Finally, at long last, the eBook and Print versions of Continuous Creation, by James H. Peterson III is on sell at Amazon. Here is the extended Prologue:
From The Complete Revelation of Mick and Keith
Sushi to Go Prologue
For Aziraphale and Crowley
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
— Pablo Picasso
Important things to know:
- Angels are real.
- Demons are real.
- Cichlids are a mythical type of fish that are purported to populate freshwater lakes and rivers in Asia, Africa, and both Central and South America. The mythical history of these fish breaks down due to the fact that they obviously did not build airplanes to fly themselves from one lake to another and therefore can’t be related. So the only credible explanation for the structural similarities in these fish is that way back in history, when France still had kings and the United States was still waiting to be discovered by the people already living there, the continents of Terra were all linked together. This is obviously complete Dodo droppings and you would be well advised to stay a long way away from anyone arguing such patent nonsense.
It began, or part of it began, near a motel in Salt Lake City. Several people had a very bad day. It was the sort of bad day you often dream about after you have seen a vivid and violent movie coupled with Cajun food. This bad day differed for most of the participants because they never awoke from the dream. Sensational movies, serious documentaries, and both good and bad books were written about this bad day.
Two young men were arrested and charged with crimes they did not commit. One of the young men never said anything, not even to his lawyer. The other young man confessed to everything the police told him he had done. The police had told him what he did so many times and showed him so many pictures that he had come to believe, convinced by his nightmares, that he had, in fact, done the crimes. He dreamt of the slaughtered cheerleaders, the blood-stained money. He dreamt of the motel manager in his sloth and the crisp, clean mini-market across the dusty street, and the once pretty, now dead cashier. Most of all, he dreamt of the little girl, that one that had come to the motel with her uncle. Once the dreams started to produce prolonged insomnia, the confessing young man went on to confess to every sin he could remember. That same young man’s lawyer later tried to use the fact that the confessing young man also confessed to being James Earl Files’ back-up shooter to make the point that this client was no longer dealing with reality in any coherent fashion. The judge disallowed this evidence, and the confessing young man and his friend were subsequently given due process, and multiple life sentences. No one on the jury was bothered by the fact that none of the physical evidence placed the young man at any of the murder scenes. He had confessed, and that was the main fact presented at his trial. Later on, almost no one would remember that the young man’s lawyer had been out of law school for less than one year, and had never argued a capital case before.
This is called justice.
Somewhere twenty-four hundred kilometers east, Mary Smith put down the Courier-Journal newspaper in disgust. She and her husband John had become involved with The Innocence Project after John had picked up a copy of The Innocent Man by John Grisham that one of John’s students had left in his classroom. Neither of them realized at first that the novel was a non-fiction account of Ron Williamson’s life. Williamson spent 11 years on death row, more than once coming close to the last terminal show, before being cleared by D.N.A. evidence.
Mary had been motivated to enter Brandeis Law School and had finished with the distinctions that only come from ignoring everything else in your life save the winning of distinctions. John had remained a History Professor and continued with surgical precision pointing out death tolls, casualty counts, the logic of blood debts, the cyclical nature of violence, and the long-term consequences of this or that war to whichever of his students managed to stagger into his seminars.
Mary stood, smoothed her red, orange, and yellow sundress before walking through their apartment to the bathroom. She inhaled the cold, crisp, winter morning air breezing through one open kitchen window of the fourth floor Cherokee Road apartment. She remembered how that same breeze would carry the smell of coffee and Indian food from the streets below. Stopping just before the open bathroom door, she cast a critical eye over her husband.
“We are going to be late,” she said.
John finished the stroke of his razor before turning to her. One-half of his face was covered in shaving cream.
“Right, let’s go,” he said.
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