I’m Meridian Loves biographer. My name is not important. Meridians name is. Lumpkin's name is quite important, though not as important (in Meridians
eyes) as Meridians.
Meridian has asked me to write down some of his recent exploits. These are attached here……
The story so far…
The sky, secret projects and even some souls are black, relative to where you stand.
If you are perched at 90 000 feet, for example, the sky is black, or as near black, as makes no appreciable difference. Dark, black and hostile. On
the edge of space, a near vacuum. And, being a vacuum, there is no noise, which is a pity, for at lower altitudes the aircraft which, even now, sped
like a dart through the void, would sound very impressive. Now, there was only the merest whisper of ionised rarefied air parting, whilst quiet
sobbing of a tortured soul evaporated into the aether. The air you have to imagine: the soul that cried out in pain and humiliation belonged to
And black projects! Those so-secret projects that do not officially exist on computer spreadsheets: that are rubber stamped, regardless of cost.
Remember how impressed we all were with the various stealth aircraft as they were made public? How we "ooed" and "arred" at each revelation -the
F117, the B1 - how they come flooding back, like turds in a blocked toilet. Technological death: the planes, silly - not the turds; silent, invisible
to prying eyes and instruments, unlike turds; don’t you just love them? (Authors note: the choice between planes or turds is, of course, yours...) But
think, just for a moment: if these aircraft are no longer secret, then what is? For there must be even more secret, exotic equipment’s around, since
black projects must always exist to spur the military/ industrial complex. To pay those inflated salaries, those share dividends. Some researchers had
speculated about Project Aurora: much rumoured top-secret project. Old hat. Oh, it exists of course, but it is simply a boy racers design concept.
Based on a 1967 Phantom jet and covered in bits of fibreglass, tin foil and twiddly bits salvaged from a 1970's television set to make it look good.
Which Aurora does but it lacks conviction, élan and speed. It is, in a word which Loop Garou once used: crap. No: the real black projects are truly
exceptional aircraft. Real black projects include the craft flying, even now, through the dark of near space.
A flying wing, the DeepStar bomber, had the capability of circling the globe in 7.5 hours if necessary (say to attend a particularly good party on the
other side of the globe). The Atlantic could be crossed in less than 50 minutes if there was the promise of a free lunch at the other end. It was fast
and mean. It was fabulous. It was everyone’s idea of what a high-tech plane should be. It even had flashing lights and those sharp, pointy things
sticking out of its nose.
The DeepStar that flew now on the very fringes of space at hypersonic speed was effectively, though unbelievably, privately owned. For a plane that
cost over 23 billion dollars to build (albeit no one realises this, since no costing officially exists), that must sound ridiculous, or even bull #,
but it is absolutely true. Well, almost true. Truth is relative, just like your mother. No, it was in fact on long term loan: not to an individual but
to the NSA in reality. Well, what passes for reality in this surreal world. It is probably more correct to say that it was privately owned, however,
for it was used exclusively by Loop Garou, Head of Global International Disinformation, NSA. The big cheese: numero uno. An important man.
For Loop was an important man: the kind of man who could charter a 23 billion-dollar aircraft for his own use, at weekends to attend great parties (or
simply for the shopping) is very important. If you were important enough, you'd fly in a DeepStar too - but you're not, so tough titty.
Reports had long been catalogued about "Black Triangular Craft" being seen in the skies, chem trails and strange sonic booms: these were all
sightings (and hearings) of the DeepStar strategic bomber, of course. Usually Loops as he went to Belgium on his frequent visits to a certain pleasure
palace there: he often went on such journeys - was that sort of guy.
Huge it was: the DeepStar, not Loops penis, though it is remarkable just what plastic surgery can achieve nowadays, given vision, a set of batteries
and a large disposable income. No, the DeepStar was huge: very matt black, angular, very, well, triangular, with two immense 180 000 lb. thrust
engines bulging on each wing, whilst a single ramjet of huge dimensions occupied the central fuselage. Loop had a sticker in his car rear window that
said "My second car's a DeepStar" but that was the sort off guy he was too: all show and bluster. Ah! The sense of power that owning a DeepStar
conveyed. As the pilots - or "reckless fools", as they were affectionately known by large, hairy men - opened the throttles, the triangle would
accelerate away like no other aircraft in the world. Fast? Try this experiment, but with extreme caution: you might permanently damage yourself in the
process. Simply put your fingers in your eyes (close your lids first!) and press on them. See the colours? Feel the pain? Press even harder. That's
right! Now you feel the pain, don't you? Hurts a lot, doesn't it? Do you like it? You'd like Loop - he's that type of guy. I digress.
So you've dug your thumbs into your eye sockets and seen the colours and felt the pain. Well, that's what happens to you when the DeepStar
accelerates. People stick their fingers in your eyeballs? No - but the sensation is similar. The pain is very similar. Of course, some people like
pain. Loop Garou was such a person. He loved pain....... He was a sado-masochist. He was that type of guy.
But he loved comfort, too: if you hadn't put your fingers into your eyes you'd be able to see this for yourself. For this was no ordinary DeepStar
bomber. The 23 billion-dollar craft had been customised: outside, various features had been added, just for effect. Red stripes had been lovingly
added to emphasise the sleek lines of the plane: bee-sting radio aerials adorned the canopy; stickers were proudly displayed in the cockpit window
"My other DeepStar is a Porsche": as well as being a sado-masochist, Loop was also a terrible poseur. That type of guy, you see (if you can,
following the experiment). In the very rear of the cockpit, just behind the satellite navigation system, was a nodding dog. Apart from being a
sado-masochist and poseur, Loop lacked street cred: he didn't mind, though; it was he who got to fly the DeepStar, not you, afterall, so tough
The conversions were not all cosmetic, of course: where once hideous devices of mass genocide lived, there was now a very comfortable apartment,
modelled on Loops own penthouse suite in downtown Washington, DC. A Jacuzzi had pride of place: the attached "Torture Chamber", where Loop spent
many happy travelling hours, was tastefully furnished in black latex - and various body secretions.
Here, Loop was putting some finishing touches to one of his favourite projects.
".... and don't let me find you doing that again, Drek!"
Sounds of pitiful sobbing filled the room. Midst the darkness, a green light winked on. Loop cursed under his breath.
"Damn. What now?" Then louder.
"Yes? What's the matter? You know I don't like to be disturbed when I'm busy!"
The vox-operated intercom hissed into life. One nervous, albeit reckless fool of a pilot, spoke.
"Yes sir! Sorry sir! But I thought you ought to know...."
"Yes? What?" Loop cracked the whip again, the tip travelling supersonically towards Drek's buttocks, raising a whelt on them. A scream rent the
"Shut up Drek!" Muted sobbing from Drek.
"Well? What's so important?"
"Sir! Comms has just received a flash traffic MJ12 priority communication...."
"Yes? You interrupt my fun for this?"
"Sir! Would you like to hear the message Sir? It's important! Sir?!"
"Flash traffic, you say?"
"MJ12, eyes only?"
"Is it interesting?"
"What's it say?"
"Header reads as follows Sir!"
"Majic 12, Above Top Secret, Eyes only...."
"Yes, I know all that. Get to the damn point."
"Anomalous activities back slash Alien Technologies back slash Multiple Sightings back slash CE3 hyphen 4 code prefix Red Zulu Condition Flash
Contravention Treaty back slash Liaison. Message reads....."
"What's your name, airman?"
"Brubaker, hmm. I like that. Would you like to come here in a while?" The whip cracked again, flicking the back of Dreks thighs. More sobbing filled
"Hmm, possibly, Sir, though I'm a bit busy at the moment. The DeepStar is very demanding....!"
"So am I, boy, so am I. Brubaker?"
"Cancel the present mission."
"Set a course for Area 51."
"Yeah, S4. Let's go see what those little #s, the Greys, are up to. I've never trusted them, you know."
At this precise moment, Terry Lumpkin was struggling with his suitcase.
"....I've never trusted them, that Richard and Judy. Anyway, could you give me a hand with this please, Meridian?"
"I? Meridian Love? I'm a poet, dear boy, not a scivvy. One does not pack suitcases."
Yes, yes, you are a fine poet, Mr Love, but needs must, as my dear, departed mother used to say."
Moved by the eloquence of Terry’s pleading and the reference to his revered mother, not to mention his submissive body language, Meridian reconsidered
"Indeed, dear Terence, indeed. Quite so. Your mother. A noble lady, sadly missed by those in the Swannick Arms or so I've heard tell. Just how may I
assist you, dear chap?" Terry bites his lip nervously, reassured by Meridians attitude.
"Ah, Meridian, it would be marvellous if you could sit on the case whilst I shut it."
"Sit on your case, Terence? I? But that would simply ruin my suit, dear boy. I am ready for my TV appearance on Richard and Judy."
"I know, Meridian, but I need to finish my packing. My taxi arrives in - hmm - 15 minutes, and I'm off to the States. Remember?"
"Quite, quite. But...."
"Yes, Mr Love?"
"My public Mr Lumpkin..."
"Expect me to be well-dressed. Richard and Judy, such lovies, expect me to be well dressed. One's public has expectations."
"Pray what ails you, dear Terence?"
"Sit on the case, please. Once you would have sat on my case without question. Once these things were important..." A tear forms once again in the
corner of Terry’s eye.
"Terence, dear, dear chap, don't distress yourself! I, Meridian Love, poet and Fortean researcher, will be delighted to help you."
Terry dried his eyes, fought for a quieting breath, whilst Meridian passed him an embroidered handkerchief. Terry blew noisily, as snot filled the
hankie. Terry passed it back to Meridian, who looked disgustedly at the slime that now covered the silk. Gingerly he held it by the driest corner,
which was difficult, for Lumpkin had a prodigious nose, and a nasal discharge to match. Quickly, he dropped the soiled rag into the waste bin.
"Thank you very much, dear boy, for that." A snort of disgust, and not a little sarcasm, from Meridian.
"Thank you, Meridian. I knew you still cared about me...about us.."
"Hmm, quite dear boy. Quite. Now, your case: it needs sitting on?"
"Yes please Meridian"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"I sit on the case? One simply sits on the case? You will do the rest?"
"Indeed Mr Love. I will, if you will. If you'd be so kind."
So Meridian lodged his immense Irish bulk on top of the straining lid, which visibly quaked and audibly creaked as the contents squashed together
under the enormous compressive stress imposed by his huge body. Terry brought his hand towards the case buckle and seeking to fasten it, inadvertently
touched Meridian on the penis. Meridians eyes lit up. He sighed wistfully.
"Have a care, dear boy - mind the old tackle. Mind you, it takes me back a few years. Accidental encounters.... For I remember being stuck in a lift
with Sir Ian Mckellern.... Did I ever tell you about that? Ian was - is - such a nice man."
"Repeatedly, Meridian. It was a highlight of your life, wasn't it." A statement, not a question.
Meridian looked dreamily into the distance, whilst his bulk squeezed the last of the air out of the suitcase.
"Such a nice man Ian. So well bred...."
"Indeed, Mr Love. You have told me before of your encounter with Sir Mckellern. You were deeply moved, I recall."
"Yes, Mr Lumpkin, I was deeply moved and, dare I say it, deeply touched. Oh so deeply touched. Ian has such large hands..." Terry’s eyes started to
glaze over again.
"I remember you saying you had been touched by Sir Ian. The police...."
"Yes, Lumpkin, my dear boy?"
"They didn't prosecute?"
"Good heavens no, dear boy. For why should they have? Ian and myself were simply being thespians together - enjoying our thespian ways. How he
Before Terry could reply or even sob once more, the TV squawked into life. An intelligent TV, designed to pick up breaking news, it would often flare
into action at particularly stressful moments of Terry’s life. Terry had empathy with machines, not people, except for Meridian and his dear, departed
mother, of course. And, because Terry empathised with machines, they empathised with him. They felt for him and enriched his life. If only people were
more like machines......
Terry listened intensely, ignoring Meridians monologue about how nice thespians were generally and how Sir Ian was especially gifted and - well -
The TV volume automatically tracked up, as key words it had been programmed to react to triggered this reaction.
".....CNN news report. Now, over to our reporter, Bob Bubb, for an amazing story that's just breaking. Bob?"
Static from the screen.
"Bob Bubb? Bob, can you hear me?"
Static, then a feint voice breaks through.
"....fantastic.....this is......unbeliev......UFO's.....White House......landing....."
"Bob. Bob! Keep talking Bob. We're establishing a new link. Satellite comms are down. We're re-routing through land line."
Suddenly, the static clears and there is the worried, yet excited head and shoulders of Bob Bubb. He is posed in front of the White House. Behind him
can be seen what looks like a silver disc on the lawn.
"Bob? Bob Bubb - can you hear me now? Hey! We have video. Explain what's happening, Bob!"
"Studio? Goddamn, talk back is mashed. Studio? Have you got this?"
"Yeah Bob - we got you!"
"Studio? That you?"
"Yeah. That's affirmative - 10-4. Go ahead, Bob!"
"Uh, ok studio. Think you have link on landline. Roger?"
"10-4. Bob, it's Rick not roger. QSL?"
"Uh, sure thing. Studio, you got video. Roger?"
"QSL. Affirmative on video, Bob. It's Rick not Roger. Romeo-indigo-charlie-kilo. QSL?"
"Uh. Rick? Is that correct? Roger?"
"Ok, Bob. You have name here. Rick. Confirm Rick, not Roger. Not Roger. 10-4?"
"Not roger? Rick, where's Roger? Roger?"
"Forget it Bob. Call me Roger, if it makes you happy. Call me Al, if you like. QSL?"
"Hmm - Al? Al - has Rick gone? Rick’s gone? Is Rick ill? And what happened to Roger? Roger?"
"Jesus H...... Forget it Bob. Ok? Forget about Rick and Al. Roger?"
"Roger? Roger?! It's Bob here. Not Roger. What's happening at the studio? Are you there, Al?"
"Christ alive! Forget it Bob. Forget it. Describe what's happening, for Gods sake, Bob. Tell us what's happening, Bob. Ok? What's going on, Bob?
"Uh. Rover? Talk backs no good here, Al. I'm going to describe what's happening. Roger?"
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Go ahead, Bob. Say your piece and we'll work on phone patch. Over."
"Rover? Patch? You got dogs there, Al?"
"For #s sake, Bob, forget it. Talk through. Ok? Describe what you see. Landline is hot. Traffic is heavy. AT&T will pull plug soon. Talk. Please. Go
"Uh....you think I should talk, Al? Roger?"
"Yeah. Talk. Talk, damn it. QSL?"
"Do it. Do it. 10-4?"
"Ok. Here goes. This is Bob Bubb, CNN at the White House. We have often worried about UFOs - Unidentified Flying Objects. Do they exist? Well, here
they exist. They have landed...."
The cameraman panned slowly along the White House lawns. Gradually, into the field of view appeared a 10 metre silver disc. The cameraman zoomed into
the disc until it filled the frame. As if by design, as the camera focussed on the sleek disc, a hatch in it's side swung open. There was a visible
puff of green vapour from the opening.
Across the globe, as in Terry and Meridians front room, millions of people watched the unfolding drama expectantly. Here was the proof, here was the
evidence that was needed and sought after by researchers since Roswell. Aliens existed. At last, mankind would come face to face with ET! Would the ET
be ugly, or cute? Would it wear clothes? Would there be an all-embracing message of Universal fraternity - or simply a request for directions to the
nearest McDonalds? Mankind, and Terry held his breath.
Just then, a new voice came on the television. The President? Folk’s worldwide strained to hear.
"Caller? This is Judy, your AT&T operator. Our network is busy at the moment and I must terminate your call in 30 seconds. Please hang up."
"AT&T. This is CNN control. Roger?"
"Hi Roger, this is Judy. How might I help?"
"For Christ’s sake..... Judy, this is Rick, not Roger. This is CNN. This is a phone patch transmission. This line is carrying news traffic. Ok?"
"Ok Roger. 5 seconds."
"Judy, don't pull the plug. Ok?"
"Ok Roger. I'm terminating this call now. You'all have a nice day, you hear."
"Judy? Judy?! Don't pull the plu......"
Static and white noise filled the television. Terry’s television squelched the volume and dimmed the screen. Terry sat, opened mouthed, looking
intently at the blank image.
"....so Ian was simply divine, Terence. How he can project!"
"Meridian....you saw that?"
"Sir Ian projecting? Of course! Have I not already said..."
"Not Mckellern: the TV; the flying saucer! Did you see it?"
"I? Meridian Love? Watch the TV? One appears on the television, Mr Lumpkin. One doesn't watch it. One watches live theatre. One is an actor, one
feels the energy come through ones audience. Television is so sterile...."
"Yes, dear boy?"
"You're a Fortean researcher?"
"I'm many things, dear Terence: I am an actor, a poet, a bon viveur, a lover of life. Amongst my many skills and diverse interests, I am a Fortean
researcher as well. I am a skilled observer and impassioned relater of anomalous phenomena. I have written the Irish book, dear Terence."
"You are an observer of all things paranormal and inexplicable?"
"I am Terence."
"So, what did you make of the news broadcast just now?"
"Terence, you are a dear, sweet boy, but I swear you don't listen to a word I say...."
"You didn't see the extraterrestrial craft on the White House lawn, did you? Skilled observer that you are, you didn't see it. You were too busy
reminiscing about Sir Impressive Projection to notice, weren't you?"
"A UFO, you say?"
"Hardly 'unidentified' Meridian: this was an extraterrestrial craft. It even had a sticker in the porthole that said 'You've just been
alienated'. I can't believe you've missed it."
As Meridian visibly came to terms with this, there was the sound of a car horn outside. Terry picked up his suitcase.
"Taxi's here. I'll see you later, Mr Love."
"Uh.... Yes indeed Mr Lumpkin. Have a nice trip. I will await the arrival of my transport too. Richard is sending his own car for me. Good luck with
the research. Keep me informed."
"Of course, Meridian. Give my love to Judy." Terry sneers.
"Ah, sweet Judy. Lovely Richard. Lovies both. So in love are they. I am moved to write a poem, Terence."
"Yes, do that, Meridian. E_mail me a copy. Bye."
"Good bye Terence dear boy."
"Isn't Sir Ian on the programme as well?"
"Yes Terence - pray what of it?"
"You aren't using the lift, are you?"
You can now read Spontaneous Human Combustion then Black Dog, if you want to find out more?
Any comments please?? Thanx for reading!!
[Edited on 23-1-2004 by Genya]