The Hammer

The news reached him, as things did these days, third or fourth hand.

Generally when stuff about his family came up, Sage remained glib.  They don’t speak, and shockingly, it’s not due to some great ideological vibe–his parents are granola granola, and he was the most recent in a long line of hippies, burnouts, and freaks.  His folks were too young to be “summer of love” types, but they were the kids of real flower power stock and that has passed down and continued in the work he’s now doing.  Not the work he was doing when he left, when we first met him.  Even Sage is embarrassed by who that man was, ashamed at how grossly consumptive he could have been.  Not that he’d tell anyone.  To the outside, he’ll always mention that the follies of his youth were an important part of what made him who he is.

It’s not that he doesn't believe that, necessarily.  Just that it sounded better than saying “I have found disgust in my conduct and have course-corrected to a degree that some may consider overkill, but that’s the only way I can look at myself in the morning.”  Charity washed away his sins, sort of thing.  But it’s a slow process, that's what most of those cretinous automatons never understood.  You don’t just do one thing and the board is clean.  Doing one thing stripped a layer away, but those layers accumulated.  You have to commit for a long haul to have enough turpentine to blister it to bare metal.  Luckily, Sage had time.

But the news reminded him that he doesn't have unlimited time.

Maybe that’s why he leapt at the offer and why he decided to enlist their help, to invite them here, to settle into the things that are comfortable for him.  Well, the healthy things, anyway.  There were other coping mechanisms, but they’re ones he’s trying to avoid: smoking enough weed to take down a charging Rhinoceros rather than his maintenance high, fucking his way across half of Michigan, finding some rathole bar in Troy to get into a tussle with some out of towners, eating some manner of transformative 10 gram dose of mushrooms and howling at the moon.  No, no, no.  Stick to the gameplan, Pontiff.  Fight for money, use that money to help people. Simple, clean, and very cinematic.  The math on that makes sense.  The math on the other stuff doesn't, not if you thought about it.  There’s no percentage in becoming an uncontrolled aspect of Shiva once again, no future in becoming Subrahmanya just to escape your woes.

So accept the challenge.  Invite the team.  Make something that’ll actually mean something to someone.  Make something that makes a difference, not a flimsy knit-together spiritual gumbo.

“What would he want?”  That’s the question Sage asked himself on a cool morning, sitting on his roof, leaning against the cabin’s recently repaired chimney stack.  Lungfuls of sacrament, sun chasing away the dew and fog, birds chirping in the warmth of a fool’s Spring.  What would the man known by his given name, Arlo, or his more common name, Smokey, want of his boy?

Probably to come home before he died.

Regret is the first thing, but Sage has always been exceptional at compartmentalizing his brain, at figuring out how to best apply big difficult feelings to something constructive.  And that word, “construction,” was ringing hard, like when a bell gets hit and it’s so still that you can hear the frequency and vibration long after you normally would, listening to it as it bleeds into the ambient noises of existence on this planet.

There had been, since Rancho Mundo was established, a conception on the land, and soon these soils would see the first human born on them in likely a long period of time.  There's a comfort in that somewhere that deeply resonated within him, though he can’t pinpoint it.  It felt like a reclamation of an ancient truth, before capital and commerce spent centuries perverting the splendor of the land.  And as hesitant as he was to lead, as much as he worried it rode the edge to bring him to the bad place again, it was clear it’s needed.  No matter the division or his mind being towards collectivism, they still looked to him, and he needed hands.

What better way to honor the man, he thought, than to drag together disparate forces to the wilderness to create something that will outlast them?

Maybe one day when his debt was paid, The Bodhisattva could close his eyes and reopen them at his great reward.  And maybe in that reward he became one of the creaking oaks that watched over this place, that observed new coats of paint, new families, new lives, new eons unfold–Rancho Mundo growing from its sapling state to join its founder in rarefied airs.

—

The Monolith, Morning.

She’s an early riser, and somehow Sage expected that.

Striding down the clear parth of trodden dirt, more covered in ruts and dips than usual thanking to the process of thaw and freeze that has repeatedly struck the land this season, Sage is only able to wear a bemused smile as he approaches her, not wanting to disturb as she stares at the protuberance of cave-era stone that stands in its semi-circle of clearing.  As of late the people here have rolled logs down to operate as 4 rows of seating, two to a side, but Troy doesn’t take them.  And when he arrives, Pontiff believes he would greet her, but instead…he finds himself quiet.

It’s not like they’ve had a lot to talk about. The Bodhisattva shows up when he’s booked, keeps to himself, doesn’t cause trouble (outside of his brief partnership with Paxton Ray), and leaves.  In a lot of ways he’s a model employee, if a bit mysterious, and kudos are due to him for finding a gig that seems to value his violent and flighty nature.

Realizing he’s not going to break the silence, she speaks, not looking over to him.

“I always hated group projects in school. The thought of relying on someone else for my grade always set me on edge.”

Sage digests this.  Takes a beat.  Croaks his response in the perma-friend timbre of his people.

“Working in a collective requires the sacrifice of ego.  And for a lot of people, ego is all they have.  They’re…fanciful set dressing over an empty pit.”  He smirks.  “That ain’t you, though.  Near as I can tell.”

“No,” she agrees, half-turning toward him. “But I did have to sacrifice a little bit of mine to sleep outside on the ground.”

To this, Pontiff throws his considerable wingspan wide, taking a slow circle.

“If you call communing with paradise on Earth a sacrifice, then maybe this will end up doing you more good than harm.  Consider it character building.”  Looking to the distance, Sage indicated the foundation and bare platform of the proposed cabin.  “Or, at minimum, just building.  Handy with a hammer?”

The Queen of the Ring now fully turns to look at Sage and bursts out laughing. “Oh…oh no,” she finally chokes out after a moment. Tears are wiped away from her eyes. “I know you said yesterday we’d be building a house but I hit people with 2x4s, I don’t nail them together. You should’ve made me drag Wade along if this was your plan, he used to work as a builder once upon a time.”

Sage shrugs, affixing his heterochromatic eyes on her with a smile. “You assume my intent was to build the best home I could.  The home will be as good as it is or as bad as it is, the materials will infer their spirits to the collective whole.  But just as important is that we become something akin to a family in the process of working the raw parts into a finished cabin.  Because that will inform the final product just as much as the respect with which we harvested the pine.”  He pulls a cone joint from behind his ear, firing it up and french inhaling with practiced rote memory.  “Feel me?”

“Absolutely not.” She holds out her hand, gesturing for the joint in his hand. “Give me a couple hits and I will, though.”

Grinning his million dollar smile–maybe down to $950,000 with his missing canine–Sage hands over the raw cone of sacrament and watches as Troy houses two fairly Method Man-tier lungfuls before handing it back.  Her brow crosses and her eyes light up as she exhales, genuine surprise evident.  “What is that?”

“Wolf brought the seeds here, and this is of the first harvest.  He calls it ‘The Atomic Dilemma’, but it’s a hybrid strain of Purple Bart Simpson and Grunky Peep.”  A big hit.  The next words are choked.  “And I grind it with dried rose petal and passionflower.  Makes it taste a little bit like how a florist's shop smells.”  Exhaling, he takes in his kingdom, such as it is.  Quietly, handing the joint back to her, he asks a sincere question:  “Think we have a chance?”

An amused chuckle escapes Lindsay’s mouth. “We’ve got a better chance of beating Ivan’s team than we do of building something habitable.” She hits the joint again. Hands it back to him. Exhales. “You worried?”  To this, Sage chuckles silently, shaking his head.

“Worrying about outcomes is for agents of capitalism.  I’ve seen you, I’ve faced the other two–they’ll be changed after, no matter the outcome.  Which, honestly?”  He starts to walk towards the long shelter, not beckoning her–with a huff of frustration, she starts to catch up.  “That’s the same thing that we’ll get here.  We may not make the greatest home.  But we will change something.  Sometimes that’s the win, not whoever gets their hand raised.”

Lindsay considers this, then nods. “Maybe so.” A grin spreads across her face; the effects of Sage’s sacrament taking hold. “But I’d be lying if I said my ego didn’t want that victory.”

—

The Cabin, Midday

The heat was unseasonably blistering, like the world decided to skip a few months and plop him right down into July.  The walk down the hill wasn’t as arduous as he had expected it to be, but the heat ( and the pockets of mosquitos ) seemingly let him know without saying much that he likely didn’t come precisely prepared for the elements.  And once free of the treecover that shaded the hill down to the property proper, the 12-)’clock sunshine was layering him up.  Full Mark Coleman ground and pound.

But ahead, in the distance: a voice.

“This way, man.”

TAL narrowed his eyes in the direction of the sound to find Sage Pontiff, nude save for a sarong around his midsection, sitting in the shade of the porch at his cabin.  Shade.  Shade sounded good.

“Namaste, sir.  How have the winds brought you here, are you lost or found?”  The man was if anything anonymous, but not in a way that he was trying toi cultivate, which meant he was neither undercover nor a spook.  Finally, TAL’s confusion turned the corner to understanding.

“Oh, sorry, it’s me, Tom. The Anglo Luchador.”  Sage’s face lit up.  Extending a hand of greeting, he popped open the front door of his cabin, guiding the man towards the relative cool of the interior.  The team captain looked at the surroundings–full boho hippie, as anyone could have guessed–but also took note that they were the only people inside.

“Hey. Where are the other two?”

“The universe dictates when Blaze shows up, which is something I can only respect.  The other is…taking it in, we’ll say.  Or maybe napping.  Wonderful hammocks on the eastern treeline”

“If I know Lindz, she’s not in bed at this hour.”

“I would advise it if she asked.  Smarter to get an early start tomorrow before the heat becomes too terribly oppressive.  You ever built a house before?”

“No, but my uncle was a roofer…”  With the languidity of a sort of large-frame housecat, Sage perches himself in a chair, legs up, draped.  He waves for Tom to take a seat, indifferent to if the man chooses wicker, apple box, rocker, or meditation pillow.

“You wear the countenance of a man who’s not sure he’s made the right choice.”  Tom shook his head and turned towards the rocker before sitting.

“You know, you sound an awful lot like my father right now. He wasn’t sure I made the right choice either.”  Tom leaned back to let the chair begin its gentle rocking motion.  “Do you think I would have driven all the way out here if I wasn’t completely sure I was making the right choice?”  Sage took a moment to consider this, absently scratching his rib before opening a battered cigar box filled to the brim with pre-rolled cone joints, filter in them, Amsterdam-style.  Pulling one, he lights it, slowly inhaling from his mouth to his nose, French-style.

“I think we’re put to a decision sometimes, and those decisions tend to be forks in a road, and the only truly wrong choice you make at one of those is staying at the fork.  I think you drove all this way because I didn't really give you much agency for a decision, which while I regret having to do it that way, this had to happen.  It had to be here.  You want warriors, but if we’re just individual fingers, we’re worthless.”  He pauses, exhaling.  “As a fist, you’ve got something.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair.

“I agree. And I think that’s why I didn’t tell you to fuck off when you proposed this.”

—

The Lot, Morning Even before he sees the SUV turn the corner, he knows what is headed his way. A rogue variable in his plan; someone who has decided that there is, indeed, an “I” in team. A very tardy Blaze Claymore.  Seated on a beaten apple box at the apex of the hill, absently smoking a long hand-carved churchwarden pipe.  Quietly, he watches the vehicle park.  Quietly, he watches Blaze exit, and also watches him unload without standing up or offering help.  He just smokes, that enigmatic little smile on his face.  Finally, Blaze walks over to The Bodhisattva, awaiting what he assumes will be some greater lesson in zen.

“You’re late.”

Claymore’s brow furrows, but Sage grins, finally standing to his full near six and a half.

“Time is ultimately an illusion, though.  Westinghouse pushed it to increase clock sales..  But I couldn’t hold up the work.”

Blaze blinks and nods dutifully as if he is following any of this.

“So… what now? Are we staying in one of those cabins?”

Sage has already turned and begun walking.

“No. You’re building one.”

Blaze adjusts his bags, one worn Ninja Turtles bag that had to be an original from the 90s, and another that was a bit more … modern. Sage continues what Blaze can already tell is a well rehearsed introduction to the scale and scope of Rancho Mundo.

“To the right, the crops.  To the left, the tents and the longhouse.  You’ll be staying in the tents.  But don’t let the lack of roof and walls scare you, we have everything you could need.  Food, combat, The Monolith.”

“The what now?”

“Ancient medicine, Claymore.  The type of shit you can't buy.”  With a nudge, Sage stops their walk, nodding his head to the distance.  Blaze searches…then stops.  In the distance, sitting alone in a clearing, is a solid fourteen or so feet of craggy stone that currently has a few dots of color around it, residents meditating in the shade of the rock.  “We found it close to a year ago.  In the trees. I figure it’s probably been here since…well, ever.  We commune with nature at it.  Meditate at it.  Occasionally shed blood in front of it.  You can, too.  Any of those.  If you want.”

Sage looks with curiosity toward a seemingly meditative Blaze, stroking his chin, before clasping his hands together.

“No. I think I’m good.”

“Oh.”

“Which way to the construction site?”

Sage smirks and closes his eyes.

“Follow me.”  As they stride down the hill further, the foundation and frame of a cabin comes into view.  The entire place is a bustle of activity–fires being tended, projects being done.  Kids run in the sunshine–the splendor of the space is something to behold.  There are even a few animals, new livestock additions that are present since last we visited, including two goats and a donkey that Wolf is currently weighing down with seed and tools before he takes it and a group of others to the fields to begin the important spring work for a bountiful harvest.  It is, in a word, idyllic.  “Cohesion, man.  If there’s one thing being on a team has taught me is that we must cohese if we expect to survive, to be victors.  I'm talking in here.  And here.”  To indicate, sage taps his chest, then his temple.  “I don’t actually care that much about my win record, Blaze.  I know that confounds and probably pisses some of you more square types, but I do care about being booked.  Because that’s what made this possible.  The gravel you’re walking on, the fruit trees, the building, the families, the land.  This whole place was built on the back of going into that ring and doing what has always come naturally to me.  Namely putting on a great show and trying to beat people half to death.”

“Well, I may not be the kind of person who gets excited about… uh… beating people half to death, but if you need someone to help you put on a great show, then you’re lookin’ at him.”

—

Instagram Live from user @Wolf_Om_Ether, broadcasting 14 minutes ago Standing in front of a freshly-completed cabin, The Bodhisattva is resplendent and thirst-trappy, nude to the waist, his eyes catching the setting sun.  In the background, the members of the team are laying finishing touches–Blaze flits in and out of the front door, exchanging area rugs from a pile on the porch, seeking the appropriate vibe.  Troy is sweeping the steps, pausing about every four swipes to check her phone, hopeful of a glimmer of signal to catch an e-mail.  Tom is painting the roughly-hewn shutters that festoon the windows in the front, though as this is being broadcast, he’s masked up.  Traditions, and all.  Sage’s arms extend.  Christlike.

Collectivism.  Individuals setting aside ego to achieve commonality of purpose and of goal.  Others, those that we’re facing, agents of commerce and empire–this is poison to them.  They spit it out because it is foul to them.  This is so confusing for me, or it was, until I realized that I am not facing a team captained by an actual champion of the people.  We are facing nothing more than a common oligarch.  Something that I would normally urge pity upon, because a creature like Stanislav is something to pity.  Those he has enlisted in his cause are something to pity.  But fate has placed you across from us, and that’s where we will shine, and you will rust to nothing.  Because we have collectivism.  Because what is unified cannot be strayed, and when all links of the chain are forged in the oven of collective action, they become far, far stronger than their individual parts.  Fingers to a fist.  Vehicles to a fleet.  One on one maybe all of you have my number.  One on one, maybe you don't.  Team on team?  I know who carries the strength of collective action to the battlefield.  And don’t mistake this, these good deeds, my embrace of love and happiness as an indication of how softly I view this.  We are not going to defeat you with vibes and vague spiritualism.  We will not sprinkle flower petals at your feet and embrace one another as siblings.  I recall my Mao.  “Collectivism is not love.  Collectivism is the hammer by which we crush our enemy.”  Ivan.  Starboy.  Chandler.  Scott.  Listen to those words again.  “It is the hammer by which we crush our enemy.”  That is what you are, now.  Not because I hold any personal ill will toward any of you.  But you’re across from me.  From us.  That makes you what must be destroyed.    We have been strengthened to not lose focus of this fact.  To never falter.  We have become the hammer.  And the hammer is not love, but it is of love.  Understand? The greatest act of love we can provide you is to litter the ring with your bodies in an act of extreme mercy, extreme violence.  The greatest act of love we can provide is to treat you as a hammer treats anything in its path.  Namaste.  Stream ended.  Play again?