Eye of ra, p.8
Eye of Ra, page 8
“We have reached our destination.”
Its words put the thoughts swirling in his head on hold as he turned and approached the ATM.
“Now what?” He asked looking down at it.
The ATM screen lit up without him touching it as the churning sound of it about to dispense cash was made. The words “Please take your cash” appeared on the screen as a large stack of bills shot out of the dispenser. A shaken Laurence quickly looked around again before grasping the stack of cash revealing it to be hundreds and fifties.
“What the …” He swallowed.
“I believe one thousand dollars is a sufficient amount of funds to get a reasonable meal in this location.” The familiar deduced.
“How … how… how …?” He stammered while looking around.
“I simply communicated with the bank’s software to release the maximum amount of funds allowed by this machine,” it explained.
“Did you just hack this ATM?” Laurence whispered as he continued to scan the area.
“If you are inquiring if I illegally accessed this automated teller machine, that is a negative,” informed the familiar. “I merely withdrew funds from the account that I opened in your name, which currently holds transferred funds that can be accessed and converted into the proper currency.”
Laurence held up his arm rolling back his sleeve to look at it.
“What funds?”
“By this country’s currency standards, there is approximately seven point five billion dollars in gold, silver, platinum, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, and rubies currently on the transport,” flatly answered the serpent on his wrist. “I transferred over three million in gold to your new account. Is that currently enough for your needs?”
Laurence clutched his chest as if his heart was about to stop as the familiar brought up the display revealing his current balance of two million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand dollars.
“I …have over two million dollars?” He asked in a daze.
“Correction, you own seven point five billion in United States currency between this account, and the rare Earth metals and stones on the transport, as well as the transport itself which also includes all content and data that it currently holds.” The familiar clarified.
His eyes became glassy. Remembering who he was almost a month ago, it was too much for him.
“How … Why?” His asked with a trembling bottom lip.
“As stated you are the descendant of Amun-Ra,” It answered him plainly. “As a descendant you inherit all effects belonging to him.”
Its words finally took all of the fight out of him. His neck also lost all its strength as his head fell hanging inches of his chest.
“I’d like to go eat something now …please,” Laurence requested while wiping his eyes.
“May I ask what type of food would satisfy your palette?”
“Burger, fries, and a very thick milkshake,” he sniffled while looking around.
“There is an establishment named ‘Fatburger’ which is in walking distance of this area,” the familiar triangulated. “Would you like to proceed there?”
“Yeah,” he nodded stuffing the cash into one of the pockets of his sweat pants.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
Three blocks later Laurence sat alone in a Fatburger restaurant looking down at his meal of a double patty bacon cheeseburger with a large order of French fries and an extra thick chocolate milkshake. He made sure to take out the necessary cash from the massive wad in his pocket to pay for his meal so as not to draw any attention to himself.
He looked around with childlike eyes as if waiting for someone before he picked up the burger and took a hefty bite out of it. As he began to slowly chew his food, he quickly wiped his eyes as he became emotional again.
“Laurence Danjuma, you seem to be distressed,” the familiar gave its observation in a low tone so as not to be heard. “Is the food making you ill?”
“No,” he shook his head with his own low whisper. “It’s just been so long since I remembered how good a burger tasted.”
The tears continued to fall as he munched away at his burger glancing at the empty seat in front of him, remembering that aside from his robotic alien company, he was once again alone. As quickly as they fell, he wiped them to protect his low profile.
After the bittersweet enjoyment of his meal, he leaned back in his seat processing it while absorbing his environment. His mind was flooded with thoughts of how he came to his current state, and the creature wrapped around his arm that had become his designated guardian and caretaker against his will. It was then that he remembered who he had taken the familiar from. He quickly surveyed his area before placing his arm on the table and slightly rolled up his sleeve.
“Familiar,” Laurence whispered. “Does my dad know about you? Isn’t he also a descendant of this Amun-Ra?”
“Your father is also a descendant of the bloodline of Amun-Ra,” it confirmed in a low tone. “But I have no recorded data of ever interacting with your father.”
“Are you sure?” He calmly pressed. “I remember walking past my dad’s room and hearing him talking to someone. When I walked in on him, he was holding you. You’re gonna tell me now, that you do not remember talking to him?”
“I am saying I do not have a record of that incident,” it answered flatly. “Although I may have been in your father’s possession, we have never spoken or had any other kind of interaction with one another.”
“So what, you were like dormant up until now?” He shrugged.
“That is a logical conclusion.”
He huffed, shaking his head. It was clear it was not lying to him. It was a machine, which made it incapable of doing so, but something just was not right about how he arrived at his current situation. Before he could ask it another question, his ears propped up forcing him to cover his arm to an incoming conversation from a trio of boisterous locals about to take part in their own meal together.
“I’m telling you man!” A husky young man with a buzz cut wearing a Notre Dame jersey chuckled. “Nebraska has this season locked! It’s all Nebraska this year!”
“I don’t know man,” his friend sporting an Oakland jersey shook his head. “Michigan State has been playing pretty good this year. Spartans got a chance.”
“Please,” the Notre Dame jersey wearer scoffed. “They’ve got no division championships, and haven’t won a conference championship since 1990, and their last National was under Daugherty in 66’!”
“Yeah but thanks to Patterson they have a tight defense this season,” pointed out a brown-haired young man with very expensive eye glasses sporting a light blue Lacoste shirt. “The past three teams could barely get the ball down the field against them.”
As they sat down at a table adjacent to him, the large and very animated bruiser became frustrated as he searched for something.
“Dammit! Where the hell is the ketchup? Hey, excuse me man.”
He motioned catching Laurence’s attention.
“Mind if I borrow your ketchup?”
Laurence nodded as he picked it up passing it over to him.
“Thanks man,” he took the bottle while narrowing his eyes looking Laurence over. “Say man, you ball player or something? You seem familiar.”
“No sorry,” he threw on a fake smile. “Not really into sports.”
“You could have fooled me man,” He gave Laurence another look admiring his new powerful physique.
Laurence gave him a polite smile with another nod before getting up to dispose of the remains on his tray and exit the restaurant. Although he knew it was unintentional, he had no desire to allow the Notre Dame fan the opportunity to put two and two together.
“Laurence Danjuma, your pulse and heart rate has elevated again,” observed the familiar. “Did that human speaking to you pose some sort of threat?”
“What?” He quickly scowled looking down at his arm. “No!”
He stopped and began to pace in the parking lot with a look of anger and frustration, as if he was locked within a cage.
“Do you require more sustenance?” It asked.
“No! Listen!” He snapped at it again.
He stopped his pacing, and took a breath to calm himself.
“If I ask you to take me somewhere, will you do it?”
“I am your familiar,” it answered. “It is my primary order to serve you.”
“Good,” he nodded. “There’s someone I need to see.”
CHAPTER 5
Several minutes later, Laurence found himself stumbling out of a dimensional portal for the second time onto a secluded area of the Michigan State University campus. He leaned against one of the columns to get his bearings.
“Not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” he hocked up a spit of sickness. “Wait! Where the hell are we? Did anyone just see …?”
“As with our last jump, we have arrived undetected by human presence,” indicated the familiar. “I pre-scanned the location for an area with zero sentient heat signatures. This sector of the campus fit that criterion.”
“Aight, cool.”
Laurence pulled himself together, adjusting the hood to his Annunaki fabricated sweatsuit. He stepped out of the shadows onto the active campus, attempting to blend in as if he were a regular student heading to class or his dorm room. It had not changed much since he attended.
He walked the campus juggling between remaining inconspicuous and reminiscing about better times. There were very few memories that were good. Keeping a low profile wasn’t that hard to do. He did turn a couple of heads because of his stature. He was originally an imposing figure before his habit, but the genetic upgrade made him a granite goliath.
At least one or two students politely stopped him and asked if he was a new recruit checking out the campus, to keep his cover he said yes. Someone else stopped him to ask an entirely different question.
“Yo my man, that outfit is the bomb!” A young man in his second year sporting baggy jeans and an oversize basketball jersey with glasses asked. “Where can I cop something like that?”
“Sorry, it’s a custom made limited edition,” Laurence coughed. “Excuse me, there’s some place I need to be.”
“Well what’s the name of the designer?” The second-year threw his hands up.
“Annunaki!” He yelled back.
“Annunaki?” The confused young man screwed up his face. “Is that a UK company?”
Laurence kept moving, picking up the pace to get to his intended destination. As he approached Spartan Stadium, his heart sped up as memories of taking the field danced before his eyes. He took his time as he went through one of the entrances that brought him into the middle of the stadium between the regular and the nosebleed seats. Because it was not an actual game, students were allowed to watch the practice sessions in between their regular classes as long as they did not make a lot of noise and did not attempt to come onto the field. Laurence descended the steps quietly, getting as close as possible to the twenty-yard line. His senses took in grunts mixed with the clashing of helmets and shoulder pads as players adorned in the Spartan colors worked to push past their limits in order to bring home a championship.
He sat down and took it all in while scanning the sea of bodies consisting of players, assistant coaches, and water boys.
“May I ask the purpose of us attending this sporting practice session,” inquired the familiar wrapped around his arm.
“I’m just here looking for someone.” He answered while adjusting his hood to keep majority of his face hidden.
“Your pulse and heart rate have elevated again,” it pointed out. “May I ask the significance of this individual?”
“No.”
Out of nowhere, his ears located what his eyes could not find as he zeroed in on the sound of his voice.
Even at a distance, his howl made Laurence’s hair stand on end and his blood boil. The taskmaster was hard at work verbally abusing and berating his players who were throwing their entire bodies, souls, and wills into pushing back the tackling dummy he stood on. All he needed was a whip.
“Both your heart and pulse rate have greatly elevated again,” indicated the familiar. “May I assume you located the individual you are looking for on that training apparatus?”
“Get the cobra a cookie,” he muttered.
“Sarcasm?” It flatly asked.
“Yep.”
Arnold Patterson, Head Coach for the Spartans. Respected for leading his team year after year to an array of division championships and feared for his brutal, no-nonsense training methods, the former Army drill sergeant took his military philosophy and applied it to his players. To him, if one was privileged to be chosen as a Spartan, their life belonged to him for the next four years, and their only purpose was to win games. Everything else was secondary or nonexistent to him. Due to his impressive success rate, very few questioned or opposed his tactics.
The sight of him had Laurence shifting in his seat. He rubbed his hands together to calm himself as sadistic thoughts ran through his mind, many of which promised consecutive life sentences.
“Is this the best you three limp dicks can do?” Coach Patterson howled from atop the tackling dummy. “My momma with a bad hip and a Depends full of shit can hit harder than you three little faggots! Again!”
The trio consisting of a junior lineman, a junior center, and freshman lineman roared again as they set up and charged, putting their backs into driving the tackling dummy backwards as far as possible upon impact. Coach Patterson, still unsatisfied, continued to show his displeasure.
“One of you three little shits is the weakest link in my defense, and we’re gonna find out right here and right now who it is!” Patterson savagely bellowed. “So you either reach down into your little baby roach sacks and knock me across this fucking field, or die trying! Now again!”
The trio set up once again and groaned squeezing out every ounce of strength and power they had left to please their coach. On their seventh attempt the freshman with a number forty-two jersey hit the dummy awkwardly out of exhaustion and fell, smacking the field with a sickening thud. He began to squeal while rolling around clutching his shoulder.
“Get up Hanson!” Coach Patterson roared. “I said get your sorry ass up!”
Hanson gripped his shoulder as he writhed in excruciating pain on the field.
“Coach … my shoulder coach …” he stammered in agony. “It feels like I dislocated it.”
Patterson leapt off of the tackling dummy with disgusted rage written all over his face as he crouched down over Hanson.
“Don’t give me that dislocated shoulder shit you little pussy,” he snarled. “Do you know how much time, energy, and money I spent to give you a shot to be on my team? Do you know how many fucking thoroughbreds I passed up for you, and this is how you repay me? Lying here pissing and moaning about your shoulder. If you had hit the fucking bag the way you were supposed to instead of half-assing it, you wouldn’t be rolling around crying like a little bitch that got a thick stiff one up the stinkhole! Now you pay me back what I spent, get your ass up, and shake it off! Get up!”
He grabbed Hanson by the front of his helmet’s facemask and attempted to wrench him to his feet. The violent act made Hanson cry out again as he released his injured right shoulder in order to use his left hand to get to his feet. He fell back down to the ground clutching his shoulder as Patterson continued to hold him by the front of his helmet. Seeing enough, the junior lineman with number ninety-five and the name Jacobson on the back of his jersey apprehensively stepped in.
“Coach you got to stop,” he half whispered his plea. “I think he really messed up his shoulder.”
Patterson gave him a wide-eyed insane look as if he wanted to kick a hole in his chest for challenging him. He came to his senses realizing that the field had gotten quiet as everyone in attendance stood watching him abuse another player. Finally, he released Hanson’s faceplate and stepped back.
“You’re done,” he said under his breath for only Hanson and those present to hear. You’ll be lucky to take the field much less suit up with my Spartan colors this season. And next season …there won’t be a next season…not for you while I’m still breathing. You two get this worthless piece of shit off my field and to the infirmary…now.”
