""Superman, Superman, wish I could fly like Superman..." the last known words of a local artist whose house just disappeared last night" anchor Robyne Robinson spoke compassionately with a friend of the missing artist.
"Really, he was singing that Kinks tune, "Superman" as he walked that way, right there, toward his door, well, where his door used to be", Chris Beaker had been Blue's friend for about a year, ever since Blue rushed Chris and his finger to the emergency room, a finger he now stood pointing at the place where Blue's door used to be. Beaker had just removed his own finger with the help of a very dependable radial arm saw and a totally distracting ex-wife who had just hit him in the back of the head with a J clamp from a distance of roughly thirty feet. His head would have hurt a whole lot more if the finger didn't come off when it did. Blue just happened to be passing through the building on his way from the liquor store to his car with twelve cold Surlys and enough ice to keep them cold long enough to serve his purposes when he heard the painful cries of the broken Beaker. Blue rushed toward Beaker's shop and bumped directly into ex-Mrs. Beaker who backed into him with the force of a lineman, "and don't even tell me you can't take those kids an extra week after I put up with your fuckin' drinkin' for as long as I did", she wailed to the moaning carpenter, collapsed on his knees, fumbling for his finger through a torturous blur of blood, sawdust and tears. "Oh!" she half giggled as she saw Blue, instantly fantasizing the various ways she could manipulate the attractive stranger but settling for a slow brush against his ass and thighs as he turned the box of beer away from her girth in an effort to pass through Beaker's doorway, intent on helping the poor wretch. Blue moved too quickly for the ex to even speak. He pulled his shoelace from his shoe and tied off the finger at its base, then found it's missing phalanges. "You okay?" he asked calmly, not expecting a response, pressing ice upon the wound with one hand while burying the finger in the ice with his other.
"We have been friends ever since," Beaker went on, but Robinson was already directing the camera toward an unusual sight just over Beaker's head. The tree-top above him seemed to curve inward, as if a very large ball had been pressing up against it for an extended period of time. As the camera pulled back to envelop the shot it became clear that this was not the only tree affected in the area. In fact, the entire neighborhood looked as though the same ball had rested across all of the trees at once, pushing them down in unison and leaving a lasting concavity, interrupted by the homes which miraculously remained intact. Only Blue's house was missing; missing to the extent that nothing remained of it or any of its contents. The yard still held all of its special features, the gated archway which until yesterday abutted the south exterior wall, the stone path which encircled the foundation, even the umbrella'd table, with all four chairs remained undisturbed by the inexplicable disappearance of the three story house with finished basement.
"Police are baffled by the disappearance but assure us that every effort will be made to enlist the aid of the experts; once they have determined who the experts might be in a situation such as this." Robinson held her forearm to her brow as she raised her voice against the wind and dusty shrapnel of a landing helicopter. "It appears as though this is about to become a military operation," she continued "several uniformed soldiers have just been lowered into the space left by artist, "Blue's" basement. We are being directed to another area as military motorcycles, jeeps and trucks are arriving and surrounding the location." Robinson signalled the crew to cut then strode confidently toward the shiniest of the military vehicles, intent on getting the story which only became more interesting with the arrival of the nation's finest.
Beaker was no longer needed. If anything, he was given the distinct impression that he was actually in the way. As he walked toward his studio building, just a few blocks up the hill from Blue's place, a feint golden glint pierced through his confusion, his eyes pulling his addled brain closer to the source, what appeared to be a coin. He picked it up, examining it quickly. It really looked like gold. It was heavy for its size. It had the words Farb Sees inscribed upon it, as well as an icon which reminded him of the Star of David. He quickly pocketed the coin, uneasily looking around himself to be certain that no one had seen him pick it up. This had to be related to the disappearance of his friend but he'd be damned if he was going to put the only piece of evidence in the hands of the government. As he continued up the hill he thought about Blue. His hand drifted to his other pocket. Inside was a small kaleidoscope. He was going to return it to Blue that morning. It was one of those kaleidoscopes that distort the real landscape through a series of lenses and mirrors. Beaker turned around to look at the spot where his friends house had been. He marvelled at the oddly shaped trees then lifted the kaleidoscope to his right eye.
Turning the lenses slowly, he stopped suddenly. "SHIT!" "Oh my fuckin' God", Beaker said to himself, half laughing, half - nearly crying, like a strung out mental patient. There, through the kaleidoscope, he saw the entire valley, the image created by the shape of the trees, the houses, the streets and the mirrors was the same image he held in his hand only moments before. Beaker was certain of one thing, whatever had taken his friend was extremely large and very intelligent. He was fairly certain of another, he was holding on to what might be the only example of extra-terrestrial currency ever discovered. And another, Farb frightened him.
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