“Marshall Joe” - A Story from My Sleep

I suppose a little explanation might be in order. The day prior to this write-up, I had just ended a graveyard shift. I managed a two-hour nap before I had to meet a friend for tea. Several cups of tea later (heavily-caffeinated, year-aged stuff), I dropped her at her second locale. The friends there - a charming couple - were also homebrewers and still had some of their self-made IPA on tap. Three pints, some “Afro Samurai”, and copious amounts of water later, I returned home. It was about 7PM-ish. I finally crashed around 8.

Four hours later, I awoke. The dream I had was another one of “those”. From time to time, I dream in story form. As in, I’m not the main character, and it follows a linear plot. Thus far I’ve cataloged…oh…six or so. I’ve had three in the last two weeks.

The one you are about to read, I have no excuse for. Perhaps a steady diet of Dos Equis “Most Interesting Man in the Universe” commercials, sleep deprivation, and Google hits to pornstars named “Joe” are to blame. I haven’t a clue…and frankly, I don’t want one. It’s glorious.

MARSHALL JOE

“He preceded his reputation because it wasn’t fast enough.”

“He found the original Writer’s Block and chiseled an image in his likeness.”

“He rediscovered magic in order to light a cigar.”

These are a few of the tall tales ascribed to Joseph Noble; philanthropist, ethnographer, adventurer, writer…pornstar.

The world simply knows him as “Marshall Joe”.

Although he looked rather average, plain he wasn’t. Born into a life of privilege, the son of a brilliant industrialist, and raised on a near-mythical private island - dubbed “Marshall Stallion” by his father, after his wild horse commune - young Joe grew weary of everything coming easy to him. Education, games of chance, women, there was nothing that he couldn’t attain. He simply believed things were easy and they were. That striving to outdo himself became his only weakness, for he was never satisfied.

He set out to prove or disprove myths and legends as a means of stumping his good fortune. Nothing succeeded. While the amount of legends was innumerable, any he turned his attention to were either revealed, debunked, or exploited. Usually to the betterment of humankind.

He successfully traversed the Bermuda Triangle, then later built a beach house on it. By hand.

Atlantis? It became the first underwater casino - the profits of which went to combating world hunger.

When adventures rooted in Old World mythology proved too pedestrian, Joe turned to the more esoteric; such as discovering the lost Mudworm People of the Midwest. A tribe of Minnesotan settlers-turned-aborigines that lived among (and fed off of) giant-sized worms. He lived among them for a week, even adopted a mudworm as a pet.

As his fame grew, so did the need to capture his likeness on camera. Too bad every actor in existence paled in comparison to the actual man. Hollywood blockbusters made about him starred him. Even the inevitable pornographic parody of his exploits featured him in the title role. It became the first crossover hit since Deep Throat.

Still nothing could quench his thirst.

Then an opportunity came from the last place he ever thought to look - the island of his youth. Rumor had it that Noble MetaWorks, the company his father built from the ground up, was involved in the cocaine trade. Not just any cocaine, but powder chased with a rare mineral compound - native to the island - that instilled a state of pure bliss. Describing the experience as a “high” simply didn’t do it justice, it was like being spanked by Buddha himself, then tossed back to reality…naked. Inevitably, addicts committed suicide, but the market was on the rise. Joe had to put a stop to it.

On his return to Marshall Stallion Island, Joe personally oversaw the day-to-day operations of the company, all the while keeping his eyes and ears open for any hint of a hidden drug lab or mining operation. As he dug further, flashbacks from his childhood grew more prevalent. Joe recalled a time - around five years of age - when he discovered a lone robot on the beach. Big head, bug-like eyes, E.T.-ish. For the longest time he thought it only a childlike fantasy.

Until he saw it again.

The robot led him to a series of mini-mineshafts, operated by small men - shadow-black in color, glowing white eyes. Human-sized derricks burrowed into the ground, unearthing something that glowed. He remembered these from his childhood as well. The largest he dubbed “Old Smokey”. The shadowy natives - Little Smokeys. His old memories were coming back to him.

Until he was knocked on conscious.

Joe awoke the next day, covered in white powder, dumped in a cheap motel room, his name on the evening news, and his company under investigation. Overnight, his godlike reputation came a-crashin’. Brow-beaten, downtrodden, broke-as-a-joke, the immortal Joseph Noble finally knew failure.

Like that would stop him, though.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Joe strives to uncover the mystery of Marshall Stallion Island, uproot the drug conspiracy that tarnished his good name, and perhaps seduce a henchwoman or two.

For Marshall Joe only knew failure so success could be that much more sweet.

Tags: adventurer, ethnographer, Joe, philanthropist, pornstar, writer