INTERNET DATES FROM HELL (4 page)

“Welcome to Kensington Manor, Ms. Patricia. May I be of assistance?” I realized immediately who it was. With the exception of the gray hair, he was a mirror image of Simon.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kensington,” I responded.

“Lord Kensington, if you please,” he politely demanded.

“In that case,” I replied, “just call me Trish.” He frowned. He looked down at the Italian marble floor and muttered something indecipherable. At that point his wife emerged, or, if you will, stumbled through the doorway.

“So I hear you’re from the States,” Dame Kensington mumbled. It was apparent that she had had way too much to drink by four o’clock in the afternoon.

“I’ll leave you two birds to chirp,” Mr. Kensington reluctantly retorted. As he walked away shaking his head and nervously spinning his pinky ring on his left hand, I still wondered where Simon was.

Dame Kensington added, “Do you know Sandra Bullock, dear? I just loved her in The Net. How about Sharon Stone? Wasn’t she divine in Basic Instinct?”

Before I could answer her slurred questions, Simon finally appeared, dressed like his father. What is it with these guys with their smoking jackets and ascots in the middle of the day, and their nervous fidgeting with the pinky rings on their left hands? Before I could answer Mrs. Kensington, Simon grabbed my arm and rushed me through the double doors, leaving her asking more American movie star questions.

“I am sorry you had to see that, Trish, but there are better things ahead,” Simon insisted as he escorted me down a hallway lined with stone statues of mankind’s greatest philosophers from Socrates to Descartes. Before I knew it, we were in a hall obviously used for dining. Although the table was at least twenty feet long with as many chairs, there were only four place settings apparent at the far end of the table. When I asked Simon if his father and mother would be joining us, he despondently replied, “My father will eat, but his wife will only drink.”

As the three butlers pulled our chairs, Mrs. Kensington who had followed us demurely down the hall, asked me whether I wanted gin or vodka in my martini. When I told her I seldom drink, she shriveled her mouth and said jokingly, “Right. That leaves more for me.” I could see Simon was obviously embarrassed, so I felt the necessity to compliment him on his jacket. Before I could speak, Mr. Kensington entered the room, followed by two cooks and two waiters. The first cook had an enormous silver-covered platter; the second cook had a tremendous tureen with a ladle attached to its side. The waiters carried champagne and wine. Dinner consisted of a roast with rosemary potatoes and carrots. The soup was a light broth, and it all tasted otherworldly.

During the entire time, Dame Kensington got sauced on the gin martinis that she incessantly drank as she rambled on about American cinema and the superior films we Yanks produce. Sensing further embarrassment, Simon interjected that I happened to be a kindergarten teacher and loved my work. I noticed Mr. Kensington’s face drop as his wife blurted forward, “Isn’t that a gas? So was I when I met Mr. Kensington. What a lark! Simon, Jr., happened to be my star pupil. Although Simon was brilliant, Simon’s father insisted I enhance his giftedness.” For the next hour, no one spoke except Mrs. Kensington about her failed attempts at elementary education for the children of York. It seems that once she met and married Mr. Kensington, the community abandoned their respect for

When he wasn’t staring a hole into his roast, Mr. Kensington was staring a hole into me. He was making me very uneasy. Thank God he didn’t try to repeat history with me!

Just when my trepidation reached its peak, a clock rang eight bells. Almost robotically, everyone seemed to move on cue toward his or her respective bed chambers, as did I. I felt hypnotized as if a force much greater than nature was in control. Simon automatically retreated, barely saying good night. After one of the best sleeps I have ever had in my life (or as a rock in the Hudson, as we Yanks would say), I awoke to a very changed Simon and family. Mr. Kensington, Mrs. Kensington, and Simon were all casually dressed at the dining table, which starkly clashed with the way they appeared the night before. After a typical, curt English breakfast we were on the road again, yet this time with less conversation and more driving.

After about ten minutes I broke the silence with the same question he asked me after The Tabard, “Did you sleep well last night?” He responded with an abrupt no and with nothing more. During the drive, I made up my mind. Forget the looks. Forget the intelligence. Forget the wealth. This family had serious issues. All of a sudden we were pulling through the gates of a much different estate. The wooden cattle guards and swinging gates made me feel much more at home. Hopefully the people here would be as different as the surroundings. This time there were no hedgerows, Norway maples, and no crushed limestone, but just a gently winding dirt road, which comfortably led to a modest farmhouse. Within seconds, a kindhearted-looking woman of about seventy opened the door. Even from the distance of approximately one-hundred feet, I sensed compassion. Her blue apron with three little ducks stitched to the pocket convinced me of a sense of sincerity that was lacking in the last home. For a second I thought I was in Ashroken, Long Island, not in Leeds, England. When she waved to us with both arms above her head, I truly felt at home. It almost reminded me of my nana, and the way she used to greet my brothers and me. This time, Simon didn’t open the door for me. He walked somberly, head down, to his “mum,” almost pretending that I didn’t exist. Although they embraced, it wasn’t warm and close. They patted each other on the back respectfully as if they were old war buddies who hadn’t seen each other in twenty-five years. I found it disturbing, but far less so than the scenario that I couldn’t wait to escape just an hour ago.

At that moment a second woman appeared, a little larger than the first, with a similar apron; hers was red with a hunting scene of a fox being chased by dogs stitched on the pocket. Ironically they both looked alike. I don’t know why I fixated on their aprons, but anything was better than those horrific portraits and statues in the Kensington estate. Both women looked exceptionally healthy. As it turned out, they were sisters who found solace in each other’s company twenty years after failed marriages. Joan, Simon’s mum, and June, her sister, each had one son. June’s son, Nigel, had served as the British consul to the United Nations. He now owns a rather lucrative sheep farm in Devon. At this point Simon realized I was still in the car and scurried to introduce me to his mother and his aunt. As soon as I entered the house, June invited me to sit at the kitchen table. The sisters were making pies and stew on a tremendous six-top wood burning stove. I have never seen anything like it in my life. The smell of the wood burning was incredible; no Christmas yuletide or campfire came close to the comfort this cooking fire provided. Joan joined us quickly, apologizing for taking so much time.

“No matter how many times Simon visits me, he always forgets flowers. He’s up on the hillock picking some wild ones for me and his aunt,” Joan expressed. June snickered as she stirred the stew pot, warning Joan to check on the pies. Once Joan opened the oven doors, the aroma sent me reeling.

“Cherry and apple,” Joan said smiling. “Happen to like cherry, dear?”

“Sure, cherry is my favorite and apple a close second,” I replied.

June said, “She’d fit in here like a hand in glove, wouldn’t she Joan?”

“She’s always welcome to visit us.” Joan responded.

Joan finally dropped the bomb. “I take it you just came from Kensington Manor?” Joan asked with a face as serious as the estate itself.

June followed, “What did you think?”

“I really haven’t had much time to think about it. However, I feel much more comfortable here,” I cautiously responded. After a quick glance at each other, the ladies roared laughing, and I fittingly joined them.

Joan reminded me, “We don’t let just anyone sit at our kitchen table.”

They laughed in unison even harder. Before they could stop, Simon entered the door with two bouquets of flowers. Like a ten-year-old, he offered his aunt and his mother the bouquets. I wondered why he didn’t bring me any, and as if by magic, his mother questioned him on the same subject. His response was as cold and calculated as I could have imagined. “I picked the hill dry, Mum, and there’s not a pansy left.” I thought, “Now if I only could get rid of him and coerce one of these fine Englishwomen to drive me to Heathrow, I could save this vacation.” No dice! As fate would have it, neither of the women drove.

During small talk over stew and cherry pie, Simon floored me as he jokingly referred to me as his “potential future wife.” I almost choked on the piecrust! His mum laughed and replied, “How daft. Have you neglected to tell her all those crazy monster stories of yours, Simon?” Simon brushed it off and laughed uncontrollably. That made me curious. What monster stories was she talking about? Should I be concerned? When I questioned the ladies and Simon about these monster stories, they changed the topic as fast as an English rain.

Bidding them farewell, I promised them if I was ever in Leeds again, I would pay them a visit. I had a wonderful time, and I thanked them sincerely. Simon did also; however, this time he had no hug, no pat, but just a handshake for both mother and aunt. This regression of sorts perturbed me.

As we backed the car into a U-turn, I glanced to see both women once again waving with both arms overhead, while Simon stoically concentrated on the drive home. I asked him, “What monster stories are they referring to?”

After a few moments of contemplation he just replied, “It is too risky for me to get into. The fact that I even took the chance to come to the United States to see you was like suicide.”

“I think I have the right to know,” I responded. “After all, you referred to me as your future wife.”

After a pause he divulged his secret. “Look, dear, there’s a price on my head.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

He proceeded to tell me that he had lived in Los Angeles for a few years, and he had been married to an American girl. He said he had gotten into some things and the U.S. government had pursued him. “What things?” I insisted. More silence. Then he continued to share. They had put him into an American jail for a few months. I asked him what kind of stuff he was into. He told me that he was educating the people on covert government operations in Washington, D.C. “Like what?” I asked. It only took one question and Simon spoke for the next two hours. He spewed the following craziness to me:

1.   Washington, D.C., is led by an evil social order, established several hundred years ago, whose insignia can be found on any U.S. currency. This group holds most of the power and influence not only in our government, but also in other governments all over the world.

2.   Our current president is the Antichrist and his wife is a full-fledged witch.

3.   The New World Order directly correlates to World Government Fronts. They have training centers for a global army of psycho-social agents, which are groups that house the masterminds of global transformation strategies.

4.    The obelisk (Washington monument) is demonic and was made to be a phallic symbol, sarcastically symbolic of the male-dominated society in which we live. The entire layout of Washington, D.C., is serpentine, representing the earliest known earthly vision of the devil.

I was stunned. I didn’t know whether to laugh or ask more questions. Because I am a very curious person, I decided to ask more, and he obliged.

5.   The microchip is the beginning of the end. In the book of Revelations, it states that the end of the world will come when the government forces the people of the world to implant a chip into their skin so that every person’s move can be watched. He referred to it as the “Big Brother chip.” This is the way for them to track our lives, including our identities, our bank accounts, our experiences, our plans, our dreams—everything.

“What does this all mean?” I asked.

He replied, “Your government is a representation of the devil! This society is a direct link to the ancient Wiccas, Babels, and Tummuz, which spans thousands of years.”

“How come I’ve never heard of this?” I asked.

Simon responded, “Most people don’t know that in 1776, a man named Adam Weishaupt founded the Luciferic order, which was created as a special order meaning ‘ones with light,’ signifying its members had been initiated into the secret teachings of Lucifer, the supposed ‘light bearer.’” I was both intrigued and afraid. I asked Simon to tell me more. He went on to say that there were conspiracies all over America. He added that the New Mexico government is hiding seven strands of aliens in the desert.

“How do you know?” I inquired. He told me that he has videotapes to prove that aliens exist. He mentioned Amazons, Green Men, and aliens like E.T., among others.

There I was in England, 4,000 miles away from home sweet home, listening to all of this freaky stuff. I didn’t know what to do. I had planned to be in England four more days. How would I get out of this one? What do most people do when they need help to get themselves out of a mess? Yes, they call their mother. That night I called my mom when Simon was asleep, and I told her to call back first thing in the morning to say that I needed to return to the States immediately due to a sick aunt. “I told you so!” my mom replied. “They’re all nuts on the Internet. Should I call the police?” I told my mom I would be OK and would take necessary precautions. First thing in the morning, I’d get my ass out.

I couldn’t sleep that night for obvious reasons. As a periodic insomniac, my remedy has always been reading. Silently I made my way downstairs and stumbled upon Simon’s library, which was filled with many marble notebooks. Each notebook was labeled with a different conspiracy in handwritten thick black marker: “Armageddon,” “The JFK Conspiracy,” “The Beginnings of Witchcraft,” and “Top Secret: Aliens and the Government.” Not only my spine, but also my spirit became chilled. At first I thought the chill was due to England’s damp, cold evenings. However, I quickly realized that meteorology had nothing to do with it. The nature of these innocent-looking schoolgirl notebooks was anything but innocent or elementary. I hastily made my way back up the stairs, double-locking the door as I had promised my mom.