

⚠️ I have an Author Page!

Article

Transcription Log

SCP-6149

Item #: SCP-6149

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-6149 is to be kept in Site-203's parking garage. The key to SCP-6149 is to be kept in a locked box requiring two senior members of staff to unlock. Anyone Class-C or higher may request to use SCP-6149, but must obtain clearance from Site-203 Director Talbot, and must sign a waiver. No more than six people may use SCP-6149 at any time. SCP-6149 does not require maintenance, oil, or fuel. A tracker must be installed on SCP-6149 during use, and on the person of anyone using it at all times.

Description: SCP-6149 is a blue 1968 Volkswagon van with a sticker reading "Merkavah"1 on its passenger side. Various other stickers decorate its side and rear, and it is missing a license plate. The interior of the van contains a mini-bar with an amount of alcoholic and non-alcoholic refreshments that are anomalously replenished, as well as a variety of food. The interior also contains a small drawer with one CD, one cassette tape, one eight-track tape, and one vinyl record, which alter their appearance and content according to the user's taste. All forms of recorded media contain the same ten-thousand songs, including genres of jazz, pop, blues, reggae, rock, and metal, all made between 1964 and 1997. The dashboard is equipped to play all forms of media. The fuel gauge always reads Full, while the total mileage always resets after every use. There are no registration, insurance, or dealer papers available. Any attempt to issue a new license plate results in the plate vanishing after one hour.

SCP-6149 is omnidirectional, omnispatial, impervious to all known forms of damage, and capable of multidimensional travel; the speed at which it travels is hypothesized to be instantaneous. Once inside, any driver or passenger is completely protected from all outside forces, be they physical, thaumaturgical, cognitive, chronal, etc. As a side effect, drivers and passengers experience severe hallucinations, nausea, headaches, euphoria, lack of coordination, paranoia, time displacement, and dementia, none of which are fatal or long-term. As of the time of this recording, most of these effects can be treated, although no hallucinatory protection measures have succeeded. The origin of SCP-6149 is currently unknown, as are the identities of any previous owners.

SCP-6149 was discovered next to a sign reading "Monkey's Eyebrow" by agents investigating the Ohio River, under supervision from Sr. Researcher Bialowieski. The team was originally sent to the area to follow up on reports of various cryptids, but were later waylaid by police reports of an unlocked "drug mule van" without a license plate "mysteriously appearing" next to the aforementioned sign. Upon arrival, Jr. Researchers Liang, Silva, and Dunharrow interviewed two officers present, one of whom had suffered hallucinations after attempting to drive the vehicle. The officer was not under the influence of any cognitohazardous effects prior to entering the vehicle, anomalous or otherwise. After offering to perform their own investigation, Liang discovered the self-replenishing refreshments; Silva sighted audio logs inside the vehicle, which were played (see Addendum-B). The logs were initially dismissed by agents and police as "the ramblings of someone under excessive drug consumption".

Dunharrow attempted to start the vehicle, resulting in spontaneous relocation, and contact was briefly lost. Dunharrow was later recovered by an MTF team in the steppes of Mongolia, suffering from hallucinations, nausea, dementia, and loss of coordination. The vehicle was tentatively labeled as anomalous and sent back to Liang and Silva while Dunharrow recovered. The recovery team exhibited similar side effects as Dunharrow, with one agent attempting to damage the vehicle, to no effect. Both police officers were summarily given amnestics, the vehicle and its contents confiscated by the Foundation, and the audio logs were taken into consideration for possible future tests. In an attempt to return to the nearest Foundation site, Silva (under hallucinogenic influence) accidentally crashed the vehicle into an abandoned building, but the transport and passengers suffered no damage. Multiple tests were later performed (see Addendum-A).

Addendum-A: TESTING LOGS 01 - 06

Test 01: D-class #50050 volunteered for test. Was assigned to drive one kilometer north on Foundation test site 203-B. Departed 0703, arrived .01 seconds later, although he claimed it took "a few years". Subject emerged from van yelling about "a giant cat dressed up like a cartoon burglar, being chased by a goblin with a head five times its body mass, and an anthropomorphic rat wielding a banana chainsaw". Subject lost balance and collapsed, then vomited. Subject attempted to recite Whitman's "I Sing the Body Electric" and claimed "it's all real". Subject later recovered, and since no physical harm was done, was temporarily relieved of further testing.

Test 02: Two D-class assigned to drive to Oahu, Hawaii. Departed 0810, arrived .01 seconds later, although they each claimed separate times had passed (two minutes and eighteen centuries). Both subjects expressed extreme distrust and paranoia towards one another, despite not having any prior familiarity. Detailed an experience involving "talking pizza that asked us to play a Muddy Waters song" and "a two-headed black cat the size of a Mastiff who recreated the opening scene to 'Waiting for Godot' with itself". Both subjects later recovered, with no physical harm done.

Test 03: Four D-class assigned to drive for thirty minutes across a mine field. Normal transportation time observed. Fourteen mines were detonated with no damage done to vehicle or passengers. Passengers emerged arguing about the Knights of the Round table, what ingredients went into a "seahorse omelet", and whether "the flying red and yellow orbs had five talons on their mechanical claws, or six". Subjects later recovered, no physical harm done.

Test 04: Five D-class and one researcher assigned to drive to the center of Betelgeuse, collect data, and return in one hour. Departed 1722, arrived .01 seconds later according to Foundation astronomers (all passengers claimed separate amounts of time had passed). Contact cut off due to solar radiation but regained 59:59 minutes later. Vehicle returned to Foundation completely intact; passengers also intact, but each suffering from various hallucinations. All team members later recovered; data acquired during mission preserved.

Test 05: D-class #50050 was given SCP-093 (blue) and was successfully transported. One D-class and one researcher experienced with 093 were assigned to physically recover him via transport and return him to the Foundation. Departed 0600, arrived .01 seconds later according to D-50050, who was currently under assault by SCP-093-2. Transport team rescued D-50050, but returned with SCP-507 in tow, whom none of them could account for. Despite his prior experience, D-50050 still experienced hallucinations, albeit different types. SCP-507 also experienced hallucinations but was inclined to brush them off as "a part of the world he had just been in".

Test 06: A D-class was given a head-mounted camera and asked to drive to Venus and remain for one week, cataloguing whatever she could. Departed 0700, arrived .01 seconds later (claiming it took "maybe thirty seconds"). Subject was instructed not to leave the vehicle unless otherwise authorized. Subject consumed three meals per day and drank seven liters of ice water, one liter of grapefruit juice, 250 ml of bourbon, 500 ml of beer, and one liter of sarsaparilla over the course of the week. No ill effects from Venus were recorded on transport or subject. Subject attempted to return to Foundation but "got lost and landed in a world full of water, where dragons flew and people could use magic". Subject made three more attempts to return, citing her hallucinations as detriments. Subject made landfall on an undiscovered Earth-like exoplanet, a world "filled with bacteria big enough to cast shadows over me", and a place "colored like a black-and-white film, with people who looked like Hindu gods". Video feedback confirmed all areas were not hallucinations, but subject's descriptions of them were greatly exaggerated.

Further tests pending approval. Indeterminate if benefits of transportation outweigh drawbacks.

Addendum-B: Included is an edited transcribed audio log found underneath one of the passenger seats. Two civilians, who have only been identified as "Traveler" (who narrates) and "Passenger", detail a majority of their experiences, giving unique insight to SCP-6149. The Foundation is currently unable to locate the two civilians for further comment or amnestisation.

Personal note: "Due to the nature of their experiences, I don't think amnestics are necessary. They themselves have difficulty believing it happened—and so would I." —Sr. Researcher Bialowieski

We were about a hundred-thousand miles outside the orbit of Callisto when the visions kicked in. Up until that point they hadn't been a necessity, as our current surroundings and situation brought more than enough madness and wonder. It's not every day you find yourself flitting past the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, cosmic remains of a world we'll never know, a dead god in the Sea of Arbol. I was watching the big pervert swing his lovers around himself when things began to melt. I looked at my hand, the seats inside the van, my partner, the records, the refreshments. I looked into the surly faces of angels and demons and wonders and delights the likes of which our greatest philosophers could only dream about. Maybe I was just casting my mind back to a painting I had once seen. Things vomiting things vomiting things vomiting things. Guernica, I think. Nietzsche, you son of a bitch, I never once blinked. The hallucinations melted my foes away and I was left alone to stand victorious. I am a traveler who rides the ether, shiny and chrome in the halls of Valhalla.

Of course, far out here, beyond the reach of our fellow sapients, I was not what you would strictly call alone. My passenger was sitting right next to me, a trillion miles away, grinning and rocking like a prisoner eternally cursed to sit on the carousel as it orbited twenty point six square feet of a wet rock. Horses in centrifugal motion, vertical vertigo up and down down and up eternal. He was having the time of his life and there was no way on El's green Tellus2 was I going to stop him.

I swear the bastard wanted me dead. He tried to bite my El-damned arm off at least seven times…or was that me? The visions make it impossible to know, but I can't look away. There are secrets and lies and aesthetics beyond the scope of mortals, and I fear, eventually, the scope of words, or descriptions, or even experience itself. For now they are merely boiling my skull to an agreeable temperature. I'll be dead soon, unless drastic measures are taken. I stand up, lurch, flail dizzily, get knocked over, fall, the floor acquainting itself with my face. They made love for a good long while before I decided enough was enough, get a room. Man's eternal war on gravity. Luckily I had two servants who could fight back. Alley oop.

Passenger: Shoulda buckled up like I told you.

Traveler: Shut up. There's no friction in space. Nothing to collide into. See? Callisto's practically in another universe.

Passenger: Big Zeus has lots of lovers. You'll smash into Ganymede or Io.

Traveler: No I won't. Ganny and I are old friends. We trade in wine and horses.

Passenger: (laughs hoarsely)

Traveler: Anyway, I'm more worried about Saturn. We'll be sliced to ribbons if we're not careful.

Passenger: I hate to break it to you, my friend, but those rings are full of rocks. We'll smash into those!

He was right, the poor dumb bastard, but I was in no mood to play pool with the solar system. I had to act fast. Gotta get to the wheel. No time left. Only a gulf of a few million miles between us and the fury of the gods. I stumbled again. Reeling, floating, flying, falling. Damn bastard. Laughing like that.

Passenger: Shoulda buckled up.

This bucket's toast if I don't get up. The next thing I know I'm gripping the steering wheel like it's a rapist's throat, turning her for all she's worth. But there's no left or right in space. No interstate. Merge from nothing into nothing. No up or down, just space, only space. Hundred percent chance of imminent death. If only I had some pancakes. I could go out happy after eating some pancakes. Kit Carson's one regret was not eating enough chili. I feel you there, brother. Coming home to see you.

By some miracle I don't have the words to describe, we miss Saturn by a fraction and end up facing the backside of Pluto. I hear laughter all around me, an invisible monster trying to punch its way out of the van, immersing us with its horrible, sweet freedom. Come at me, you bastards. I've been ready since I first wiped drool off my own chin. I show Charon my middle finger instead of the coin he wants and brace for the Kuiper belt. That'll be the end of us for certain.

Passenger: Hey. He wants to talk to you.

I see him cradling a lobster taco like it's the El-damned Pieta. Sauce and cheese melt in a waxy ooze as the visions get worse. The lettuce grows eyes, the lobster waving a microphone around, demanding that I speak now, or forever hold my peace. There's an army of well-dressed orangutans watching me, and I am an Eskimo. I look away, terrified, into the void, eminent death looming, Kuiper and Oort and the blanket of endless oblivion some dickless joker decided to call space.

Traveler: Tell him to leave a message!!

I lunge at the window, smashing my arms through, penetrating into the beyond. I am suddenly Luonnotar, birthing ancient wizards in a pool of knowledge. I am Krishna, telling Arjuna to shut the fuck up and murder his family. I am the loom Penelope weaves as she fights off her suitors. I am Roland, Charlemagne's champion. I am the blade that cuts off Marie Antoinette's head. Damn, what a waste. She seemed like a nice girl. The visions only get worse from there, so I buckle up.

Traveler: Can't this thing go any faster?!

Passenger: As your podiatrist, I advise you to push down on the thing that's next to the other thing. The brake.

Traveler: Are you crazy? That'll kill us for sure!

Passenger: The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Hades…

Traveler: That's not how the song goes! Sing it right or I'll bite your ears off! Don't you know who I am?

Passenger: Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Mata Hari Krishna.

Traveler: That's right! I'm John Mother-Loving Pemberton3! Remember my name!

I lunge at him, thinking I can drive him off a cliff if I can grasp his steering wheel tight enough. Then I remember the buckle. Damn. I'd better stay where I am, I thought. I don't want to shatter to pieces again. Not this cowboy.

Time and space fold out, stretch, become mere words, labels for fools, easy purchase to grab hold of. I'm not even sure we're in the same galaxy anymore. The van said it wanted to go to Monkey's Eyebrow4, but it may as well be Atlantis or Brigadoon. Hell, anything goes. Rules are the support beams that keep a house from falling on itself—and we were camping in nothing but our sleeping bags. I looked down to make sure I was at least wearing pants. Good. I'd hate to get picked up by aliens only for them to laugh at me. El-damned bastards would probably laugh no matter what, but I'll show them. You think I'm funny? Well, I think your mother's funny!

My companion has sawed off enough logs to support a dozen houses. How I envy his ability to rest at a time like this. Poor dope. It would be cruel to wake him now. Maybe if the aliens are carrying lasers, though. But would I really do it? No doubt the bastard would throw me into the crossfire if it meant ten more seconds of life for him. I had to get out of this buckle before he noticed me. My hands were like duck's feet, flapping uselessly against a Gordian knot of indescribable proportion. Damn. Well, we were both in the same boat now. That poor fool buckled himself in as well, so El only knows which one of us the aliens will disintegrate first.

The van saw a place where it could defecate to its heart's content, and El be blessed we could breathe the air. I didn't want to leave but you better believe I wanted to give Armstrong a piece of my mind. Here's one for you, Michael Collins, I thought to myself, before falling down flat on the surface. One giant leap, indeed.

Traveler: Fuck. The rocks taste like old chewing gum.

You win this round, Neil.

[Edit: intermittent moments of silence, shuffling, cursing, and quick verbal exchanges between Traveler and Passenger.]

Passenger: What do you think this planet's called?

Traveler: We should name it. We'll go down in history!

Passenger: Don't do that, man. You gotta respect the binomial nomenclature.

Traveler: Ahuh. Spell it for me!

Passenger: Spell what?

Traveler: Binomial nomenclature.

Passenger: (laughs) Do I look like I'm still in school? Let's ask the natives.

Traveler: I'm naming it Fitzcarraldo. To hell with the gods.

Passenger: As your step-uncle's foster child, I advise you not to fucking blaspheme.

Traveler: All the worlds in our solar system are named after gods. It's time we give some other poor schmuck a chance.

Passenger: What do you think the natives look like?

Traveler: Could be anything for all we know. Our fiction cannot compare to what facts lie beyond that horizon. I just hope they're wearing pants.

The aliens came by and spoke perfect Xhosa. Most movies just assume English is universal. It always bothered me when the aliens in Star Trek said “How do you do, good to see you”, as if the Norman invasion had been interplanetary. Star Wars got it right. Luckily my passenger was a translator of sorts. He got them to understand we were travelers, hungry and thirsty and saddle-sore. It may have been part of the visions, but they treated us well. I didn't mind the woolly mammoths so much, even if they did have an extra set of eyes. No, it was the cactus that worried me. It gave me some pretty nauseating ice cream and told me to make way for their conquest. I knew I needed to get a robot to stomp him out, or else, the Golden Girls would be doomed. And I'd never be able to live with myself in a world like that.

I had to burn all the science-fiction tropes out of my mind, confront things afresh, think like an alligator. Words like Take Me to Your Leader won't work in this civilization. We move somewhere anyway, likely to be gutted and skinned and sauteed. They say human meat tastes like sweet pork. Well get trichinosis, you bastards. I read War of the Worlds, I know how things go down. We stop, they argue; about what, I couldn't say. Cooking methods. Sexual deviancy. What shape the clouds are. Hell, maybe they have elections here, too.

Traveler: You can't stop here! This is Wubalu territory!!

Passenger: They're gone now. I used the spray.

Traveler: Oh yeah? How much of that stuff do we have left?

Passenger: Enough to fill a bathtub. As your severed Siamese twin I advise you to soak yourself in it for three hours.

Traveler: Hmm? You mean marinade? You wanna encourage them?

Passenger: You'll come out smelling like a rotten kumquat. You'll grow knives on your fingers and teeth in your belly. They won't send their insurance agents after you in that condition.

Traveler: That's a good point. Hey.

Passenger: What?

Traveler: You suppose they're friendly?

Passenger: People are alike all over. Watch the fucking Twilight Zone. Go work in retail for a month. Fucking savages. They're the ones who belong in a zoo. Not these El-damned arthropods.

Traveler: Those are woolly mammoths. Extinct on our world.

Or maybe we had gone back in time. No matter. We rode on scorpions halfway through the alkali flatlands, stopping to watch a firebrand escape confinement. No astronaut feces up there, my friends. Only real genuine stars falling from grace. Wait: were we in Texas? Had we only traveled a few miles and not across dimensions of gaping reality? I had my passenger ask them for a steak. If it's one thing Texans know, it's their beef. I ended up looming over a plate of what I prayed was purple spaghetti, which tasted like car oil and made me see the truths in colors and desires. Then I took a leak and rainbows came out of me. I felt like an angel, micturating upon the world, wondering how the bacteria felt to be sprayed with such vitriol. At least there was honest gasoline in the joint. But did we really only come here for a pit stop? I stood staring at the wasteland void, the van silently profiling the universe, apathetic and apoplectic to our struggle. Monkey's Eyebrow.

Traveler: You mean literally?!

I was compelled to open it up and play Janice Joplin. Turned her up as loud as I could. Killed the world for the sake of short-term tinnitus. Forbade myself to play the Monkees. I never liked them. Dilettantes! Give me the Stones or the Quarrymen5 any day.

I asked the aliens if they had any maps. Charles Atlas lowered his burden so I could study. Here, There, and Everywhere. Loved that song. I placed a hundred fingers on our current location and asked where the hell could I find some pancakes. Fool, you just ate. Focus. Monkey's Eyebrow. The sooner you get there, the sooner this nightmare can end. But who was I kidding? This was the greatest moment of my life. I had just eaten food not of my world in the presence of beings who resembled cacti and giant moths, and we were debating maps of worlds our current astronomers could only dream of. Well, there was no Monkey's Eyebrow here. They'd never heard of it. Join the club, brothers.

Back in the van. This thing can go anywhere. Not only omnidirectional, but omnispatial, too, and that's not even limited to our own space. Oh no. Planes of existence the likes of which only Hugo Award winners understand. Dimensions and realities and times and places and esoteric realms that defy dictionaries. The cosmos at our fingertips, or at least most of it. Can't get to heaven on roller skates, the girls used to sing—or in this case, a 1968 Volkswagen van. Can't get to Hell either, but we've come damned close so far. It wants us to go to Monkey's Eyebrow, wherever or whatever that is. Gonna be difficult when you're peeling out of a world filled with mothmen and purple spaghetti. Probably gets tougher when you stare down the barrel of a hostile marble swirling topaz and amethyst. Not my choice, though. My passenger's at the wheel. What was it Tina Turner said in Beyond Thunderdome? Hell if I know. I'm almost certain my mind's been shot.

Another world. We'll be dead soon. It's raining green fire and the trees have cock's wattles for leaves. I see two enormous white legs without a body trying to crack one open, while another approaches us, curious and servile. I grab for my pistol and brandish Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet instead. Damn. But maybe music's a universal language.

Passenger: Show him Boston. Bon Jovi's garbage anyway.

Traveler: He doesn't have ears! How would he know the difference?!

Passenger: Beethoven was deaf. Listen to the Sixth Symphony and tell me there's no difference.

The bastard was right, damn him. I was about to swap but the creature just bowed, showing his guts to the whole world. Astonishing. I didn't know they made kidneys in that color. I looked around and saw myself with a hammer, helping one of the leg-creatures forcefully shove something into the tree. When did I volunteer for this, I wondered, and what does it taste like? I knew I wanted nothing to do with it, but there was no negotiating with these creatures. No ears, and no head, either. I played Boston when I got the chance and it seemed to win them over. I'd kiss that poor bastard if he wasn't making a mockery of himself.

The next world had colors like spumoni ice cream, and air so intoxicating I regurgitated whatever those cockswattle trees spat out. The aliens had never seen someone vomit before and decided that I had insulted their god and sacred land. They dunked my head in iced sherbet no less than thirteen times as penance, and I came out reeking of burned-out cathode ray tubes. Their brats wouldn't stop playing with me after that, and I didn't have the energy or willpower to shoo them away. My partner hit the ground first this time, proclaiming something about dreams and reality before issuing a vulgarity I'd just as soon not repeat. It's my turn to drive next, and by hook or crook, we're going to get some El-damned chili.

Passenger: Check it out.

And then, the women. Lexicography fails me. I had to speak in trembling tears. Joy and exultation emanated from my face like I was the Madonna. They had to be at least thirty feet tall, only two of them, thank El, because I knew my eyes wouldn't be able to handle any more. It might have been worth it, though, and if I had to choose one last glorious spectacle before I was thrust into the void of nothing for eternity, it would be these women. By El! I stood in Gulliver's shoes beholding Brobdignagian goddesses. One had copper hair, one had gold. Skin like bleu cheese, seven eyes harsh and unforgiving, priestesses to an all-encompassing fertility mother. I could have stared at anything for the rest of my life, but I was fixated on their teeth. I knew I'd never hold it against these titanic women if they decided to eat me. Go ahead, Empresses. It would be my life's honor. Instead they lifted their skirts, each revealing a phallus as large as I was. Well. Certainly something you don't see every day. Were they transgendered, androgynous, or just naturally…that way? Gulliver never had to deal with this sort of alien anatomy. I'll bet not even Harlan Ellison, that rat pervert, could have dreamed of something like this. Well, they both had their way with me, such as it is, and my road was bliss and glory and suffering of the most envious sort. I can only imagine the torture they put my friend through.

Space again. Darkness peppered with the salt of stars. I sneezed but kept my eyes on the road. He was in back, counting all the liquor. We had enough to get half of Munster drunk, food enough to feed a Super Bowl crowd, and music that no computer could count or catalog. I had to wonder what sort of fuel this thing ran on. Crystals, pyramid power, alien technology, cold fusion, dark matter. The laughter of children. The tears of peasants. Mustard. Blood. Cyanide. Those women put me through a lot. I'll never forget them. No woman on Tellus could compare, but they say our girls are easy. Little hills compared to the Kilimanjaro I'd climbed. No action like that in our universe, and I don't dare try another. Not because I don't believe there isn't anything better, but only because I don't want to spoil my soup. I'd end up a voracious pervert, carrying around a bowl with no bottom, constantly imbibing until it killed me. No, let me reach the apex; let me look out over those purple mountain's majesty on the horizon. Let me savor the smile of El and seek not higher plateaus. Let me feel joy in contentment. Hell, if Walt Whitman could do it, why not me? I'd go down trying, at least, mark my words.

They were hideous the next world over. Fish that walked upright, deer antlers growing out of snake's bodies, an owl with heads where its wings should be, cruel birds with bull's horns. A mishmashed menagerie. I was almost certain the visions had stopped by now. Would we even know the difference? By El, that thought alone confined me to the van while my partner cozied up to the locals. There are only so many Pomegranate seeds you can eat before you find yourself at the Chapel O' Love standing pretty next to the Hadean sailor. Nietzsche, you adorable chunky bastard, I take it all back. I have become the monster. I could no longer discern the visions from the awful spectacle we were thrusting ourselves into. Who was I to say there wasn't a literal beast with two backs out there? Or that I only had one thumb on each hand? What in El's green Tellus was wrong with this van? Or was it the van? What if some cosmic radiation…

[Edit: indistinct noises erupt. Sounds of fighting and yelling are heard. The van door opens and slams shut. Passenger is heard babbling, out of breath.]

Passenger: Get us out of here, fucker!

Traveler: Hold your horses, Kemosabe! What did you tell them?

Passenger: I tried to tip the usher. Gave him a bottle of rum with a lime. We were out of ice.

Traveler: Oh? Now there's a kingly ransom.

Passenger: They think I murdered him. The crooked little cockroach was still alive when they chased me out, I swear! Now they're after my blood. I gave at the office, you freaks!

Traveler: Tell him to go eat a melon. That always does the trick for me. Sleep it off. They're not allergic to water, are they?

Passenger: They're gonna kill us. They'll flay all the skin off my bones and make you listen to El-damned polka music until your amygdala explodes. Don't laugh. It's a fate worse than death.

Traveler: I fully believe you, my friend, only I had nothing to do with that fella's lack of teetotaling.

Passenger: I was just trying to be friendly. I woulda killed for a bottle of rum three months ago.

Traveler: And you probably did. Well, they can't get in here, for what it's worth. The worst they can do is roll us over a cliff.

Passenger: They'll smash their way in with dynamite. They're fucking aliens, man! Who knows what all they've got.

Traveler: Hmph. Damn the torpedoes. We're not going until we get some direction.

The aliens couldn't hurt us in the van, not even with the fury of a hundred armies. They threw all kinds of horrific shit at us, stuff that would suck the fire out of the most bloodthirsty lieutenant. I am Thomas de Torquemada's foot, bulbous with gout. I am Genghis Khan, smoking quietly at four in the morning. I am Anne Frank, invincible, rising out of her grave to exact vengeance. They could blow up the whole world and it wouldn't change a thing. They were an ugly people and probably deserved to be left off the genome list, but I had pity for the gruesome suckers, and left them behind. I am Odysseus, setting fire to the lotus-eaters. I am Bran the Blessed, drinking deep of Dagda's cauldron. I am the tripitaka bearer who can't seem to catch a break.

Passenger: The fuck is a tripitaka?

Traveler: You should read more books. It's a tale as old as time.

Passenger: You're more like the Tin Man. No heart inside that hollow chest of yours. Cold as steel. Just take us to Monkey's Eyebrow already.

Traveler: I'm not the one wearing ruby slippers, brother. The visions are fickle, and this van is Merkavah.

Passenger: Doesn't this thing have a GPS? Use the internet. Alexandria dot org6.

I looked it up. Monkeys everywhere. Flying, going into space, blowing raspberries, carrying Fay Wray up the Chrysler building. If I was the Tin Man, does that make my passenger the Wicked Witch? Calm down. Settle. Time flows differently in the van. Your watch says you've been gone since the Cretaceous. Don't trust it. This is the wardrobe. The green witch and the white witch. Relax. Monkey's Eyebrow. No, it definitely wasn't a literal term. Silly. There are hundreds of monkeys in the universe. The van went through the trouble of capitalizing those two letters. It couldn't possibly be someone's name. I sneered at the vinyl of Headquarters. Davy Jones stared back, embracing his Nietzsche. I cleared my head, rubbing my eyes, defying the sand that had built up. Sand, sand. Not those Monkees. Me and Michael Collins had a destination in mind, not a man. Destination, destination. I was Odysseus, stopping at gas stations to ask for directions. Bran the Cursed. Monkey's Eyebrow. A place, a location. Foolish. Shoulda thought of that sooner.

Traveler: Listen!

Passenger: What?

Traveler: We have to get to Monkey's Eyebrow pronto!

Passenger: You figure that out on your own, or did you get Hercule Poirot to help you?

Traveler: I'm Inspector Closeau, you jackass! It's a place, a locality, somewhere with X-and-Y coordinates!

Passenger: Those are chromosomes, you yahoo.

Traveler: Shut up. Enough with the Jonathan Swift. These aliens are eating enough babies as it is. Where the hell is Monkey's Eyebrow?

Passenger: Why don't you rope Vasco de Gama in for the ride?

Traveler: Would if I could. Here, take the wheel. What did you do with that map those aliens gave us?

Passenger: I turned it into a coat. I turned it into a pumpkin. We're riding on a turnip across fields of dreams.

Traveler: There you go with dreams again. Watch, I'll shoot us through that black hole. And here all this time I thought we'd get killed driving this thing.

Passenger: Always wanted to do this. Ejaculate into nature's garbage bin. Turn up the volume, man, and play some Dio. I'm a fuckin' rainbow in the dark.

I only had two hands, but I did as he asked. Why not? Every man deserves a last request. The black hole was imposing, but I had a feeling we could take it. Physics was flaunted that day, my friends, and the impossible became mundane. All the same, it felt like I was giving birth to myself, simultaneously running forwards and backwards while I spun in a circle, waiting for a knife-thrower to hit me in the jugular. I am all ten of Vishnu's avatars in a chorus line. I am a single drop of water cast into the breeze. I am Neil Simon's gizzard. I am…

Fuck. It all makes sense now.

Traveler: Butterflies. Butterflies everywhere. Butterflies.

We were balanced precariously on the Pillars of Creation when wholesale nirvana hit me like one point oh three tons of brick and mortar. The visions, the van, my passenger, the spaghetti and the cactus. Summoning the spirit of Humphrey Bogart to help us. Dragging our bisected corpses across hot coals to meet the man behind the curtain. A dream so vivid, one can no longer distinguish between reality and falsehood. A man dreaming he is a butterfly.

Fuck. Then I asked how far we had really gone.

Passenger: Over the edge, compadre! We fell into it and came out the other end. Right smack into the middle of an El-damned black hole. Cajones of a titan.

Traveler: Just don't forget, Saturn cut his father's genitals off. Kumarbi performed fellatio and got pregnant! And what if Metis crash-lands into Jupiter? The bust of Pallas upon my chamber door, Kemosabe!

Passenger: Just get out the map. I'm tired of your games.

And here I was winning a solitaire tournament. But brass tacks were required. No more lollygagging. So what if I was a butterfly? The van needed to get somewhere, and it had chosen us, though El only knows why. Luck of the draw, I suppose. Salutations, Ed McMahon, wherever you are. So, Monkey's Eyebrow. Well, what do you know. Back on Tellus. We had taken the long way around.

Passenger: Fuck.

Traveler: Boy, you said a mouthful. Patrick Henry himself was no less eloquent.

Passenger: Now it's your turn to spell it.

Traveler: Never mind, we've got to get out of here. The black hole's going to give birth to a universe if we don't hurry.

Passenger: Meteor showers, baby showers. A Swift decision.

Traveler: That's not funny, you psychotic. Don't you know you'll get trichinosis?

Passenger: I'm a vegetarian, you know that. My meat tastes like tofu.

Traveler: Now that is something I believe you know. But we're going to Kentucky, so pipe down. I am a bowling ball dreaming I'm a plate of sashimi!

Passenger: What the hell's in Kentucky? Chicken, horses, Bluegrass. Don't we have a Bill Monroe album in here somewhere?

Traveler: Probably. No time for that now. Brace for impact. T-minus ninety-nine seconds of beer on the wall. Dear El, Max Planck, be with us in our time of need.

I didn't know where we were after that. I blinked and found myself in a diner, confronted with the villainy of a sandwich I knew I'd hate, stale coffee, and worst of all, music from three decades ago playing on a nonstop loop. Dear El, I was surrounded by old people. How did they live like this? Did they enjoy such bland mediocrity? Didn't they know there was better stuff waiting for them—even here, in this wretched hovel? Dig in the dirt deeply enough and you're gonna find a diamond. But no, they were Bunyan's muckraker, refusing to leave his shit of a world for the golden crown right above his head. I lifted up the bread a little—plain white, I think. It wasn't even toasted. I may as well be eating Styrofoam. It had El-damned tomatoes in it. Of course it did, why not. I knew, then, that I was in Hell. I looked around for Hitler and found my companion instead. Maybe I should take my chances with the sandwich, I thought. No, best to get out of here. Monkey's Eyebrow and mermaids await us.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon was out there, and my friend swore she was friendly. She? What about the Gill-man, I thought. Hate me if you must, but all fish look the same to me. No lorelai, rusalka, or siren was this, my friends, but honest scales and fins and even whiskers, whiskers on an El-damned woman. Hell, I thought, it couldn't be worse than the giants. I'll bet catfish are perfectly decent companions, so long as you don't let them drink scotch. We spoke to Gill-woman about our quest. She told us to fry up one of her subjects, touch the scales, and lick the grease off our fingers. Who the hell do you think I am, lady? Taliesin? Or was it Gwion Bach? I can't keep my facts straight. Butterflies thinking they're Evel Kineval. Bowling balls waking up one morning next to Marilyn Monroe. We weren't even in the van and already the visions were playing hockey with my mind.

Passenger: All right, which one? Do we just lick it or eat the whole thing?

My partner was cutting to the quick while I was stuck juggling Carl Jung and Joseph Conrad. We got a nice trout who sang lullabies for us and wished us luck as we threw him out of the frying pan and into the fire. We'll be along shortly there, my minuscule friend. Just gotta touch you and see the universe.

Passenger: Tastes just like regular trout. Motherfucker burned my fingerprints off.

Traveler: Good, now the feds can't trace you. There's no end to all the illegal shit you'll get away with. I should have you arrested.

Passenger: As the holy reflection of your innermost hate, I advise you not to eat the head or bones. We'll bury it tomorrow.

He vomited and decided to do some astronomy, laying down in the grass. I went around to find Lemuria.

[Edit: a long period of silence follows. The recording stops and starts intermittently.]

Traveler: Fuck, did you see the size of that corgi? It was wrapped around the entire planet!

Passenger: It's too early in the year for Sirius to be out. See? You can't even see Orion.

Traveler: Not the stars, you dope. Look, look. See? There, a dog, circling around the world. A pooch sent into orbit that just kept on going7. Oh! It's coming over here! Stay right where you are, my friend. Dream of Andromeda and Libra. Let Ophiuchus heal you. I'm better with animals.

[Edit: inaudible activity follows. Some yelping from Traveler.]

Passenger: Looks like it didn't want any of your crackers. I can't say I blame the pooch.

Traveler: I thought I saw a huge jellyfish on reentry. Probably the visions again. I can't tell what's real or fake anymore.

[Edit: the sound of a slap is heard. Screaming and cursing follows.]

Passenger: That's pain. That's real. You'll carry your scars for the rest of your life. Look deep into agony. Turn your eyes not from a fearful sight.

Traveler: Hmph. Kurosawa. Good call. Look! Teeth-marks on my arm!

Passenger: You were swearing you saw a marshmallow beetle crossing your arm. I had to restrain you before you chewed it clean off.

Was that what happened? El only knows. And maybe none of it's real, none of it but the fire of his hand striking my cheek. El bless this mess of a human being. He is the passenger but he is also the pathfinder, whereas I… I am merely a helpless traveler, a watcher, a student attending a class he didn't pay for, sneaking in when the professor wasn't looking, stealing secrets like Prometheus. Hmph, more like Pandora if you ask me. The girl I sat next to certainly was charming. She had freckles and huge glasses that magnified the soul within, and large large buck teeth, like a beaver. She was heavyset and had a crooked nose and was a far far better person than any giant could be, and she didn't even have a dick six feet tall. By El, I was in love with her. But then the professor kicked me out, and I never saw her again.

We were playing Boston when we hit the next planet. They all looked human, gray and green skin with yellow and orange. They were a warrior people, greeting us with spears and loincloths and guns ripped right out of Flash Gordon. I should have been terrified, but Brad Delp was telling me to Cool the Engines, and who was I to argue with the dead? The natives soon became entranced with our music, dancing until the album ended. I put on Appetite for Destruction, and hostility became an anachronism. Welcome to the jungle. Festivities were made in our honor, and the sweet beauty of hard rock and heavy metal was distributed to an alien culture that had once only known violence and warfare. There was food like I had never seen before, and beer, and love was spent freely, and dancing, so much dancing. These people had wanted to party for generations but never had the impetus until we came along. Kirk and Spock would've turned tail and run, but not us. The Prime Directive is truth and beauty, my friends. By El, it was glorious.

[Edit: The audio log stops. When it begins again, there is another long period of silence. Background noise consisting of yawning, scratching, and burping. Passenger hums the fourth movement of Beethoven's Fifth symphony.]

We had come to the last wall of our journey. The flaming mountain besieging princess Iron Fan and her father the Bull King. Charybdis and Scylla. Sobriety. What a state of mind, and no melons in sight. Agony which no mortal should be faced with. Hot needles jabbed into your skull over and over ad nauseum until your world blurs. Groaning, pain, wailing. The realization that you left your humanity behind long ago. The desire for hot drink, isolation, recuperation. My passenger was right: pain was reality, and reality was all around me, and had become a part of me. Personally, I'd rather walk across hot coals, but it kept me focused, made me drive on. Monkey's Eyebrow, but why? Why the desire to find us, take us on this strange journey, only to end up here, in all the cosmos, of all times? Come to me, Martin Heidegger, battle awaits. Help me, Auguste Comte, you're my only hope.

I asked my friend to hit me again. Monkey's Eyebrow. I tried getting the van to tell me where it was but all I got was the pleasant purring sound only a '68 Volkswagen could make. We drove again. I wondered, if we did see Sirius and Orion and helped rescue Andromeda from the monster, could we follow the second star from the right and run smack into Neverland? Don't answer, my friend, don't answer. It's bad enough I'm the one driving. My lookout alerted me of a diner, and I thought to myself, finally, some pancakes.

They were cooked perfectly. This was the sort of place that didn't screw around with their flapjacks. Big as the plate they put it on. Burnt just so on one side, fluffy as a pillow, the faintest hint of sweetness permeating. I didn't even add any syrup. Just butter and a fork. Well, Kit Carson, I did better than you at least. Now I can die a happy man. My friend had to ask about Monkey's Eyebrow since my mouth had entered the highest state of bliss. The waiter hadn't heard of it but one of our fellow patrons did. Gave us good directions and everything. Asked us why we were heading that way. Were we checking off every weird name in the country? Sure, pal, sure. We've already been to Cucamonga, Boring, and Walla Walla, and now we're on our way to Kissimmee. Felicitations were passed all around as I polished off my last meal and drank what was left of my milk. Final stretch.

Focus now. Focus. Ignore the visions. They can't get to you in this van. The Germans made it too well. Or hell, maybe we really were driving Merkavah. Maybe El in his wisdom lent it to us so we could see truth and beauty and horror, us out of billions in the world, and now we had to give it back. And then, my companion gave me the answer in all his psychotic rambling.

Passenger: As your avatar I advise you to give this flashlight to the next person you see. Not even a word. Just hand it off and move on.

By El, that was it. We were in a relay race. The van's previous owner, if it had one, had dropped it off in front of us after going on their own psychedelic excursion. Now it was our turn. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take this van from point A to point B. What you do with it in the meantime is up to you. Go see the universe. Ride on scorpions. Make love to giants. Bring revolution to the masses. Offend cultures. Vomit starlight and moonbeams. Get lost. Eat pancakes. Imagine yourself as Daniel Boone's coonskin cap. You'll know when you're ready to move on. Your path will light up. Just follow the yellow brick road, and keep your pants on.

We stopped. Got out. Monkey's Eyebrow. Just a humble green sign next to a road in Kentucky. They say it's the journey and not the destination you must embrace, but they couldn't understand the jubilation we felt in that moment. To know that this was real, that we were real, and we were here and alive. We too had been part of the circus of Dr. Lao. Now it was time for someone else to take the keys and continue the race. Drive, my friends. Drive where you please. Stop and go. Shove your schnozz into flowers and don't give a rip what the bees think. Make snow angels in the nude. Surf on waves of pure ether. Ride shiny and chrome in the halls of Annwyn. Get seduced by cat women and four-armed men, or whatever you're into. I wouldn't fuck a porcupine if I were you, and definitely don't trust the cactus. But take it. Take it and drive. And may El have mercy on your soul.

I looked at him. He looked at me. We didn't shake hands; we didn't embrace; we merely nodded. We both understood that we had shared an experience so extraordinary, no kind of intimacy or camaraderie would ever satisfy it. And now some other unlucky soul's going to go through that same hell. I can't say I envy them, but who knows? Maybe they'll enjoy it. Maybe they'll learn something out there, in the vast limitless cosmos. Or maybe they'll just lose themselves. I guess my companion and I had a little bit of both, but this is where our story comes to a close. In our end was someone else's beginning. Right now, we were just two tired men, crossing the threshold of a road in the middle of nowhere, passing a proverbial torch along. Just two more freaks in the freak kingdom.

(END AUDIO LOG)

Footnotes

1. Hebrew for "chariot of God"

2. Traveler refers to God as “El” and Earth as “Tellus”, suggesting they came from a parallel world. “Arbol” is apparently their sun.

3. John Pemberton is allegedly the inventor of Coca-Cola.

4. A location in Ballard County, Kentucky, 3 km south of the Ohio River on Ky. Hwy. 473.

5. It's theorized that in this parallel world, the Beatles never changed their original band name.

6. Apparently this is their search engine equivalent of Googolplex.

7. It's highly likely he encountered SCP-2952.