The War of All Wars Read online

  Baltor answered, “I think so, Popa.”

  After looking over at her husband, she asked, “Weird, huh? Your son just called me ‘Moma,’ instead of Mom or Mommy like he usually does…”

  “Son, what kind of television you watching nowadays?”

  Though Baltor had absolutely no clue as to what “a television” was and he was about to ask that very question, his mother interrupted by saying, “I can answer that question—all of those fantasy and sci-fi movies at night, and watching too much cartoons on TV in the afternoons.”

  He was just about to ask what a movie and a TV were, but his father did not give him a chance as he was the next one to speak, “So, son, what was your dream about? Do you perchance remember?”

  “Well,” Baltor surprisingly heard his own boyish voice say, “All I vaguely remember was that I was fighting against demons and devils in hell, in order to rescue somebody very important to me, and I was with some elfish girl…but I don’t remember anybody’s names anymore, or anything else!”

  “That’s it,” his father snapped angrily, “you’re coming with me to work tomorrow, and every day after school from now on…twelve years old or not, I don’t care. And one more thing—no more television for you without adult supervision for at least a year…maybe by then you’ll apply yourself in life by starting up a constructive hobby, like building a model warship, or drawing animals, or something constructive like that.”

  Before Baltor could say or ask anything at all, his mother replied with a whiny voice, “But tomorrow’s Saturday, Tank, and I was hoping we could all spend the day together.”

  Tank replied, “Nah, I can’t, Grasha…not tomorrow during the day anyway, as I just got two cars that have got to get fixed by tomorrow night by five p.m., and I could really use our son’s help…my mechanic assistant’s out of town on vacation for three more days. Maybe tomorrow evening we can all go out on the town, eat some dinner at a pizzeria, and then catch a normal type of flick…yeah?”

  “All right, yeah,” Grasha replied with a small smile. Without any further delay she gave her son a kiss on his forehead—though Baltor’s forehead felt that lingering warmth, his mind couldn’t help but wonder at the meanings behind all these foreign words…TV, cartoon, television, movie, auto-shop, sci-fi, car, pizzeria, flick!

  “Get some rest, son…you’re going to need it tomorrow,” Tank strongly recommended.

  “You’ll be just fine, my darling baby,” his mother said in consoling tones.

  She gave him another kiss on his forehead, rose to her feet, walked to the door, and clicked the switch next to the door, which cast the entire room into darkness.

  After Baltor’s eyes had adjusted to the instant shifting of the light, he next observed that his father’s shadow had just entered his own well-lit bedroom just down the hallway.

  Just before Grasha closed Baltor’s door, she said, “Sweet dreams, my angel.”

  “Sweet dreams, mommy,” Baltor heard himself say.

  Before the boy’s mind could begin to fathom anything at all, it too shut off like a light switch. When his conscious mind switched back on, an unknown amount of time later, the first thing it heard was the repetitious and annoying sound of a buzzer going off near his head to the right!

  After sleepily opening his eyes, he saw where that strange noise emanated—that magical box that repeatedly flashing the numbers: “7:02 a.m.”

  With both of his still-boy-sized hands, Baltor picked up the cordless box and glanced at it closer—yes, he realized, this is the source of the annoying noise.

  One of the half-dozen buttons located on top of this box read the word, “off,” so that is the button he pushed. Instantly the buzzing stopped—at the same time, the numbers stopped flashing.

  Baltor set the box down onto the table, and stood out of bed, but wondered where his clothes were—after all, there weren’t any dressers or closets inside his room.

  With that, he walked over to the bedroom door, and was just about to open it—when the door opened of its own accord, only a second before he could.

  Standing on the other side was Tank, still dressed in his pajamas. With a nod, he greeted with a smile, “Good morning, son…was the rest of your sleep good?”

  “Yes Popa.”

  “Son, call me Poppa, or Pops, or Dad, but don’t call me that ever again…don’t make me take you to a psychiatrist.”

  “What’s a psychiatrist?”

  An irritated look crossed his father’s face, before he answered, “You know damn well what a psychiatrist is—doctor of the mind.”

  “Oh…no, I didn’t know that.”

  “Seriously, son…no more TV for you.”

  “What’s a TV?”

  For the next few seconds Baltor’s father looked like he was about to “lose his marbles,” but then he sucked in a deep breath, grabbed a firm hold of both his son’s shoulders, and said, “Look—son. You’re really starting to worry me…stop. Your Mom picked out your clothes for the day, as she always does. They’re hanging on a hanger in the bathroom, which is in that door in case your mind is still foggy—take a good shower, clear up that head of yours, dry off, get dressed, and come on downstairs for breakfast, which your mother should have done by then. Finally, yet just as importantly, make sure you wear your work shoes, which are by the front door downstairs. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  With that, his father headed down the carpeted hallway, brown in color, and made a left—only then did Baltor notice a staircase that led down.

  He turned to the door his father had earlier pointed at, opened it, entered, closed the door, and then began to look around. This modern-day bathroom had a light-switch of its own just near the door, a see-through-glass shower, a black-and-gold marble spa (no water in it), a matching toilet, and a matching sink with two handles—one red and one blue. A mirror hung above the sink.

  Hanging on the left wall were two racks containing bath towels, washcloths, and bottles of all sizes and shapes. Neatly hanging on the closer of the two racks, upon a hanger, were Baltor’s child-sized clothes. Hanging halfway out of his front-left-side pocket was a pair of white socks—in the front-right pocket was his underwear.

  Only seconds before arriving at the sink and mirror, Baltor heard his father’s voice yell outside the door, “I don’t hear that water running! Get your shower done—now boy.”

  “Yes sir,” Baltor heard his boyish voice say, just before his feet turned around to face the shower, which feet then began to move toward it. In the back of his mind, he heard his boyish voice say, Just go with the flow and then you’ll know.

  Before arriving at the shower, a couple of seconds later, his left hand instinctively opened the door—his right hand then reached out and cranked the red switch.

  A few seconds later, just as the water was starting to get hot, his left hand cranked around the blue switch—within twenty seconds, after three more minor adjustments, the water felt to his wrists to be a nice, warm and cozy setting.

  He stripped off all his clothes, just before entering the shower and closing the door—right away, his right hand picked up a bar of soap sitting in a soap dispenser near the water nozzles, just before he began to use both hands to form a lather so that he could scrub his face and body clean.

  Two minutes after he had begun this process, he heard his father’s voice call out from outside the bathroom door, “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears and your hair with shampoo…it’s on the floor of the shower next to the conditioner.”

  Baltor looked down, observing the two bottles made of a very strange type of container—they both looked squeezable!

  The light-green bottle on the left bore the etched silhouette of a woman with long and flowing hair, and her outstretched arms gestured to the inscribed words: “Jordan’s 5-Star Beauty Salon Shampoo.”

  The dark-green bottle on the right bore the same inscribed picture, but with the words: “Jordan’s 5-Star Beauty Salon Conditioner”


  He picked up the shampoo bottle with one hand, and sure enough, squeezed just a dab of it into his free hand—with that he began wiping the frothy substance through his hair, while his other hand set the bottle of shampoo back down where it belonged. Once the hair was all soapy, he rinsed it all off using the running water from the showerhead.

  After the last of the soap was removed, Baltor flipped off the water handles, letting his body drip dry for a minute longer, before opening the shower door. His father was right there with a towel in hand—he handed it over, and said, “Hurry-hurry, son…your breakfast is hot and ready and I got to take my shower now—I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Baltor dried himself off with the towel, as fast as he could—meanwhile his father began to undress, just before he hopped into the shower, and expertly turned on both handles at the same time to the proper levels, as he knew all-too-well the correct settings.

  Already had the boy put on his underwear and was in the process of putting on his pants—once this step was complete, he threw on his slightly grease-stained T-shirt and crisp, white socks. Nearly thirty seconds later, he exited the bathroom, which door was still open.

  “Shut the door behind you, boy…please and thank you.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  After closing the bathroom door, he headed downstairs. Already were his nostrils leading him straight into the kitchen, where he could smell his mother’s delicious-smelling breakfast sizzling on frying pans!

  Upon entering this room, he observed a plain wooden kitchen table sitting in the middle—with three place settings around it, consisting of porcelain plates, see-through glasses, and silverware.

  Before he had a chance to check anything else out in this kitchen, he heard his mother say, “Your chair is over there, Honey…take a seat.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he answered before looking over to where she was pointing with her index finger, and then taking that seat.

  While he did so, Grasha continued, “Much better to hear that title, instead of the weird one you used last night—oh, and sorry to hear about your dream—nightmare—last night…don’t think about it ever again and you’ll be okay. Is that enough pancakes and sausage for you baby?”

  By this time, she had scooped three pancakes and two links of sausage from a different plate onto the boy’s own plate—he answered, “Yes. Thank you, Mom.”

  “Why—you’re welcome, my dear! There’s butter right there in the butter dish, pancake syrup right next to that, and a glass of milk sitting near the middle of the table that’s yours.”

  “Okay,” Baltor’s voice said. He let his hands act on instinct—his left grabbed the butter dish, while his right grabbed the knife just to the right of his plate.

  Within seconds, not only was the fast-melting butter smeared all over these pancakes, yet a nice layer of thick-maple syrup on top of that—his taste buds drooled in anticipation.

  In the next moment those buds found the food more-than-satisfactory as he began eating heartily away, relishing all the delicious tastes these slight-cinnamon-tasting pancakes produced. Combined with the spicy links of sausage, which had gotten a bit of the syrup on them, they made this breakfast that much more delicious!

  While chuckling, his mother said, “Slow down, honey…at least I know you haven’t lost your appetite.”

  “Yes Mom.”

  “Let me turn on the TV with the remote. There…let’s see what the newsman today has to say. Meanwhile, you keep on eating while I comb your damp hair.”

  From this strange, cubed box that sat on the kitchen counter, which box initially had a dull-gray glass screen on the front, a balding man wearing a very strange suit and a snazzy tie had just popped onto it—he sat behind a shiny wood desk.

  Right away this newsman began to talk, in which moving photos of his story started to flash to his right, “And in other headlining news around the world, the Ambassador to China, and his small entourage of bodyguards were all found murdered by bullets in their New York City hotel room. By the time authorities arrived, the assassins had already fled the crime-scene—so far, there is no motive to this horrific crime, nor no witnesses.”

  After taking a deep breath, the newsman stated while using positive tones, “We have some good news coming up…yes, you guessed it, the weather. Stay tuned to find out how you and your family can make the most out of this gorgeous day without spending a fortune! But right now, it’s time for a commercial break here at Channel 8 News.”

  The newsman and his newsroom disappeared, and what replaced it was the moving pictures of a powerful-looking red machine on wheels moving at breathtaking speeds down an asphalt road, coupled with the sounds of an incredibly crisp engine running, and can’t forget to mention the occasional sounds of those rubber wheels gripping firmly against the road. Baltor’s eyes had never before such a machine, nor knew that such could exist!

  Nearly five seconds later, a salesman’s voice said with a whole lot of excitement, “Yes, this beautiful ’95 Porsche 911 Carrera can be yours at a low-low price, just like any of our hundreds of new and used cars at Lincoln Motors on 1175 Parkway St. in Elgin City, California. This very car you see right now is a steal for five hundred and seventy-five dollars a month leased for four years, with the option to buy it in the end! That’s right…this car is available for you right now. First come…first serve…so come now.”

  “Mom?” Baltor heard his voice ask, after swallowing down a few gulps of milk.

  “Yes, Hun.”

  “Can I have that car?”

  Laughing, her mother said, “Sure son…when you make enough money and you’re old enough!”

  “Yippee,” he squealed aloud. “When will I be old enough?”

  Just then, his father had entered the kitchen. After giving his wife a hearty kiss on the cheek, he sat down at his seat at the table before greeting in chipper tones, “Good morning Grasha—good morning son! Breakfast smells delicious…”

  “Good morning Tank…and thank you for the compliment about my breakfast! Give me another minute and I’ll have your portion on your plate.”

  “Okay, babes,” he replied.

  Baltor heard himself unexpectedly say, “Morning Popa—I mean, Dad.”

  Though a flustered look instantly crossed his face, Grasha interjected right away by saying, “Our baby boy just saw this beautiful-red-sports-car on television, and asked me if he could have it…I, ha ha, told him sure…when he gets old enough and can afford it. Even though he’s only twelve now, that doesn’t mean that he can’t have his dream car one day, right?”

  After chuckling merrily a few times, Tank answered without an ounce of humor, “A whole lot of work, son, is what you’re going to need to get a car like what you saw on TV. Dreams take hard work, so you just keep on working very hard for me, and I’ll teach you everything you need to know to succeed, and by the time you’re old enough to have a car in four years from now, you will not only have a car just like that, yet your very own auto-shop in ten years. So I don’t want to hear you crying about anything ever again…okay son?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Though Baltor had finished his plate of food, and was “stuffed as a pig,” he continued to remain seated at the table. He watched—also with amazement—the next television commercial that advertised cellular phones.

  By this time, Grasha had just stuffed five pancakes and four pieces of sausage onto his father’s plate next to the stove, just before she set the plate before the man himself—he proceeded to lather butter and syrup on his pancakes.

  Only moments after Tank had finished breakfast, five minutes after he took his first bite, he led Baltor by the hand to where his shoes were located, which was by another door in the back of the kitchen—it had been an unlit room, until Tank flipped another light switch.

  Not only did a light turn on in the middle of the room on the ceiling, yet one of the walls slowly began to rise until it folded neatly into the ceiling, revealing the crisp morning sunlight outside, a
s well a blue-colored/two-door car parked on the concrete driveway outside, which car was dull in color and shape. Still, Baltor’s eyes looked amazed by everything he was seeing!

  “Get in the car, son,” Tank ordered matter-of-factly, while pointing at the other door.

  As there was a door handle on the far left side of the door, which was the only sign of how to open the car, Baltor pulled up on it, and the door indeed opened—he entered and sat down in the leather seat, shutting the door behind him.

  Six seconds later, the door on the other side of the car opened, and in sat his father—once seated, he firmly shut his door, put on his seatbelt and got comfortable in the seat.

  Because the boy had been watching his father from outside, he followed suit by sitting down, strapping in and getting comfortable.

  As soon as Tank peripherally saw that his son was seat-belted, he inserted one of his dozen shiny, metallic keys into a hole near a circular wheel, turned the key that instantly caused a whirring noise to emanate from the engine; and only two seconds later, the car’s quiet engine turned on.

  Without any haste, he looked in the mirror, grabbed a hold of a stick located between the seats, pivoted his head around, and accelerated—the vehicle began to go in reverse.

  Just before exiting the driveway, he stopped the car and looked both ways before he driving onto the street. He shifted the stick again, as well his head until he was looking forward…and the car went forward.

  Baltor watched mesmerized first by the car’s quick-and-powerful movements, and then at all the other strange-looking houses, as well at all the other one or two-story glass-buildings that flashed by on both sides of this four-lane street—restaurants and all types of other stores. What really piqued Baltor’s interest were those strange car-lots where people in cars or trucks pulled up to a large machine, swiped a card, put a nozzle into the back of his or her vehicle, and soon after, put the nozzle back before driving back onto the main road.

  He had seen one of these places at a four-way intersection, where a red light had stopped them for about forty-five seconds. Of course, there were palm trees here and there, but a few of these types of trees he had never before seen.