The Threat of the Crystal Skull

  

 

“There’s something in the air telling me to do it, do it, do it.”

—Arturo Accio

 

“There are things that are better left unsaid, not yet,” Marietta said, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “And some that are better left unsaid. It’s better that way.”

I nodded, resigned to the fact that some of my questions would go unanswered, as the waitress took away my previous cup, and I set aside the book of poetry by Arturo Accio that I had been reading while waiting for Marietta to bring me a second cup. Under her apron, the girl wore a green t-shirt, the uniform of the National Team. The World Cup was a widespread obsession.

It was the first time I had seen Marietta Là-bas in person, and it didn’t surprise me that she attracted the attention of those who had just entered Madoka. Contrary to what some might assume, her height and figure weren't the main reasons, but rather her attire: a tight-fitting, short dress of intense red, and a matching cape, which, even with the hood folded back, was still an unusual garment, to say the least. Red-framed glasses completed an image that couldn't go unnoticed. I noticed a change: her hair was black again. The first time I saw her, a year earlier, in a photograph, she had similar black hair, although shorter; the portrait I took of her for the book Snowy’s Collar, using that photo as a reference, depicted her that way. But shortly afterward, some videos, and a video call, showed her as a blonde woman; when I asked her about it on that occasion, during our first direct communication—she in Milan, I in Guadalajara—she explained that her hair was naturally blonde; Before that, she had worn a wig to resemble her grandmother, Celeste, whose style and alias—used when she was part of the resistance during the Nazi occupation of France—she had inherited: Lady Satan.

Her hair really did look natural. Leaving aside some women's penchant for changing their hair color, I suspected that her intention from the beginning had been to conceal her true natural color. Her eyebrows were dark, though. When she told me her last name, however, I assumed it was a pseudonym inspired by J.K. Huysmans; but when I looked for information about her, however scarce, what I found confirmed her family name. Given her subversive activities, I found it strange that she wasn't concerned about concealing her identity, and I brought this up with her.

"We're not in a comic strip," she replied; "these days it's almost impossible to hide the identity of certain people and organizations. But there's no real risk to anyone."

In the seat next to her, still looking at her cell phone, Tamara Drew cleared her throat.

Marietta looked with a crooked smile at the short-haired blonde girl who had come with her. For more than six months, she had taken Tamara in as her partner in many of her activities and, above all, as an apprentice in the ways of the Italian lineage of Stregoneria, or Witchcraft, to which her family belonged. Tammy was, in turn, the heir to another notable lineage, the Drew family of Appalachia, to which the renowned paranormal investigator, Dr. Desmond Drew, had belonged. But alongside her personal practice of Neopagan Witchcraft, Tammy followed in the footsteps of another ancestor of hers who had been immortalized in popular culture: Detective Nancy Drew, whose adventures in the 1930s had been novelized by Carolyn Keene, just as Will Eisner had chronicled Dr. Desmond Drew.(1)

"You're safe in that regard," Marietta assured her. "That's why there are some things I do on my own." But the kind of people who would be interested in stopping me aren't mafias; they do things directly. I interest them, you don't.

"Now it turns out I'm not interesting," Tamara retorted, placing her cell phone on the table; although it was obvious she wasn't serious, it was just casual sarcasm.

"Nothing makes you happy."

"Speaking of mafias," I interrupted, "in this country we do have their equivalent. Can you tell me what they came here to do, or is it also too unsafe to say?" Marietta adopted a more serious demeanor.

"Right now your city has a serious problem with the water supply."

"Yes, sewage mixed with the drinking water. And it's loaded with mercury, lead, and heavy metals. The director of SIAPA (2) hasn't shown his face..." I interrupted myself, thinking about it. "Aren't you saying that...?"

"Again, there are things that are better left unsaid. Maybe later." I thought about it for a moment, shook my head, and asked:

"So, you were saying we're waiting for someone?"

"She arrived a couple of minutes ago, she's ordering a drink," Tammy said, pointing toward the café counter. I turned and immediately recognized the girl standing with her back to us, talking to a waitress; copper-skinned, with short, slightly spiky black hair, jeans, a black top, and a long purple scarf despite the heat. "I think she anticipated how slow the service is now that the staff is distracted by a World Cup program on TV," Tammy added. "At least they have the sound turned down."

A moment later, Jenny Everywhere turned around and approached our table with a smile.

“Hi!” she greeted Marietta with a hug, and me with a gesture, as Marietta introduced her to Tammy. “Didn’t Viveros come?”

She was referring to my friend and fellow writer Héctor Viveros; we had both met her almost a year ago. (3)

“He had another commitment,” I explained. Jenny sat down and began rummaging in her bag; she pulled out a piece of paper folded several times and handed it to Marietta.

“Here’s what I promised,” she said. She proceeded to explain that the young Belgian journalist they had met in Missouri a year earlier had asked her to give it to her when he learned he would see her there. Marietta spread it out on the table: it was a map; an island was depicted in detail on it. Tamara and I leaned over to look as well, and I noticed the name of the place written at one end: Lamb Island. This surprised me. Lamb Island, a small private island whose owner, the famous psychic Ari Heller, had transformed into a symbolic nation, whose nominal citizenship could be acquired, in the form of a diploma, with funds raised for various charities. Why did Lady Satan need it?

"What are you planning to do on the island?" I asked. "Is that something you might want to know?"

"Lamb Island is private, and it belongs to Ari Heller," she said; I realized I hadn't mentioned knowing this, but I didn't want to interrupt one of Marietta's rare communicative moments. Her French accent was almost imperceptible. "You do know him, right? The psychic who became famous in the 1970s and made bending spoons with telekinesis his trademark, even during a live television broadcast."

"I remember him," I said. "I still have a spoon that got twisted when my mother and grandmother saw him on Mexican television."

“Months ago,” Marietta continued, “when the war against Iran began, Heller offered it to Ronald Drumpf to establish a base there for his air strike force against the Iranians.”

“That’s the opposite of what he said he wanted on his island,” Tammy pointed out, shaking her head. “He presented it as a symbolic ‘country’ of harmony for all humanity. It’s a good thing that proposal didn’t materialize.”

“It didn’t materialize, as far as we know,” Marietta corrected. I looked at her, surprised.

“So something was done in secret…?”

“That’s what we intend to find out.”

“What’s up with these rich people and their private islands?” Jenny complained. “I’m not offering to accompany them; I had enough of islands with the visit to Eppenstein Island a few weeks ago.” My gaze drifted to the book of Arturo Accio’s poems on the table, and I was about to make a silly, humorous comment, but I fell silent when I looked at Jenny. Her face was troubled by the memory of some experience she'd had there. From what I knew of her, she must have been used to many things; but that island had been the scene of some of the most terrible events. My imagination tried to guess what they might have found, and I blocked those thoughts as best I could.

"We'll manage," Marietta said.

"And what else have I done, Heller?" Jenny asked. "Is she still giving Drumpf psychic support?"

"It seems she occasionally visits Israeli troops to encourage them," Tammy replied. Jenny looked at her, puzzled.

"Israel?"

"Ari lives in Jerusalem," Tammy explained; "that's why she's so vehemently opposed to Palestine."

"Obviously, she supports Drumpf not because she's pro-American," I added, "but because Drumpf has been supporting Israel's interests." He was the only president who gave in to Neshayahu's insistence that North America support them in their war. I can't believe that so many in Israel support an alliance with a regime that has the full backing and participation of its neo-Nazi movements. That's truly making a pact with the devil, in the popular sense.

"And it's only thanks to that that we find ourselves now in World War III," Jenny finished, crossing her arms and leaning back. Just then, the waitress placed a latte and toast in front of her, and her face lit up.

I had followed Ari Heller on Facebook for several years; in fact, I had applied for citizenship on his island because I liked his project, but I had withdrawn my application after seeing the video in which Heller offered the island for Drumpf's troops. I took out my phone and looked at his profile. I didn't expect to find a direct mention of Mexico recently posted by him.

“Now she’s really gone too far,” I said. They looked at me curiously, but I kept reading for a few seconds until Jenny gave me a gentle nudge. Then I said, “I’m looking at the post Ari just made a couple of hours ago. She posted a picture of herself holding a crystal skull, like the one Pancho Villa and Ambrose Bierce supposedly had. (6) And he says…” I began to read the post aloud, “‘Friends, I’m going to grant the England team the ultimate power to beat Mexico next Monday! I’ll do this with the help of an ancient Mexican crystal skull! I’ve kept this relic for many years, which could very well be of extraterrestrial origin, ever since I discovered it telepathically, hidden in a Mayan pyramid.’ At this point, I paused and pointed out, “By the way, a few years ago, I had already posted pictures of that skull; on that occasion, I didn’t say anything about having ‘found it telepathically.’” She claimed that Mexican President López Portillo had given it to her as a gift, and that he had told her it was found in a pyramid. (7) This time she's altering her story to add drama. I continue reading: “‘I intend to use the supernatural energy it contains to take England to the quarterfinals. Of course, I don't perform miracles or become a prophet, but I will do everything in my power! But you should know that conspiracies are already underway to sabotage the England team: Mexican cartels have placed billions of bets on Mexico's victory and will stop at nothing, not even violence. They are even trying to change the start time of the match to noon, in the middle of the hot season! The sabotage has already begun. I have noticed that Mexican fans, even some journalists, are trying to disrupt England's preparations. They hope to make public the location of the hotel where the players are staying so that Mexican fans can party all night, making it impossible for them to sleep and rest the night before the game. Believe it or not, I have a Mexican passport and I was a Mexican federal secret agent for President López Portillo, who granted me Mexican nationality!’ Here he tags the manager of the England national team,” I clarified. “‘I know what I’m talking about! Don’t take any risks! Reinforce security measures for the players and fire all the Mexican bodyguards immediately. And don’t trust the food, it might be poisoned! Bring your own food.’”

“Wow,” Jenny said.

“How outrageous!” Tamara exclaimed. “He’s recommending firing the Mexican bodyguards overnight? He could put innocent people out of work because of his paranoia. Can I see that?” I put my phone in her hand.

“Well, he is psychic,” Jenny shrugged. “And I’m sure the drug cartels are amateurs.”

“It would have happened many times before if they did that kind of thing,” I pointed out. “But he’s talking about his actual intention to interfere with the results through magical means; he’s simply assuming that if he’s capable of that, the cartels can try it in their own way.” “He’s a psychic, not a magician,” Marietta corrected me. “Anyway, we have to put this in context. Heller is a celebrity; his opinion carries weight. And as someone who has publicly supported Drumpf’s racist regime, what he’s saying is a smear campaign against Mexicans, and he intends to back it up not only with his ‘hunches’ but with his personal knowledge of Mexico. If he didn’t do this, say, during the previous World Cup, then it can’t be a coincidence that he’s doing it right now, when MAGA has gained strength and Drumpf has been threatening military intervention in Mexico, using the cartels as justification.”

“It’s magic he says he’ll do using his skull…” I insisted, but I was interrupted. “What are you doing?” Tammy was typing something on my phone. She handed it back to me with a satisfied smile. I looked at the screen: I had just replied to Ari Heller's post with the words "Marietta Says" and an image, a colored copy of the Lady Satan portrait I had drawn the previous year, to which I had added the text, "It's on, b****!" "Hey!" I protested. "But this is from my account!" Tammy shrugged.

"Ari brought it on himself; let's see how we get it."

Marietta looked at what Tammy had written and raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't have to use my first name," she said. "Anyway, we have more important things to do than a football match."

Tammy looked at her without abandoning her somewhat boastful attitude.

"Look at it this way," she said. "Like Jenny says, Ari is psychic; if his senses warn him about you, he'll think you're just going to counteract his influence on the match, and he won't suspect that we'll be on his island." Besides, admit it, doesn't he deserve for us to ruin his attempt to stick his spoon into the championship?

Marietta bowed her head, her expression showing how impressed Tammy had been.

“I can’t argue with that,” she conceded. “But anyway, our priority is the island. I’ll leave the counter-spell for the match to you, though you know I’ll support you on it.”

“It’s going to be tough,” I pointed out. “Ari’s trick has always been manipulating people’s beliefs. He’d tell people, ‘Put a spoon in front of your TV; now concentrate on me, and I’ll bend the spoon’; and sometimes the spoon would bend. He’d get people to concentrate; there would be a lot of psychics watching a national broadcast. They’d bend the spoon themselves, and Ari would take the credit. In this case, he’ll have all his fans believing in his power, putting their faith in his skull work; and he’s surely counting on many Mexicans, particularly some players, to doubt him because they fear his powers are effective.”

“That’s why I put up the picture with Mari’s portrait,” Tamara replied. So, they know Lady Satan will oppose Ari, and they'll visualize her like in that drawing; on Monday we're going to work using the drawing as a focal point—she winked. Two can play the same game. Won't your coven want to support us?—she asked me suddenly—I think they have an advantage in this case…

I wasn't particularly interested in supporting a sports team, but I listened to her argument, and it made sense. I'll omit it for now; as Marietta said, there are some things that are better left unsaid… yet.

"You should have put 'Lady Satan' and not Marietta," Jenny agreed with Marietta's earlier observation.

"That way we don't scare off those who might be frightened by 'Satan'"—again, we had no arguments to refute her. At eighteen, Tammy had a remarkable understanding of magic and parapsychology; Marietta couldn't have taught her so much in just a few months. I could see why her mental agility was so well-suited to the detective work she intended to pursue.

"Well then," Jenny said, after finishing her second slice of toast, "I suppose we'll look into that matter of the city's drinking water tonight? I know you like to do everything at night."

Marietta took off her red glasses to clean them and smiled.

"Always."

The conversation moved on, but deep down, I kept thinking about the matter. The World Cup couldn't interest me less; but under these circumstances, for the first time, I hoped Mexico would win Monday's game. These were strange times…

Not the End...

 

Credits

“The Threat of the Crystal Skull” Copyright © 2025 Luis G. Abbadie. Debe ser reproducida siempre acreditando al autor.

Tamara Drew is an original creation of Luis G. Abbadie, and first appeared in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. Siete pasos hacia el Abismo (Tubal Albainn, 2026).

Lady Satan, originally published in Dynamic Comics 2 (1941) and 3 (1942) and in Red Seal Comics 17 (1946) and subsequent issues, her best-known version was created by George Tuska; she is in the public domain due to legal peculiarities.

The character Jenny Everywhere is available for anyone to use, with one condition: this paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, so that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

Ari Heller was created by Gonzalo Martré and Víctor Cruz in “The Supernatural Golden Statue”, a story published in Fantomas la Amenaza Elegante 2-265 (1976); he is taken up again here as a tribute to the works of his creators.

The Available Heroes is a series of stories that bring back classic public domain characters, orphaned or open source, to face the challenges of today's world.

This is a work of fiction, in which any resemblance to real-life characters and situations is subject to the rules of parody, and is not intended in any way to constitute a faithful representation of reality. 

Notes 

1) Tamara met Marietta in Nancy y el misterio del grimorio. 

2) Intermunicipal System of Drinking Water and Sewerage Services.

3) In "Intermission 3.5"

4) The journalist in question is Tintin, and this took place in El collar de Milú - un misterio en tres centurias.

5) En Las Muchas Vidas de Octobriana: Tercera Guerra Mundial.

6) The link between both is explained in El último relato de Ambrose Bierce.

7) In a post dated August 26, 2023.