Visions - In my Minds Eye. by ARTHUR HOWE (most popular ebook readers TXT) 📕

From the box, he took a Black sash, which he placed over the left shoulder of the Successor.
He lifted out a small glass phial, deep crimson in colour, as well as a wafer made of a dark black flour.
He started his chanting and the inauguration of the Successor.
"Sanguis bibimus, corpus edimus, tolle corpus Satani.”
“We drink the blood, we eat the flesh, raise the body of Satan.” the Members chanted as the Chairman placed the contents of the phial and the black wafer on the lips of the Successor.
“Ave Satani!" The Chairman praised.
"Hail, Satan!" The Members stood and chanted.
“Ave versus Christus!” The Chairman shouted."Hail, the New Antichrist!" They shouted in unison.
The Successor smiled, looked at his watch and excused himself from the meeting.
He had scheduled an urgent meeting with one of the Allied Prime Ministers – an ideal Candidate for the position he had just vacated in The Three. He had no doubt that he would accept such a position of honour.
The next time they convened, he should have some positive news for them, he thought to himself.


THE PICK-UP

Sometimes, all it takes is a wish for the dream to come true…..

It wasn’t a new model pick-up. On the money that Sakkie managed to scrape together nowadays, he doubted whether he’d ever be able to afford any of the dreams he might have once had. This would have to tide him over for quite a while to come, at least until he was able to sell off part of the land he’d inherited when his Ma and Pa had died in that tragic accident back in 1993. Property prices were pretty lean right now so he didn’t hold out too much hope for an immediate solution.
The truck was a 1977 Chev’ El Camino V8 Pick-up that he’d bought second hand back in 1988 when petrol cost nothing a litre. When he’d bought it, it had been a proud, orangey, metallic gold colour, but over time, this had faded to a rather dull, matted, rusty colour. Over the years, it had picked up its fair share of dings, scrapes and dents, mainly from travelling on roads that normal cars wouldn’t.
He needed to have a good strong workhorse to be able to tow both the caravan and the boat which he kept on his smallholding a few gravelly kilometres outside of Ashton. Another twenty two kilometres of gravel to the slipway at Stompneus Bay.
Sakkie also had a small Jurgens 4-berth caravan which he used every few months, just to get away from the home environment and to settle into any area where he could regain his sanity, drink a few cold beers and just chill out for a while. “Forget about life, forget about the Wife,” he often joked half-seriously to his mates down at the slipway.
The Boat, proudly named Magdalena, after his once beautiful, once desirable Wife, had become his bread and butter, Without the boat, he would starve. Rather like his Wife, the boat had taken on a shabby, dull, unkempt appearance over the years.
Without the Pick-up he wouldn’t be able to tow either the boat or the caravan. Without the Pick-up he would starve to death.
After the devastating fire that wiped out Sakkie’s dreams when the golden farmlands burned back in 1995, he’d had no choice but to do what he knew well and loved most, to earn a living - Tow his boat down to the slipway and spend the day catching the plump fish that would be proudly eaten at many a dinner table that evening.
The El-Camino seller, had assured him that this Pick-up would “go on forever” and true to his word, this one had cost him very little to keep on the road over the last 19 years. The odd oil change, which he did himself, the brakes every year or so, and the occasional set of filters, kept her going strong, allowing him at least to get the boat into the water and to catch whatever was biting in the bay.
The odometer showed more than 380 000 kilometres, but that had died on him back in 1992. He reckoned it was way past the half-million mark by now.
Most of his catch, he managed to sell on the side of the main Highway at the end of the day, and very rarely did he return home with anything more than was needed for the table.
His Wife, Magdalena, was very proud of his fishing skills as this allowed her to do what she loved best.
She spent the waking hours of her day, sprawled on her now generously proportioned backside, watching soaps on the snowy TV screen, eating bag after bag of Lays crisps, washing them down with tubs of “Fat-free” ice cream, whilst chain-smoking her un-filtered Camel cigarettes with the other hand and generally, just pigging out until it was time for Sakkie to get home and start their supper.
In the old days, Sakkie would return to the house to find a steaming plate of food ready at the table once he’d had a quick clean-up in the bathroom.
Today, he’d be lucky to find a smoke filled room, empty wrappers all around the couch and to be greeted with “Sshhhhhhhhh! This is a critical part “ from a prone, no,”spread” Magdalena, referring to “Days of our Lives” or “Egoli” or some other monumental, world-changing soapy, blaring from the TV set.
Today was a day just like every other day for the last however-many years, (except Sundays when he went to the local church to catch up on all the gossip, and occasionally to pray) and Sakkie had managed to catch about sixteen, good size Yellow Fin Tuna, which he sold within half an hour on the Highway lay bye.
He got into the cab of his pick-up after making sure everything was tied down on the boat behind him. He turned the ignition key with his usual silent prayer, and breathed a sigh of relief as the motor throbbed into life. The pick-up belched clouds of blue-black smoke, enveloping the cab. One day soon, the engine will have to come out and get a complete overhaul, he thought in a sudden state of panic.
Sakkie pulled out of the lay-bye and drove the two kilometres to the farm turn off and on to the gravel road towards Ashton. Since the new Toll road had been built a few years back, not much traffic used this narrow, red dirt road, and Sakkie was relaxed as he travelled at a good steady 50 kilometres an hour and headed home. Any oncoming traffic would always be well signalled by the cloud of red dust on the horizon.
Half way down the gravel track, he stopped to let his “Crew” get off the back of the pick-up. He watched in the rear-view mirror as Smiling Solomon, a fifty-something Zulu, Father of five, climbed out of the truck carrying his two-fish-share of the catch and his Vodacom Rugby rucksack containing the tools of his trade.
Sakkie waved a goodbye knowing that tomorrow morning, Solomon would be waiting next to the fence like clockwork at 5.30. Solomon would sell his “Share” long before he got home to the small village where he lived, almost thirty minutes walk from the fence. Solomon would have a very proud Wife tonight back at his Kraal. Smiling Solomon would live up to his name tonight.
Sakkie drove on for another five minutes when he spotted a familiar cloud of red dust on the horizon, indicating an oncoming car. He slowed down to 40, just in case.
Then it happened. His faithful, ever-loving pick-up truck, jerked twice, spluttered a few more times, backfired loudly, with an accompanying cloud of white smoke, and then, very suddenly, died on him.
He free-wheeled to a halt, trying hard to steer towards the edge of the road but not into the stormwater ditch. The silence of the once throbbing V8 engine rang sharply in his ears.
He strained his ears to pick out the sound of the oncoming vehicle and looked up to see that the trailing cloud of dust was almost upon him. He switched on his headlamps as a warning to the oncoming driver.
The cloud grew bigger, taller, and wider and Sakkie expected to see a large Truck, probably from one of the neighbouring farms, coming into view very soon, judging by the size of the dust storm it was trailing.
He listened for the familiar Diesel Motor sound to come into earshot.
Sakkie heard nothing except a sharp, almost electric-type of singing, whistling sharply, almost playing out a tune. The sound reminded him of these new fangled, Mobile Phones he’d seen when he went into the city, once in a while.
The cloud was almost upon him and fearing that the truck might not see him until it was too late, Sakkie climbed out of the cab of the pick-up and stepped back, well away from the road’s edge.
Closing his eyes to protect them from the dust, he was half expecting to hear a smash as the big truck came past. Sakkie was relieved when he heard the whistling noise, whiz past his pick-up, and looking up, he saw that whatever it was, it was trailing a huge cloud of red dust, obscuring the vehicle totally other than a few green and red, pulsating lights he could make out through the thick dust.
It took quite a few minutes for the dust to clear and Sakkie spent the time wiping his eyes and thinking that this must be something new. Maybe an electric truck or some other new fancy invention that he didn’t get to hear about because, quite frankly, he wasn’t that interested.
Just like these damned mobile phones! Who needs them,? he thought. The last thing a Man should have is a Wife who can phone him every waking minute of the day. Where has the joy of privacy gone, if your Wife can phone you at any time of the day or night, anywhere, any place? he thought. The next thing, she’d be phoning to say, she’s run out of crisps or cigarettes or Ice Cream or some other item!
Sakkie’s thoughts drifted back to his beloved, but now stranded Pick-up. As he walked back around the front of the truck, he did a double take.
He looked back towards the receding cloud of red dust, and there, sitting parked by the side of the road, not more than five meters from where his pick-up had died on him, was a vehicle.
No, not just any old vehicle, but a very fancy one at that!
This must be one of these, new-fangled, fancy hybrid-drive’s he’d heard about. A big, black model sitting low but proud with it’s four, fancy, rectangular headlights and tinted black windows. The badge on the front grille was un-recognisable – this must be a Chevvy he thought as he admired the shining chromed grill. Damn clever these Yanks, he thought as he took in the sleek, aerodynamic body lines and low slung suspension which made the vehicle look as though it had no wheels and was just hovering there.
The passenger door opened. Sakkie could see a vague outline of the person getting out of the door of the vehicle, and recognised the familiar curve of a steering wheel being held as the occupant alighted.
Sakkie realised then, that this wasn’t the passenger getting out, but the driver. This was one of those imported, left-hand drive models which cost an arm and a leg once the import duty had been banged on the top by the Government.
A long, leather clad leg, slowly stretched itself down to the roadside gravel, followed by another shapely leg. A leather clad arm extending to