accidental.
Tannery Leather's breathing remained deep and even.
Bliss in slumberland.
Tech 5 notes the slight twitch of a hand.
Normal.
Not a big deal.
Most probably.
They cut through Hollywood.
Empty streets.
Red lights a mere suggestion.
Tech 2 monitoring the police scanner.
Not a thing on the airwaves but Tyler in their heads:
Gotta make sure we don't freak out the fucking rubes.
Telepathically.
At a stoplight Tech 3 checks the mirror.
Tannery Leather visible through the partition.
Face relaxed.
Creases eased.
Peaceful.
Tech 1 puts on magnifying loupes.
Adjusts the light.
Getting everything Just Right.
Tech 5 hands him the extraction tools.
Comedone extractor.
Curved tip.
Sterilized.
He leans over her face.
Begins.
The van turns onto La Brea.
Tar and pits.
Heading south, headed south.
A magic mist.
Toward the facility.
Nasally invasive.
Toward the light.
Intubated.
Toward the work.
Calculated.
Tech 2 marks the hour of the pickup time.
2:51 AM.Four minutes.
On schedule.
Tech 3 accelerates.
The city sleeps.
The technicians do not.
I dont even know how to start this
Theres a company in Los Angeles that breaks into womens houses at 3am,Drugs them unconscious,Kidnaps them in vans,Does spa shit while theyre out cold,Returns them to bed, and it Cost 150,000$ per YEAR!!!
tgs is called ""Otherworld Aesthetics""
Guy who runs it failed at his last business which was "some kind of cult"
Now he runs THIS and calls it NOT a cult 🤣 LMAO libs will beleive anytthing
His employees dress as ALIENS and climb through WINDOWS
Someone tell me this isnt real
what the fuck
WHAT THE FUCK
Wait there dressing as ALIENS?
Why aliens
looool
Why not just rob them
Why go through this elaborate shit
Oh wait because rich women WANT this
I want off this ride
So let me understand
Women are paying strangers to break into their homes
Drug them
Take them away
Do whatever
And bring them back
And this is LEGAL
And POPULAR
@IronOven
Yea and theres a FAQ section
"What if my partner wakes up?"
LOL I GUESS THEYLL OF HAVE TO ASK THEIR HUSBANDS BOYFRIEND
"You know honestly I think of myself as a choreographer or a conductor. I don't know — I don't know if you're familiar with the work, the work of ah, Rudolf Laban, bit of a, huh-hah infamous fellow, right? But anyway, Laban, he'd figured out this sort of a ah system, right? Where, it's, like — right, he's noting, he's notating out, like, the steps, right? Like, of the dance — like, of the dance, the dances he wants his dancers to be doing, right, so — anyway, it's called Labanotation, and really, I would say, in the creation of OtherWorld Aesthetics™️?"
And the audience could hear the fucking trademark when he said it.
"Honestly, yeah, kind of a big deal for me."
[ applause sign ]"Oprah it's been a pleasure to meet you . . ."
I need to stop smoking before the shower.
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