Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series Read online

  Aliens, Tequila & Us

  Book 1 Messenger’s Soliloquy

  Book 2 Soliloquy’s Sacrifice

  Book 3 Sonnet’s Legacy

  Michael Herman

  Copyright © 2018 All rights reserved.

  Aliens, Tequila & Us is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more books by author, visit website

  https://www.mherman.net/

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  Contents

  A Brief History of Tequila

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 1

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 2

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 3

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 4

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 5

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 6

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 7

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 8

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 9

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 10

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 11

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 12

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 13

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 1

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 2

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 3

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 4

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 5

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 6

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 7

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 8

  Soliloquy’s sacrifice Chapter 9

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 10

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 11

  Solilquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 12

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifce Chapter 13

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 14

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 15

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 16

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 17

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 18

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 19

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 20

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 21

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 22

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 23

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 24

  Soliloquy’s Sacrifice Chapter 25

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 1

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 2

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 3

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 4

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 5

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 6

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 7

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 8

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 9

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 10

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 11

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 12

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 13

  Sonnet’s legacy Chapter 14

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 15

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 16

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 17

  Preview Girl with all the Pain Prologue

  Preview Girl with all the Pain Chapter 1

  A Brief History of Tequila

  Thousands of years ago in Central America, during the pre-Columbian era, the sap from the agave plant was fermented to produce a vitamin-rich slightly foamy milky brew called pulque, which contained a microbial community that was beneficial for the human digestive system. So popular and pervasive was the drink that the Aztecs created a goddess of fertility named Mayahuel and depicted her, seated inside an agave plant, nursing infants with pulque from her breasts.

  In the sixteenth century, the invading Spanish conquistadors used alembic distillation to turn the mildly alcoholic pulque into something closer to what we call tequila.

  In 1601, Don Pedro Sánchez de Tagle established the first tequila factory in Jalisco, calling what he made vino de mezcal or mezcal tequila.

  In 1758, the Cuervo family began commercially producing tequila. In 1873, the Sauza family followed suit. The competitive result was a long-running Hatfield and McCoy type feud where shots were fired and people were killed.

  Fast forward to the U.S. Civil War, when there was a shortage of American whiskey and moonshine. Mexican tequila vendors filled the gap by bringing mezcal to American soldiers and then returning to Mexico with discarded whiskey barrels to store the mezcal in. This was the advent of aging their product in whiskey barrels.

  In 1873, mezcal producers in the town of Tequila, Jalisco distinguished their mezcal from mezcal made elsewhere by naming it tequila. Hence, tequila is a mezcal, but mezcals are not necessarily tequila. The locale where the blue agave is grown affects the taste of the mezcal.

  In 1918, the Spanish flu swept through the Americas, killing millions. Doctors prescribed tequila, salt, and lime as a flu treatment. Thus a tradition was born.

  U.S. prohibition that lasted from 1920 to 1933 boosted sales of tequila, known as Mexican whiskey. And during WWII, when U.S. whiskey was in short supply, U.S. citizens crossed the border to buy tequila.

  In 1936, in a bar run by an Irishman, a drink called the Tequila Daisy was made famous by an American newspaperman. Margarita in Spanish means daisy.

  In the 1940’s, the Mexican Norma Oficial Mexicana (NOM) was established to specify how the spirit could be made and where. Following the NOM, the Determination of Origin, (DOM) guaranteed the production of tequila to be allowed in only a specific geographical area of Mexico. The Appellation of Control, (AOP) made “tequila” the intellectual property of Mexico, which prevented calling anything outside its area “tequila.”

  In the late 1960’s Mexico allowed tequila makers to use non-agave sugars, the new process creating the classification known as mixto. Some refer to it as cheap hangover-inducing tequila that gives tequila a bad name.

  These days, by law, blue agave cores grown in five zones in north-central states of Mexico are the only source of the sap used in the production of tequila. While other sugars can be used in the production of tequila, at least 60% of those sugars must come from this sap.

  In 1989, Patrón introduced expensive prestige bottles of tequila, which increased exports many times over. Patrón advanced the world of “contract” brands where production is independent of brand name, bottle design, and brand. Siete Leguas claims they were the original formula for Patrón for twelve years. Over 1,200 tequilas are produced at distilleries that make tequila for more than one brand. Only 13 distilleries make a single brand.

  Process and blending formulas create different tequilas. Today there is an app called Tequila Matchmaker that directs tequila drinkers to the tequila that matches their tastes. Online shopping reveals tequilas that range from affordable to a premium of $6,000 per bottle. Looking further, one can find tequilas for as much as $30,000 in hand-painted ceramic bottles.

  Outside of Mexico, in the California Anza Borrego desert region, there was an agave farm, owned by the Brown family. Only the blue agave was grown there. At this farm, mezcal was produced, aged in barrels, bottled, and then further aged. A very rare species of locally grown orchid was placed inside each bottle to age along with the contents of the bottle. The bottles of mezcal were never sold, but instead were gifted to select individuals. The effects of drinking this particular brand of mezcal are legendary within a tiny elite circle of people who have been instrumental in technology breakthroughs.

  The first novella, Messenger�
�s Soliloquy, in this collection of three is the incredible story of the destruction of that farm by extraterrestrial forces.

  The second novella, Soliloquy’s Sacrifice, recounts the Brown family’s final experience with extraterrestrial powers in California.

  The third novella, Sonnet’s Legacy, follows the Brown family’s exodus to the Congo, where new perils await.

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 1

  This is how it always ends.

  I’m soaring high over the Anza Borrego Desert in a vacuum. No wind whistling past my ears. No breeze pulling at my clothes. No draught whipping tears from my eyes. No chill. No heat. Just me in the sky watching rocks and scrub race along the ground below; sometimes dazzlingly fast, other times measured and slow.

  I focus on a rattlesnake dozing, digesting an unlucky Kangaroo rat. As if I’m only a few feet away, I note its sandy color and markings that disappear into the surrounding stone, making it nearly invisible. Nearby, a rock with Kumeyaay Indian petroglyphs lazes comfortably. At its base, a reckless fire ant colony builds with extravagant expectation.

  Yet, I am always hundreds of feet in the air, impossibly glimpsing fine detail from that terrible distance. I am always alone. No father. No mother. No sister. No brother. No uncle. And...no Soliloquy.

  But this changes when a voice calls my name.

  “Messenger.”

  The sourceless and summer-warm voice distracts me from the ground below. I look back towards my family’s receding agave ranch and see a huge explosive mushroom cloud rising in the air, expanding outward to engulf me in devastation. It’s always part of this ending; the massive blast that propels me away from my family farm, hurling me high and far; the blinding brightness at its core. I raise my hands to shield my eyes from its intensity while blackened objects–unguided and driven by hurricane forces–shoot past.

  Again, the voice calls. “Messenger, time to see what condition your condition is in.”

  Flirtatious, it’s followed by the delicate touch of a palm on the back of my hand, pulling me from this recurring dream; one I’ve had since we lost our longtime farm to invading aliens and since I lost my family and my true love—Soliloquy.

  “What’s my name, Messenger? You always recognize my voice,” the speaker says.

  “Zia,” I whisper. She’s my guardian angel, my sister of mercy, here to see me through my troubled recovery.

  “Your condition, Messenger. Tell me about your condition.”

  It’s how she exercises my traumatized mind, bringing me to the present, forcing me to come to grips with... “I’m currently in the intensive care unit...” This was the way it was when we last spoke.

  “No, not any longer, Messenger. You have your own private room. You are...”

  This is an improvement. I must be out of the danger zone if they no longer have me under tight hospital monitoring and comprehensive care. I interrupt her. “I’m covered from head to toe in some sort of gooey wrap.” I wonder if this is what a chrysalis feels like before becoming a butterfly. Will I emerge as something new and wonderful? I think not, based on what I remember about my injuries.

  “Chemical burns, Messenger, over your entire body. Mostly second-degree burns, but a few areas of third-degree.”

  Definitely no chance of emerging as something wonderful.

  “I’m blind,” I say, going down my mental list of damages. My inability to see is the hardest part to accept, but the easiest to deal with as it facilitates my constant sleeping.

  “Temporarily maybe, but we can’t say if it’s permanent.”

  Will I need a seeing-eye dog? A cane, perhaps? Sunglasses to hide my damaged and burn-deformed eyes, I wonder? “My ribs are broken; two on my right side and three on my left,” I add, ticking one off the list.

  “It’s the reverse, Messenger, not that it matters. Five fractured ribs, two with multiple fractures. I know it hurts every time you take a breath or roll onto your side.”

  It’s a pain made dull by meds that keep me numb, mentally and physically.

  “Both my legs are broken,” I continue, ignoring my technical misspeak.

  “Very good, Messenger. You have fractures at both fibulas. Both have been through surgery, and both have pins holding them together.”

  Hooray for modern doctors! In olden times they would have simply amputated both legs.

  “I can wiggle my toes, bend at my waist, move my arms and hands, rotate my head, stick out my tongue, and...” I pause for emphasis, “...cry like a baby.” Theatrically, I wait and then say, “In other words, I’m screwed. At least that’s my considered opinion.” As if my sixteen-year-old opinion mattered in this instance. I’m in their healing hands waiting for transformation where I pop out of my shell as a rebuilt Messenger butterfly, colorful to behold, permanently changed to begin a damaged new life.

  I stop and hear only the tic-tacking sound of her fingers moving over a keyboard. When the sound stops, I hear something pushed along a surface, presumably the keyboard. She is finished typing.

  “Cry like a baby,” she repeats. “You’re better than that, Messenger. Are you ready to tell me about it? You’ve promised me now on three different occasions, but you always put me off.”

  I am her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder baby in need of relief and reconstruction. The order is recall it all and then spill the shocking experience. Let it out to start rapid recovery. Grieve and get past it.

  Her persistence is wearing me down. In addition to medical training, she has an aptitude for psychotherapy. Ten years older than me, she has a velvet voice that caresses. She specializes in young adults. In her experienced seductress hands, I am young soft butter.

  “You’re bound by the same oaths as a priest. What I say goes no further than you,” I assert. No one would believe my story anyway...at least, what I can remember of it. Right now, it’s just fragments and recurring nightmares, nothing complete. He’s still delirious, they would say. Hallucinations. Fabrications of a traumatized mind. Can’t distinguish dreams from reality. Brain damaged. Delusional. I hear her repositioning herself in her chair. I‘m guessing this was not what she wanted me to say.

  “I’m here to help you heal, Messenger.” Her honest tone borders on patronizing, as if my thinking otherwise would be insulting.

  “So, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. When I speak, it goes no further than you. No recorders, no notes to be shared, no video to accidentally be leaked onto social media. This is just between you and I.” As much as I need her help in reconstructing the events leading to my situation, I know it needs to stop with her and never leave this room.

  “You and me,” she corrects.

  She can be such an adult.

  “Like I said. So do we agree?” And I can be such a teenager. There is a pause, which I take to mean she’s conflicted. “Am I too much of a problem?”

  “No.” Her voice, absent the soothing melody of the past, is firm now.

  “Shall we shake on it?” I offer my hand to the air in front of me. She gives it a firm grasp and shakes to seal the deal. With that, the secret deal is done and I’m almost ready.

  “Should we drink a toast to the beginning, then?” I ask, wanting to feel celebratory about the decision, hoping it’s the right choice and not a mistake that will come back to haunt me. “Champagne...” I’m being silly, of course, “...or soda...” now more realistic, “or whiskey straight up...,” whatever that means, “or just ice water?”

  I hear the sound of what I guess is her rising from her chair. “More root beer? Is that what you’re requesting?”

  While she’s gone, I try to assemble my memory fragments into a passable linear timeline. How and where to start? To understand the end, I guess, I have to go to the beginning; who we were, what we were and why we were. One step at a time. Each leading to the next. Those are her words. It’s what she repeatedly talked about. If it works, will she take my account to be a metaphor for the actual event? An Alice in Wonderland adventure gone wrong? Or
will she see it for the prophetic writing on the wall that it might be? I won’t know what I’ll be saying until I say it. It will be an adventure for both of us.

  When she returns with a chilled bottle, I take a sip of my favorite soda, relish the fizzy root beer burn on my tongue, take a deep breath and begin.

  Messenger’s Soliloquy Chapter 2

  “Type ‘Organic Tequila Distillery and Ice Caves’ in Google Maps,” I instruct.

  The clickety-clack of Zia’s fingers on her keyboard plays into the air as she does the search.

  “Select ‘Earth’ mode. It’ll bring up an aerial image that shows the farm.” I pause to give her time and then ask, “What do you see?” Her audible breathing tells me she is studying the display on her laptop screen. The subtle tension of it holds the moment. While I wait for her, the mushroom cloud of my nightmare flashes through my mind then disappears as quickly. It’s a standard occurrence.

  “I see objects in a wide radiating pattern, spreading out into the surrounding brown landscape. The objects radiate from an open circular center. A number of buildings are within the center.”

  Her description matches my memory of the aerial view. The radiating pattern around the buildings is a sea of man-high blue agave plants in measured rows, rooted deep in volcanic soils heavy in basalt and iron. They stretch out for acres and are organized by age, from youngest to oldest. These are the basis of the alcohol distillation process. Once harvested, their cores, slowly baked in ovens, are mashed to extract juice that will become tequila. I spent many summers helping trim the leaves away from the piña, the succulent core of the plant, with a sharp bladed coa.

  “My uncle says the buildings in the center are like dice thrown down in the sand, placed by chance inside the perfectly ordered universe of the radiating agave plants, anarchy within the confines of order. My dad tells me it’s like my uncle’s mind. My uncle says that’s where his genius lies.”

  “Your uncle and dad built the farm?”