Subject: REPOST of STORY: TWIN PEAKS - Passion Play From: cfoster@eagle.wesleyan.edu Date: 1991-06-17, 08:01 Newsgroups: alt.tv.twin-peaks This is being reposted, since the first post had problems. WARNING... SPOILERS may be found here, for those who a) haven't read the Twin Peaks Access Guide, and more importantly b) haven't seen the final episode. ADDITIONAL WARNING... This is a first draft. Please note any continuity glitches so I can correct them. And now... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ^ Twin Peaks ^ ^ Passion Play ^ by Chris Foster Chapter I "Diane, April first, ten-sixteen a.m.. I am driving a pea-green rental car, 1990 sedan, with no air-conditioning and an A.M. radio. If this car were a cup of coffee, well, then it would probably be the one I drank on the plane into Seattle. Once again I am en route to the pleasant lumber town of Twin Peaks. Ah, Diane, you have got to come down here and see these trees. Nothing I have seen or known beats the awesome sight of Douglas Firs reaching into the clear blue sky. Man. While I am recording this, I imagine you have opened your present and seen your gift, a Canon EX-210 digital camera and playback unit. I'm sorry I wasn't there to present it personally, but I guess this will have to do. Ahem. 'Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you; Happy Birthday, dear Diane, Happy Birthday to you.' What can I say, sometimes the most cliched expressions of affection are the best ones. If you have any trouble installing the playback unit, Denise can help; she's a mean man with a screwdriver. Though I know you'll have no problem. As you have by no doubt noticed, the camera puts pictures both on paper, and on disks, which I will be sending to you regularly with my tapes. Though I know that nothing can replace actually being here, hopefully with the aid of modern technology I can bring you closer to the experience. While in town I shall endeavor to photograph some of the people, places and things that, on my last visit, made memorable my time in Twin Peaks. Beginning with these trees." Trees and trucks sped past Dale B. Cooper's windows as he put down his tape recorder atop the car's dashboard and reached into the back seat, pulling out a compact black camera. It was an excellent match for the recorder, covered with similar plastic, shaped by similar curves, and having a red shutter button to match the red 'record' button on the tape machine. Dale held both the camera and the green steering wheel with his right hand, while opening the side window with his left. Then he switched hands on the wheel and twisted around under his seat belt, holding up the camera to his face and out the window, maintaining some control of the car. Through the viewfinder, the trees were a digitized blur, appearing to move somewhat slower if he aimed ahead or behind the car, instead of straight out beside him. He slowly looked back and forth, framing the shot, while his Dodge Reliant swerved, bounced and careened itself down the highway. Dale took no notice of this until a maroon-cabbed logging truck, apparently the size of Spokane, rushed through the viewfinder, blocking the shot, accompanied by the menacing bellow of its airhorn. He quickly squeezed the trigger and returned within the car, straightening himself in his seat as well as the car on the road, steering out of the oncoming traffic. He pulled out the instant picture from the camera, placing the machine on the seat beside him. He looked briefly at the picture, not yet developed, a shiny black space surrounded by a white frame. He returned his eyes to the road, closed the window, stuck the picture on the dash and picked up his tape recorder, his forehead slightly furrowed. "Diane, I hope this first picture was worth it, considering the danger I faced in taking it. I hope, for posterity's sake, that it won't be just a green blur, or a snapshot of the end of a logging truck; those would be bad omens for my newfound hobby. As I drive I note, with some discomfort, an increase in the number of potholes in the road since my last visit two years ago. I guess that Washington is suffering from a lack of funds, but what state isn't these days. In the more immediate environment, in the region of my bladder to be specific, the increased bumpiness of the ride means I'll need to make a pit stop a bit earlier than expected. I was going to wait for lunch until I got into town, but the Lamplighter Inn is just a few miles up the road, and an airline's idea of breakfast does not define proper nourishment in any case. I'll bet you though that my 1992 dollars won't buy me as much ham, pancakes, and coffee as they did in 1990. But what'll you do? "Higher cost of living aside, it'll be a pleasure to return to Twin Peaks. I've been negligent in my correspondence with Harry, and a personal visit is the only way to make up for that. That I was called as a member of the Bookhouse Boys may imply some portent to why Harry called me here, but that in no way affects the pleasure this trip will surely bring me. Anyway, I've missed this place. No other place, aside from my hometown, has felt as much like home. And now Gordon will stop pestering me about taking some vacation time. Is it just me, Diane, or does Gordon seem awfully concerned about my well-being? By the way, tell Albert I said thanks for the meditation book, but I am still having trouble attaining the proper state of relaxation. I know I won't have that problem here." Dale drove on in silence, taking in the majesty of the forest, keeping the car within its lane. The blue sky ahead of him held small white clouds, drifting towards the horizon from the north. He watched them. "Diane, in the clouds above me I see a small bag of marbles, a coffee-cup saucer and a Boston-cream-filled doughnut; two of these associations indicate I should be ordering the Lumberjack's special when I reach the Lamplighter, instead of my regular ham and pancakes. "April Fool's Day. Today I'll see how it gets celebrated in Twin Peaks. Perhaps I'll even be the victim of an April Fool's prank. Man, I remember the worst prank I was ever the patsy for, back when I was in high school. It was in Civics class; Sticky Roget told me that J. Edgar Hoover was going to speak for the whole school that afternoon. I feigned a need to urinate, a lie I still sometimes feel guilty about, exited the class and ran home to change. I returned seventeen minutes later, in my black suit and tie, to the racous laughter of Sticky and several of his friends. I actually cried that night. Can you believe that? "Which somehow reminds me -- tonight I must bring flowers to Audrey's grave." Though looking straight out at the road, the photograph on the dash caught his attention. He picked up the picture and looked at it. It was the worst of omens; a wash of green with a Great Fir log and a truck bumper jutting out of the left-hand side of the frame. Cooper grimaced. "This does not speak well of --" Slowly, like thick oil sliding down metal, the end of the logging truck moved off into the frame, gone. Then, the woods seemed to slow from the image of blurriness, collecting themselves into still-standing trees as Dale watched. An owl flew out from within the tree in the middle of the picture, slowly approaching and engulfing the space of the frame. A voice whispered: "....dddaaallleee...." Dale's hand struck and broke through the side window, sending picture into the air and recorder skittling across the highway into a ditch. Slowly, shaking, Dale pulled the car into the emergency lane and turned on his hazard lights, parking. He got out of the car, left hand cupping his other, bleeding, hand, and stood by the edge of the road, waiting for the traffic to ease, so he could reclaim his belongings. ^ End of part One ^ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Next time: Party preparedness with Andy and Lucy - One Deputy and a Baby - Truman struggling with sheriff's duties - and Dick plays a trick --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Christopher J. Foster cfoster@eagle.wesleyan.edu or cfoster@wesleyan.bitnet ---------------------------------------------------------------------------