Alsum searched blankly for meaning in the flames. It was an empty gesture, born from years of ritual. He saw no meaning. There were four jets of fire, each one ascending from the opened burners of a gas-burning stove top. Their light flickered softly in the clean white acrylic of the stove's surface. It had a calming quality, like the glow of a lamp underneath freshly fallen snow. His mind was foggy. He thought of ancient liturgy, of hidden histories and the narrow snake-like dance of history as it intertwined with superstition. And he thought of what it meant to be cool. A prayer came to mind; an old hymn sacred to his Mandaean faith. [center][i]Ul-ablez, Ul ablez, Ul ablez al... I am burning, I am burning, I am burning for you.[/i][/center] "Alsum." a voice said. "Alsum." He heard his name and awoke from his trance. "It is time for you to be going to the school, Alsum." his teacher said. He was an older man, dressed in immaculate white. His beard grew wiry and thick. It had went all grey, except for a shock of black that cut through its center like a spine of starless ether. "You have your mission, and it cannot be denied." "I have not slept, your priesthood." Alsum answered. His eyes had grown heavy over the night. He had turned seventeen, and that meant it was time for his third translation of the Ginza. He had chose Chakobsa this time, not knowing how hard this would be. It was difficult going. The Chakobsa language was dead to the public academia, requiring Alsum to limit his research to Mandaean sources. Chakobsa, too, was a hunting language. It was quick, brutal, and strained by prehistoric simplicity. Sometimes, he felt it was impossible to explain the subtleties of religion with something so crude. This enterprise was sapping his energy. "We are preparing the beds for Sunday." the elderly priest informed. "You will rest when it is time to rest, but you have other duties now. Remember who you are." "I am Alsum." Alsum responded. "You are Also, also." the priest replied. He took no joy from his own pun. "I am Also." Alsum agreed. "I will go to school, but I will require what is required." The priest nodded and clapped Alsum on the shoulders. "You will have what you will need. We have always guaranteed this. That is a truth. Now, go down, child, and prepare the world." The Mandaean enclave was a gentle blend of the old and the new. Its walls were cobbled from varied stones. There were thin slabs of sandstone and hefty blocks of granite. There were porous volcanic bricks and clay-tinged river rocks. Their colors came together like a rainbow, red and yellow and orange and white and black. And brown and grey. No set of stones went without the brown and the grey. There was, too, furniture that spoke of the old world. Candles and candelabras were common, much more so than the gas lamps that took care of the rest of their lighting. There were Victorian couches, and Egyptian beds. Pillows filled the corners and covered the floor, red satin and velveteen purples mixing with with oranges, goldens, and blacks. But there were modern things as well. The gas stove was not only new, but it was also a holy item. There was a phonograph on one table and a boombox on another. Mandaean laptops lay on the floor as well. Their cases were made from richly colored woods engraved with images like those found in Hindu temples. Despite their ancient trappings, these laptops were very much modern. Alsum cherished his, and lamented that it could never be shown to the people of the School known as High. When he left the comfort of his monastery home, he was struck by the cold mountain winds. It was snowing, and the blizzard danced around him. The stone foot-paths that connected each part of the monastery was buried in white, and green Lebanese pines bent from the weight of the cruel ice. He heard the cold wail, and felt it biting at his skin. This was no matter. He grabbed onto the zip-line, one hand on each handle. From behind him, carried beyond the violent scream of the weather, he heard the priests' voices rise together in hymn. [center][i] Home in the valley Home in he ci-ty Home is not pretty. There is no home for me.[/i][/center] Home in the darkness - those words entered his head as he looked down into the valley below. Swirling snow obscured the rocky mountain cliffs. He knew what was below. He had taken this route before. He took a deep breath and jumped. His hands were frozen solid to the wooden pegs that held him to the zipline. He could only hear the angry howl of wind and snow, underscored by that the whine of the zipline wire itself as he wheeled down it. Ice spat in his face and blinded him. He contemplated this place, high above the plains. Here had been the ancient marches of the Mississipian Empire. They had fought the Anasazi in these lands, in a time before Europe knew of this continent. He was imagining the experiences of the Mayan chronicler who had seen it all. When the snow gave way, he saw the countryside and examined it with thoughts of history on his mind. Three hundred feet below him sprawled an endless expanse of dry scrub broken by colorful patches of green and red. There were circular fields too, something that you could not see from the ground. His hands held firm to the zipline, and he descended. It looks as if earth was reaching up to smack him. Even now, after thousands of rides down the line, the view inspired something in him. It was different from the feeling of blind illumination he received from the uncapped stove. It was different from terror. No, this was a feeling of seeing the world at its own speed. It was the understanding of life from the outside. It was the privilege to see the universe as God did. When the Earth finally did reach him, it happened all at once. He held his breath and struck the ground with a roll. Even after he stopped, his body still felt the pull. It was dizzying. It felt as if he was balancing by one foot on a precipice, constantly slipping only to somehow catch himself before each inevitable plunge. He breathed deep and waited for the feeling to subside. His eyes burned. He steadied and stood up. This place never changed. He saw the aging farm house, and the clothes line that attached so seamlessly to the zipline he had rode down on. He looked up from where he had came and saw nothing but steel-blue sky. He remembered the saying. '[i]Some mountains are so tall that you cannot see them.[/i] How strange it was that such a thing could be so literal. He looked back down at the clothes line. There were two steel cross-shaped poles, both draped in sheets. He remembered why he had came. It was time for school, and for his work. He turned around and ambled toward the back door. In the window of the door, he saw himself. So different from the boy they knew at school. He wore robes of pristine white, and a small white cap on the top of a bush of curly black hair. It was time to change that. He knocked. Before his knuckles could strike a third time, the door swung open. "Alsum" the little bearded man said. "You are late. I am thinking you are late." he grabbed Alsum by the wrist and pulled him inside. There it was, a banal midwestern kitchen. Linoleum floors with floral designs, stained yellow from years of smokers before this house came into Mandaean hands. Wood cabinets, a refrigerator covered in letter magnets, a collection of Elvis collector's plates. Alsum could smell the stale scent of mildew. On the kitchen table, there were dozens of bottles and jars and boxes, all food or drink or vitamin. They were arrayed neatly, but randomly. Amongst them were unlabeled bottles of colored liquids. Alsum's eyes wandered, and he stared at the collection. "Alsum." the bearded man snapped. "Alsum. Also. Hello." "Yes, your priesthood." Alsum answered meakly. The priest looked at him with uncertainty. "Are you feeling how you should be feeling, Alsum?" he said. "I am tired." Alsum rubbed his eyes. "Just tired." The priest nodded and smiled. He picked a small bottle from the table. It was orange, and on it was a picture of a little silhouette jogging. "5-Hour energy?" Alsum said. "Is this the poultice that am to be prescribed?" "Oh no no, that would not do." the priest replied. "Such a thing is pedestrian and weak. You will be awake for a long time, and you will need you strength. This is a different thing. A greater thing. It will help you to be the Also that you need to be." Alsum read the label. "[i]6 Hour[/i] Energy?" he asked. "Yes." the priest replied. "This is not a public thing. Only a few have access to its power. It is for the military, and for NASA, and for professional gamers." Alsum grabbed it and hugged it to his chest. "I will cherish this life's fuel. I will not sleep until Sunday, and I will need all of this." he paused, waiting. "Isn't there another thing I am meant to have." The priest remembered. "Oh yes! Of course!" he piped up. He grabbed a small plastic bottle of green ooze. "Prepare for school. I will prepare for you preparing." The two nodded at each other, and Alsum swigged the green goo. He felt it. He felt it all. Adderall to widen his mind. Caffeine made him more aware, and testosterone increased his libido. And there were the male pheromones that he would exude throughout the day. There was a small hint of cocaine and liquor to loosen his inhibitions. And there was mint, so that his breath would smell amazing. This was the stuff. This was the invention. It was a social cheat, and a fuel that any person would wish for. Yet only the Mandaeans owned it, and they did not share. This was their stuff. This was [i]Awesomesauce[/i] He moussed his hair and combed it back. He put on his tightest skinny jeans, and a pair of two hundred dollar sneakers personally signed by DMX. Under them he wore a pair of very hip hop socks. He sprayed a subtle deodorant, and than a strong one that would quickly dissipate and leave a pleasant musk. Finally, the crowning touch. His T-shirt was sewn by an award winning team of Vietnamese seamstresses who had been saved from slavery and flown all the way to California to work in a Tee Store owned and promoted by Vince McMahon. This one was a slim number with bulging seams. It was blue - not the deep blue of the ocean, but a calming baby blue like that of a newly laid robin's egg. On it was the likeness of a muscle-bound viking. Above him, and below him, a phrase was spelled out in bold, capitalized print. "HEY MAN" "WE GOOD" It was a masterpiece of garment engineering, with the right amount of youthful sneer. He put it on and stood in front of a mirror, looking into his own eyes. He began to repeat. "What is up." "What IS up." "WHAT is UP" "What's up." "Whatsup" "Whasup." "WHAASSUUUPPPP" He went to school.