Red Winged Pig
Red Winged Pig
Author: justanillusion, LJ's draconia_99
Genre: The Mentalist fanfic & James “The Amazing” Randi tribute fic, one-shot
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Patrick Jane. Besides, my couch is already occupied by Hector the Ginger Cat. I don’t own James Randi either, although I kind of wish he were my grandfather. The Pigasus Awards are © of James Randi and the JREF.
Summary: Patrick Jane meets James Randi meets (sort of) Friedrich Nietzsche.
Set before Jane joins the CBI, mostly post Red-John. Slight spoilers for 2/10 “Throwing Fire”.
April 2004, the Jane family residence, California
“This is outrageous! How dare he! Who does he think he is!”
The Sunday paper flies into the corner of the room. With his wife watching him anxiously, Patrick Jane paces the dining hall back and forth, fuming.
“How dare he!”
Evading his wife’s comforting touch, his face red with anger, he strides out into the morning sun. With a defeated sigh, the petite woman bends down to collect the paper. As she stands up, her sight falls on the headlines: The James Randi Educational Foundation Annual Pigasus Awards Her interest aroused, she reads on, all the way to category number 4, “The Psychic who fooled the most people”. And yes, there it is: ... this year, the award goes to the (in)famous psychic, prophet, seer, and visionary Patrick Jane ...
Three years later, Florida
Memories. Our memories make us who we are, and yet, as Patrick Jane approaches the inconspicuous house sunk in greenery, he wishes he could wipe his mind clean and begin anew. Memories. They are both a blessing and a curse, and for Patrick Jane, they are more often a curse than a blessing. But today, he travelled across the whole country to deal with one particular memory, to set one more thing in his life right. He may never be able to fix everything, but trying, and succeeding at times, is the only thing that makes him able to go on.
His eyes fall on the shield that hangs in the entrance. James Randi - Charlatan reads the proud announcement. James Randi ... the memories take over once again.
Dear Mr. Randi,
First of all, thank you and your Foundation for honoring me with this year’s Pigasus Award. I feel privileged to appear in the company of Dr. Rogerio Lobo and Sylvia Browne.
Secondly, allow me to express my concern for you. You are an old and lonely man, and I can tell you one thing, you bitterness at my successful life has taken the better of you. Amazing? No, you are not amazing. You are a small, pitiful man hiding behind that ludicrous foundation of yours.
People like Sylvia Browne and I offer comfort to those who have lost their beloved ones. What is it that you can offer, Mr. Randi?
The world is not interested in any winged pigs of yours.
Sincerely,
Patrick Jane
Jane shakes his head, willing to banish the letter he had once written from his head. What had driven him to write those poisonous words?
Taking a deep breath, he covers the steps and knocks ... into the void, as the door opens before his knuckles even touch the wood. He smiles, thinking to himself he should have noticed the camera over the entrance door. As he steps over the threshold, the door behind him shuts with a thud.
“Hello!” He shouts into the book-lined corridor. “Mr. Randi!” No answer. The corridor ends with a staircase and, after a few more tentative hellos, Jane ascends the stairs, expecting to find a passage at the top. But there is just one more bookcase up there.
Alright. Think. Jane carefully inspects the book-lined walls. If you were hiding a secret entrance, which book would you use? No, not the obvious ones, this is Randi. Wormholes and Parallel Universes? That must be it!
With a decisive move, Jane pulls at the book.
And the whole bookcase slides backwards and to the side, revealing an unexpectedly small man standing in the entrance. His eyes glow with life and his wide smile is contagious.
“Welcome, Mr. Jane! I figured you would find the way in here ... although, I must say, you did impressively well! What gave me in?”
Jane watches his carefully planned conversation opening slide through his hands. There is no way he can have the upper hand with this man in his home territory. Better to just play his game and look for a way to salvage his plan.
“You do not believe in wormholes. You gave the 2004 Pigasus award to the United States Air Force Laboratory for funding research on them. I would remember that, I got my own winged pig that year. A little late, but I’ve come to collect my prize.”
Now Randi looks slightly bewildered. “Collect your prize,” he repeats absent-mindedly. “But yes, come in, Mr. Jane, come on in,” he slips into the role of a host, beckoning Jane to follow him into a well-lit study and take a seat in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs in the corner.
“Now tell me, Mr. Jane, why are you here?”
“I ... came to apologize. For the letter I’ve written in response to the Pigasus, for the comments about you that I made in the media. They were bitter and unfair.”
Randi smiles, but his eyes show concern: “I accept your apology. But tell me, why now? Why after three years, why not before or not at all? It’s a long forgotten affair.”
Now, it’s Jane’s time to be puzzled. When he decided to visit Randi, he made himself ready for just about anything. All things considered, he did not really expect to be let in. And now here he was, sitting in a comfy armchair with a cup of tea in his hands, and this weird man opposite him is showing not anger or hatred, but genuine concern.
“There are things I’ve done in the past that I am ashamed of. I can’t take most of that back, can’t change the past, but I can at least try to set some things right.” But enough, enough of this senseless chatter, Jane thinks. There’s something about the older man that makes him want to spill out his heart to him right here and now, but he knows better than that. Shifting the conversation to Randi should provide a safe ground. But it’s Randi who speaks before Jane makes his next move.
“And now you’re going to ask why I am after ‘psychics’ and similar scam, right?”
“Scam?!”
“Oh, come on, you and I know very well there’s no such thing as psychics.”
Jane’s eyes scan the room and the props scattered haphazardly on the shelves and on the large table in the middle. In a flashback, he sees his father lift the pack of cards, offering his invisible audience to pick one ...
“But does it really matter where the comfort you’re offering comes from? Does it matter so much that it’s observation, cold reading and trickery, if ultimately, you’re delivering hope?” Jane’s voice is intense now.
“Hope? Friedrich Nietzsche once said that hope is the worst of all evils - and you know what his reasoning was?”
Jane shakes his head, Nietzsche being clearly beyond him. He’s an illusionist and trickster, not a philosopher.
The older man’s eyes are alight with interest and curiosity. “When a man loses someone dear, what will deliver him from his suffering?”
“Revenge,” Jane answers, without hesitation, his voice hoarse now. Randi notices a tinge of obsession, even madness, in the younger man’s eyes. This is not a philosophical statement, this is raw reality. Intrigued as to what wounds Jane is hiding away from him, but knowing that asking will bring him nowhere, Randi sidesteps the answer.
“That’s just a means to an end. What I had in mind is the final deliverance - the ability to move on.”
“To move on...” Jane repeats, contemplatively. This makes sense, hasn’t he so many times thought revenge would finally bring him peace? Alleviate the pain and the guilt and erase the images that his mind tends to flash back into his consciousness at the most unexpected times?
“Hope, my friend,” Randi continues, “prolongs the torments of man. I think Nietzsche was spot-on here.”
Hope prolongs the torments of man ... The words resound in Jane’s head and set off a cannonade of images flashing in front of his eyes. Young Patrick, so proud of his abilities, blatantly showing off to everyone around, but especially to his father. Alex Jane, never satisfied. Gigs here and there, always the same. A girl in a wheelchair. So small so fragile so helpless. The feelings of horror and pity and shame oh such shame. Her eyes, begging not for hope, but for truth. The large tormented tear-filled eyes. Tears father money tears and dark pitch-black night.
Patrick Jane fights back the tears that threaten to fill his eyes as he remembers the night when he sold his soul.
Will he ever win it back?
James Randi sits quietly, observing the younger man obviously struggling with some suppressed memories he and Nietzsche unleashed. As the haunted expression leaves Jane’s eyes, the old magician decides to respect the privacy of his guest. Instead of pressing for explanations of the sudden silence, Randi stands up and moves over to the table which is covered with packs of cards, gimmicks, and various illusionist paraphernalia. He takes a little unobtrusive object into his hand.
“This is something I invented. Would you mind helping me try it out?”
A sparkle of interest appears in Jane’s eyes, and he gets up to join Randi. Soon, the two men are lost in the fascinating world of magic and illusion like two boys in a toy store. Time flies by at breathtaking speed.
A few hours later, the two men, now friends for life, embrace on Randi’s doorstep and say goodbye. Patrick Jane walks into the night, his head up high, looking into the starry sky.
It is first in his hotel room that he unpacks the gift Randi pressed into his hands before closing the door behind him. It is a framed picture of a silver flying pig on a blue background. The Pigasus award. Patrick Jane smiles.
He will win his soul back. And he knows how.
**Fin**
Author: justanillusion, LJ's draconia_99
Genre: The Mentalist fanfic & James “The Amazing” Randi tribute fic, one-shot
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Patrick Jane. Besides, my couch is already occupied by Hector the Ginger Cat. I don’t own James Randi either, although I kind of wish he were my grandfather. The Pigasus Awards are © of James Randi and the JREF.
Summary: Patrick Jane meets James Randi meets (sort of) Friedrich Nietzsche.
Set before Jane joins the CBI, mostly post Red-John. Slight spoilers for 2/10 “Throwing Fire”.
April 2004, the Jane family residence, California
“This is outrageous! How dare he! Who does he think he is!”
The Sunday paper flies into the corner of the room. With his wife watching him anxiously, Patrick Jane paces the dining hall back and forth, fuming.
“How dare he!”
Evading his wife’s comforting touch, his face red with anger, he strides out into the morning sun. With a defeated sigh, the petite woman bends down to collect the paper. As she stands up, her sight falls on the headlines: The James Randi Educational Foundation Annual Pigasus Awards Her interest aroused, she reads on, all the way to category number 4, “The Psychic who fooled the most people”. And yes, there it is: ... this year, the award goes to the (in)famous psychic, prophet, seer, and visionary Patrick Jane ...
Three years later, Florida
Memories. Our memories make us who we are, and yet, as Patrick Jane approaches the inconspicuous house sunk in greenery, he wishes he could wipe his mind clean and begin anew. Memories. They are both a blessing and a curse, and for Patrick Jane, they are more often a curse than a blessing. But today, he travelled across the whole country to deal with one particular memory, to set one more thing in his life right. He may never be able to fix everything, but trying, and succeeding at times, is the only thing that makes him able to go on.
His eyes fall on the shield that hangs in the entrance. James Randi - Charlatan reads the proud announcement. James Randi ... the memories take over once again.
Dear Mr. Randi,
First of all, thank you and your Foundation for honoring me with this year’s Pigasus Award. I feel privileged to appear in the company of Dr. Rogerio Lobo and Sylvia Browne.
Secondly, allow me to express my concern for you. You are an old and lonely man, and I can tell you one thing, you bitterness at my successful life has taken the better of you. Amazing? No, you are not amazing. You are a small, pitiful man hiding behind that ludicrous foundation of yours.
People like Sylvia Browne and I offer comfort to those who have lost their beloved ones. What is it that you can offer, Mr. Randi?
The world is not interested in any winged pigs of yours.
Sincerely,
Patrick Jane
Jane shakes his head, willing to banish the letter he had once written from his head. What had driven him to write those poisonous words?
Taking a deep breath, he covers the steps and knocks ... into the void, as the door opens before his knuckles even touch the wood. He smiles, thinking to himself he should have noticed the camera over the entrance door. As he steps over the threshold, the door behind him shuts with a thud.
“Hello!” He shouts into the book-lined corridor. “Mr. Randi!” No answer. The corridor ends with a staircase and, after a few more tentative hellos, Jane ascends the stairs, expecting to find a passage at the top. But there is just one more bookcase up there.
Alright. Think. Jane carefully inspects the book-lined walls. If you were hiding a secret entrance, which book would you use? No, not the obvious ones, this is Randi. Wormholes and Parallel Universes? That must be it!
With a decisive move, Jane pulls at the book.
And the whole bookcase slides backwards and to the side, revealing an unexpectedly small man standing in the entrance. His eyes glow with life and his wide smile is contagious.
“Welcome, Mr. Jane! I figured you would find the way in here ... although, I must say, you did impressively well! What gave me in?”
Jane watches his carefully planned conversation opening slide through his hands. There is no way he can have the upper hand with this man in his home territory. Better to just play his game and look for a way to salvage his plan.
“You do not believe in wormholes. You gave the 2004 Pigasus award to the United States Air Force Laboratory for funding research on them. I would remember that, I got my own winged pig that year. A little late, but I’ve come to collect my prize.”
Now Randi looks slightly bewildered. “Collect your prize,” he repeats absent-mindedly. “But yes, come in, Mr. Jane, come on in,” he slips into the role of a host, beckoning Jane to follow him into a well-lit study and take a seat in one of the comfortable-looking armchairs in the corner.
“Now tell me, Mr. Jane, why are you here?”
“I ... came to apologize. For the letter I’ve written in response to the Pigasus, for the comments about you that I made in the media. They were bitter and unfair.”
Randi smiles, but his eyes show concern: “I accept your apology. But tell me, why now? Why after three years, why not before or not at all? It’s a long forgotten affair.”
Now, it’s Jane’s time to be puzzled. When he decided to visit Randi, he made himself ready for just about anything. All things considered, he did not really expect to be let in. And now here he was, sitting in a comfy armchair with a cup of tea in his hands, and this weird man opposite him is showing not anger or hatred, but genuine concern.
“There are things I’ve done in the past that I am ashamed of. I can’t take most of that back, can’t change the past, but I can at least try to set some things right.” But enough, enough of this senseless chatter, Jane thinks. There’s something about the older man that makes him want to spill out his heart to him right here and now, but he knows better than that. Shifting the conversation to Randi should provide a safe ground. But it’s Randi who speaks before Jane makes his next move.
“And now you’re going to ask why I am after ‘psychics’ and similar scam, right?”
“Scam?!”
“Oh, come on, you and I know very well there’s no such thing as psychics.”
Jane’s eyes scan the room and the props scattered haphazardly on the shelves and on the large table in the middle. In a flashback, he sees his father lift the pack of cards, offering his invisible audience to pick one ...
“But does it really matter where the comfort you’re offering comes from? Does it matter so much that it’s observation, cold reading and trickery, if ultimately, you’re delivering hope?” Jane’s voice is intense now.
“Hope? Friedrich Nietzsche once said that hope is the worst of all evils - and you know what his reasoning was?”
Jane shakes his head, Nietzsche being clearly beyond him. He’s an illusionist and trickster, not a philosopher.
The older man’s eyes are alight with interest and curiosity. “When a man loses someone dear, what will deliver him from his suffering?”
“Revenge,” Jane answers, without hesitation, his voice hoarse now. Randi notices a tinge of obsession, even madness, in the younger man’s eyes. This is not a philosophical statement, this is raw reality. Intrigued as to what wounds Jane is hiding away from him, but knowing that asking will bring him nowhere, Randi sidesteps the answer.
“That’s just a means to an end. What I had in mind is the final deliverance - the ability to move on.”
“To move on...” Jane repeats, contemplatively. This makes sense, hasn’t he so many times thought revenge would finally bring him peace? Alleviate the pain and the guilt and erase the images that his mind tends to flash back into his consciousness at the most unexpected times?
“Hope, my friend,” Randi continues, “prolongs the torments of man. I think Nietzsche was spot-on here.”
Hope prolongs the torments of man ... The words resound in Jane’s head and set off a cannonade of images flashing in front of his eyes. Young Patrick, so proud of his abilities, blatantly showing off to everyone around, but especially to his father. Alex Jane, never satisfied. Gigs here and there, always the same. A girl in a wheelchair. So small so fragile so helpless. The feelings of horror and pity and shame oh such shame. Her eyes, begging not for hope, but for truth. The large tormented tear-filled eyes. Tears father money tears and dark pitch-black night.
Patrick Jane fights back the tears that threaten to fill his eyes as he remembers the night when he sold his soul.
Will he ever win it back?
James Randi sits quietly, observing the younger man obviously struggling with some suppressed memories he and Nietzsche unleashed. As the haunted expression leaves Jane’s eyes, the old magician decides to respect the privacy of his guest. Instead of pressing for explanations of the sudden silence, Randi stands up and moves over to the table which is covered with packs of cards, gimmicks, and various illusionist paraphernalia. He takes a little unobtrusive object into his hand.
“This is something I invented. Would you mind helping me try it out?”
A sparkle of interest appears in Jane’s eyes, and he gets up to join Randi. Soon, the two men are lost in the fascinating world of magic and illusion like two boys in a toy store. Time flies by at breathtaking speed.
A few hours later, the two men, now friends for life, embrace on Randi’s doorstep and say goodbye. Patrick Jane walks into the night, his head up high, looking into the starry sky.
It is first in his hotel room that he unpacks the gift Randi pressed into his hands before closing the door behind him. It is a framed picture of a silver flying pig on a blue background. The Pigasus award. Patrick Jane smiles.
He will win his soul back. And he knows how.
**Fin**