Tale:Project Castle Personnel Journal: The General

NOTE: THIS ARTICLE IS TO BE UNDERSTOOD TO BE A WRITTEN ACCOUNT OF VOICAL RECORDS

Only son to a worn-out country gal, middle of nowhere in what’s left of Texas. 
She used to be beautiful, at least I think such — maybe not in the way magazines say, but in that hard way, that REAL way; like a cactus flower.
Mama was an old-fashioned woman. The "romance" type which we don't see no more.
She had a passion for reading, painting, dream journaling; and movies. 
Boy did she ever love movies...
Only problem was the TV broke long ago, and the tapes got damaged in a storm.
Not like it'd matter if it didn't; no power to watch either one.
TV's just something the fine folk of Salado thought died with the Earth. 
It was my ma's love for television that gave me my name: 
"John Robert Morrison Wayne."
Y'know.... off the old actor. 
He was her first girlhood crush. She had a cut up poster of the man beside her bed.
All dolled up in a show-boat cowboy outfit: Overblown white hat, hands in his tight jean loops, bull-print belt and cow-print boots stomped on a haybale in front of some horses.
And let's not forget his package; shoved in the center. Full man crotch right in your face. 
Ma felt a way about that man more than any husband could only dream their ladies felt about them. 
Me?
I hated my name...
Who could imagine, right? 
The ol' lady didn't think up how a boy in the heart of Lone-Star Texas, wouldn't receive no-end of hell having the most popular man in living memory as a name. 
I got teased for it; mostly from the girls. 
They'd giggle and point when they heard it, and I'd go red as a tomato. 
Funny thing was none of us were old enough to remember what Wayne was like in those movies. They just heard from their own mamma's how ol' Johnny boy walked into the sunset with the hog tied girly's posted up on his shoulders.
...Never got why they needed to stress the hogtying... 
Despite ma's girly streak; she was STRONG.
"Type of gal that'd make the King of Kings blush" she'd call herself and I'd laugh with her. 
She kept that rundown house standing through the storms and the sand; Mama Earth was hurt; we small folk got caught up in her tears...
Ma was something else; 6'4, taller than everyone else in town, including all the men. Large shoulders and arms; legs that could give a stallion a run for his money. She certainly turned a lot of heads. 
She was like a giant to me... 
Tall as the sky, strong as an ox; she used to pick me up with one hand as a way of playing with me when I was little.
Although; It wasn't just strength, not like how you're thinking. 
It was something I've only seen a few times after.
She did things that most normal folk... could only dream of. 
She'd only do it when she thought I wasn't looking. One time I remember well was when the truck burnt out for the first time. 
Problem with the undercarriage or something; couldn't tell ya the specifics, I didn't inherit that southern oil blood. 
She bent down, and looked around for me. I was in the door way outta sight out to go play with some kids. 
She then lifted the truck clear off the ground with one hand, like how she picked me up, treated it just as easy too. With a wrench in the other; she fixed it like it was nothing, putting it down like paper. 
I never told her I saw that. Given her looking for me... I trusted my ma had a good reason not to want to talk about it.
I'll ALWAYS trust my mamma...
You might think it was a lonely childhood, what with Texas being probably the worst off State in our Union.
...At least till New York...
But I didn't complain, and I still don't. 
I had food on the table, things to do, friends and girlfriends. 
We'd make as much fun as we could with what we had. Hopscotch, jump rope; we used to invent battle games with playing cards cause we didn't know how to play poker.
The rest of the town wasn't so lucky.
We practically had a rotating door of folks staying at our house, it being one of the still wholly upright homes left in town. And my ma, ever the angel she was, she'd let them stay as long as they needed, no questions asked. She'd find plenty of fellers to flirt with that way, all the bachelors who stayed a couple nights, though she never did anything with any one of em.
I'm not sure why. I even asked her. 
She said: "There's only one man I need in my life... and it's the sweet boy standing right in front of me.
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...I loved my mamma; we were thick as thieves. Best friends. 
One of a kind...
...I'll always love my mamma.
My ma had five babies before me. None made it past the cradle.
All that shit in the water... it wasn't clean...
Pipes rusted and rotted; infested with death... 
Two boys. Three girls. Every one with a different last name, different ghost of a daddy attached.
She put their pictures up on the wall — cheap, glossy prints, creased into bent edges behind chipped plastic imitation glass, bought from some chain supermarket back when smiles were still possible.
She painted little angel wings on each one, said they "flew home early."
I hated those damn pictures...
They watched me while I slept...
But ma... She found a peace in them... 
I couldn't take that away from her...
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Being the babe who made it, she tried to spoil me rotten. Toys, board games. 
And my favorite: Comic books. 
The Great American Literature: Jonah Hex, Mask of Zorro, Magician Comics... 
Anything to make me see a world of wonder and not the Hell on Earth which stretched to eternity.. 
She wanted me to park my butt on her couch forever; would have worked too if I wasn't so goddamn stubborn. 
Never met my own daddy; didn't even care to remember his name, just his face. 
All we had was that stupid old sun-bleached photo sittin' on the mantle, and a half-finished bottle of Jack he left on the table. 
She wouldn't let me near either one. 
Said he was a "saint." Called him "Good Irish Blood." 
Like that meant something... 
We lived in Salado; Irish capital of all Texas!
Well... I guess Irish capital of America now.
Of course he had Irish blood; not like we were gonna see an Eskimo come on by in the dirt! 
Mama said I had daddy's smile, but hers was sad when she said it.
Folks in Salado told a different tale. Said he stole a truck, bang some poor feller's wife, ran off owing a man a couple thousand when lady luck gave her due.
Pick a story — ANY story — he was the villain. 
Still, Mama swore by him. I guess saints look different through a lady's broken heart.
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Not surprising; my daddy the Letcher. 
We Irish ain’t built for virtue, not really. 
We crack jokes to keep from screaming. 
Must be genetic. 
Can’t trust us as far as you can throw us, we Irish. But hell, we sure can't ruin a dinner table.
Got into a real son-of-a-bitch argument with Mama one night: I’d just turned sixteen, and like damn near every boy with half a backbone in town, I signed my papers and joined the Army. 
She wasn’t havin’ it.
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“No son of mine is gonna get shot dead inside some sand-hole in that fucking hell!!” she said, her voice crackin’ like a whip.
Course I knew she was gonna have a fit when I told her. 
Always snapped at me any time I brought it up. 
I didn't know why...but knowing what I know now... I'd have stayed on the couch...
But... if you ask him; the good for nothing punk on the couch.
There wasn't anything more insulting...
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"If you do this John Wayne... You'll break your mother's heart... I can't lose my last baby to those piece of shit guns..."
Her words started breaking as she fell into a wailing sob.
I tried to talk sense into her. 
Told her plain: there wasn’t a damn thing left for us in Salado but dust, heat, and those goddamn photos on the wall. 
Told her if I did get shot, at least I’d have a score to tell my brothers and sisters I never got to meet:
“Sixteen’s better than zero,” I said.
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What a stupid fucking idiot punk that kid was...
I'll always hate him...
But; I'm man enough to admit that my ma's words hurt my feelings. 
She was my hero, and here I was trying to help her out, make a name for myself, and she's giving me no end of hell for it! 
She went quiet...
Her crying just... stopped. Like a switch got flipped. 
She didn’t say a word. 
Just turned around like a machine, slow as winter oil, and marched herself up the stairs. 
Shut her door with a soft click. 
No drama... 
...no yelling. 
Nothing.
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The Irish Smart-Ass in me thought it was funny at the time, so I didn't say anything. 
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Couple hours passed; I still didn't say anything, just read my comic books like I normally did. 
Not a peep from upstairs.
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Ten hours passed:
I'm getting dinner ready, old preserved canned pork; nasty shit but you make do in Salado. 
I yelled that I'm making dinner. 
No answer....
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My temper began to sizzle like the pork on the cast iron. 
I screamed "FINE! STARVE THEN! I'M GOING TOMMORROW, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU! AND IF YOU DON'T WANNA SEE YOUR ONLY BABY SON OFF, THEN THAT'S YOUR BUSINESS!"
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Still seeing red, I ate alone on the table... that stupid half drunk bottle of Jack dad left as his going away present staring me square in the face. 
I thought to myself he was lookin' at me through that glass. 
So, feeling challenged, I talked to the vile spitstain. 
"I hope you're dead you son of a bitch... Hope you stuck your rotten old prick in some fella's lady, and he shot you between your bastard eyes!" 
...Made me feel a little better, but I knew it was silly. 
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I then reached over, popped the top, and took the whole bottle down in a single swig.
Mama drilled in my head not to touch that bottle, or drink at all in any manner. So I did just that, nothing but rusty water touched my lips. 
But that drink... it felt like heaven. 
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When I was done I let out a loud satisfied teenaged exhale, like it was the most delicious thing I ever tasted.
Liquid vindication. 
After the drink; I took one last look at the bottle with a smile
And I threw it. 
Clear cross the kitchen and into the living room where it crashed into some of the photos of the babies; two tot boys and a girl. 
It was loud, like a sandstorm rock crashing through the living room window again. 
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She didn't say anything...
...I got worried:
"Mama?" I yelled up the stairs.
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Nothing.
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I walked up those broken steps, still talking bull up through the hall. 
Tapped by young knuckles at the door she carved herself.
"Mama you done being dramatic?"
Opened it with a creek, saying "Let's get you some food."
And there she was. Laying on her side.
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"Ma?" I said, walking to her.
Looked like she was sleeping...
But... when... I couldn't get her up... after a whole hour of trying...
"No dream's THAT good to want to keep watchin'..." 
My stupid mind thought. 
Like I said... genetic Irish piss taking... 
Anything to stop the creeping panic from taking hold, as she lay on her side... 
...catatonic.
Mama... got sick..
I missed my ship date taking her to the hospital... 
Salado didn't have one workin' so I had to drive her a whole 250 miles to Wichita Falls — only operating public hospital in the surrounding five States.
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Doctors couldn’t tell me what it was, exactly. 
Something in the air. 
The water. 
Maybe just bad luck. 
Maybe some pre-war rot that finally bloomed inside her. 
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Suppose it doesn’t really matter now...
Whatever it was, it cut through her like napalm.
But they did tell me why she did what she did.
The Doc said something about it being called: "seeking solitude."
Mostly experienced in cats, but in rare cases it can happen to people. 
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The Doc was a nice man... I told him about the argument we had; I really did think it was my fault, but he told me I was being ridiculous to think such.
And he was right.
Mama wouldn't have been torn up about it beyond smacking my smug teen face and callin' me a "son of a bitch, and how she should know cause I was lookin' at that bitch!"
Boy would I deserve it...
My ma was STRONG; too strong to let her baby son's moment of dumbass eat her like that. 
But all the same... there she was...
Tied up like a marionette, plugged into more wires then I'd ever seen.
I saw working electronics as a kid from time to time, and of course at the recruitment center in Old Dallas. 
But never like this... the lights burned on the top of my head, and the beeping felt like my ears were gonna bleed.
When her condition started to get worse... it was like the life was being sucked out of her from cords of metal...
My mother was so strong... she'd likely have been sick for years; decades even. 
And the moment the Reaper tapped on her shoulder... told her its time to see her babies again... she left with him.
Went in the room... 
...so her son didn't have to see it
She didn’t say a word. Not for days. No final speech. No sweet goodbye. Nothing but a hollow shell strapped to hoses, plugged into that clunky old machine that kept her lungs moving.
Doc pulled me aside. Said she wasn’t gonna come back. That we didn’t have the fuel to keep the machines humming forever. 
Didn’t say it was a waste — but I heard it in his eyes.
Didn’t have to explain it to me. 
I understood it perfect.
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If mama could talk, she'd have pulled my ear and told me off for taking what could be used for people who need it. 
About how it's her time to fly home; see my brothers and sisters again...
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But....
I...
I couldn't...
I couldn't... let... her go...
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"Mama I need you..." 
I said, falling on top of her.
Doc said nothing. Just tapped my back and walked out of the room...
But before he made it all the way out; he posted himself — back to the doorway, and addressed me:
"Not right for one man to see another cry. Not right at all. I'll give you a couple days to say your goodbyes... then, you'll have to do her proud... soldier."
In his voice... I  could tell I struck a nerve... a memory. 
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It was a small comfort through the sobs and the begging:
"Mamma please." 
"Mamma I love you." 
"Mamma I'm sorry."
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Such and such and such and such...
Honestly might be a bit embarrassing, knowing my mother. 
If she could kiss my forehead, say:
"Boy, it's okay. I'll be okay." 
It was all I needed to finally say... goodbye. 
Instead; four days later, the Doc came back. 
I was done crying. I just... held her hand... kissed her forehead one last time... and stroked her cheeks as I heard the cable pop...
Funny:
One cable. 
One symbol of man's desire for Resource..
...and it killed my mother in an instant.
I couldn't afford a funeral, but Salado's local Catholic Priest; he didn't mind none. 
It was a small, private affair... just me, the priest, and a young pregnant woman; the girl she let stay last.
Any other time... I'd have been enraged at all the people she helped not giving enough of a damn to show up.
But I was tired... hadn't slept in 9 days... 
...I was so tired.
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The Priest spoke the words; and she was returned to the Earth.
Burned — Ruined — In-pain — Earth..,
An earth not worthy to hold my mamma. 
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The girl stayed for a time, she gave me a hug, and headed back to our house. 
Now her house, as I gave it away to her. 
She deserved it for staying with her at the end.
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I was done with Salado.
I was setting out to the Army; there was nothing left for me. 
Didn't take much from the house before I gave it away. 
My comic books of course, couple hundred bucks she kept in a savings jar; split it half way with the girl.
And a picture of me and my ma. 
I was 5 in the photo, she told me it was the last bit of film she had left — back when I could still smile...
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The Priest wished me well and gave me a blessing to stay safe once I shipped out.
I thanked him right when it began to rain.
Like some cliché from those movies my ma talked about. 
But... it felt right.
Rain was so rare, and when it came it was usually unpleasant... burning.
But this time... it felt nice; like it cleaned me.
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I stared at her grave — still.
I just looked at her headstone. 
Hours, and hours, and hours — analyzing its words over and over:  
"Here lies Melissa Kitty Wayne." 
— "Kitty-Kat." in quotes next to it. 
"Proud mother of six; lived through her son; Private John Robert Morrison Wayne; United States Army and credit to his country." 
"May she find eternal rest with her children."
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Hours I stood there... the sun came up twice as I just... *looked.* 
Then I felt a voice; my recruiter. Limey London-born bastard who immigrated to America when he got tired of being around too many Scotts.
He put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me close.
"Let's go son... You've got a duty... she'll be here when you get back."


Now; I sit here. 
Big office in Utah some 40 years later. 
I've been handed these papers; big beautified letter 
"C" painted on them. 
"Project Castle" we've called it.
People from every creed and nation working on it. 
Finest of men and women the world over, and somehow this Texan-Irish-Saladan prick got invited to the club.
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And I'm sitting here thinking... could this be it? 
Maybe?
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A chance...
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Just a chance..
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...this is the one that could save us all.
Mama... I'll always love you. 
You are my hero; and the greatest human I've ever known...
You're the first thing I see when I wake up. and the last thing I see when I go to sleep...
I've done wrong in the years after, I hope you can forgive me. 
But I WILL see you again...
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I will do enough good in the life I have left to make it up there...
Your loving son... now and forever: 
- John Robert Morrison Wayne. 
- - - - Commanding General of the United States of America's Army Forces Command & Commander of Interdimensional Extraction for the Allied Nations Department of Interdimensional Exploration Research and Reconnaissance Operations.
Over and out: