

## M I G R A T I O N S

### volume II : only the deplorable

### by Ashim Shanker

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2013 by Ashim Shanker

### ISBN-13: 9781311894564

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

### AT THE MOMENT OF WAKING

### ( PARTS _I._ THROUGH _X._ )

### _________________________

### I.

IN a tiny cabin in the woods, an ant paced around inside a glass jar set on a table, staring ravenously at a civilization of mold populating the nearest wall. There...right there before him lay a future for him to ravage and reconstruct according to his own vision of splendor, but before he could reign victorious over their insignificant and momentary lives, before he could rule over the hundreds of subsequent mold generations who would know only a life with him as their King since Time Immemorial, before any of this, it was necessary to flee this invisible prison.

"Boo-ga the Calamity!" he screeched in frustration. He paced more quickly.

Of course, the means of escape seemed a minute detail when taken in comparison with the notion of what one was to do upon escaping. For instance, how was he to go about the invasion? Was the strategy to be planned painstakingly beforehand and each maneuver executed with extreme precision in order to effect gradual gains, or was an all-out blitzkrieg a better way to go? The element of surprise did have its advantages, after all. Beyond this, once the occupation has begun, how were the new civil mandates to be made clear to his fungal subjects? These were important matters to consider in advance. Then again, focusing wholly on these eventualities, which only existed in the hypothetical future and—more tangibly—beyond that glass barrier, could only serve to waste precious time or, worse yet, to wither away one's resolve. Now, it was important to be vigilant. The key was to wait for the right moment.

The opportunity to escape would likely be afforded him by his captor, who slept now peacefully on a mat in the far corner of the room. It seemed far less useful to appeal to this unintelligent man's flawed sense of logic in the hopes of achieving freedom—to wit, this is the same cretin who'd thought placing an ant in a jar was a gesture of kindness—than to wait patiently until that moment in which the arbitrariness of his foolish whims brought him to a self-interested conclusion and, thusly, to a course of action by which the ant's freedom became an unanticipated side effect. Such things were certainly possible. Apparently, it was in a similar fashion that the dimwitted captor himself had managed to depart from his own captivity not six months earlier.

Now, however, the idiot was muttering endlessly to himself in his sleep about something called the 'Ailment.' The ant had not yet learned this word, for he only knew one phrase in that man's language.

"Boo-ga the Calamity!" the ant exclaimed in the hopes of rousing him.

The man stirred, but did not wake. The summer nights in this country were short, but muggy. Often the captor wouldn't be able to sleep, or he would sleep but wake up frequently, presumably with the false notion that he had somewhere important to be, though he seldom left the cabin at all except either to forage for sustenance or to defecate (fortunately, the man had managed to rid himself of that malodorous diaper upon fleeing his internment, though it seemed to take him a few weeks to reacquaint his body to the habit of being housebroken). In the end, once he was down for a sound sleep, it was rare that he would emerge. And then, adrift in dreams, he would almost unfailingly say something aloud to himself about the 'Ailment' as though it were a term or a name which carried great weight for him. Perhaps, 'Ailment' was the name of a childhood teacher or of an elder relative—or, at the very least, of some entity or phenomenon that he regarded with such reverence as to imbue his voice with a deferential tone and his speaking cadence with a cautious, yet flowingly symmetrical poise of solemnity.

Naturally, there was no way of making any determinations either way.

The sunlight now peeked in through the cracks in the door frame. It was difficult to know what hour of morning it was, but only that it was morning.

There was an abrupt knock and then a pause as a piece of paper slipped under the door. "Boo-ga the Calamity!" the ant screeched to the visitor in the hopes that he or she would open the door and let him out, but his pleas went unnoticed.

As the sound of footsteps faded slowly away, solitary black dots crawled out from beneath the downwards-facing, ink-scribbled page. _Ants?_ Dissident words, maybe. Perhaps they were word-ants composed of _semioplasm_.

Whatever the case, at this particular moment, to the ant in the jar, these scurrying black dots were not simply intruders, but worse.

Rivals!

### II.

"... _the Calamity!"_ a tiny voice squeaked from somewhere distant.

Blissfully unaware of the visitor at his doorstep and furthermore unwitting of even his own immediate circumstances, Bunnu reveled now in that breed of memory loss which could only be granted by sleep, resting more peacefully on this particular morning than he ever had on any night during his entire eight-year imprisonment at the Asoka Plains Detention Facility. In fact, he had been sleeping a great deal more than usual, lately, especially since having come to grips with the true nature of the _Ailment_ ; thus, it seemed plausible that this sudden desire to snooze was just one more means of escape for him. Now, in his cabin hideout on the outskirts of the town of Vasalla, he eluded again any meaningful deliberation as to his future recourse, by instead enjoying this rare pleasure of diversion, occasionally resurfacing to a waking state which, after moments of weary disappointment, would propel him again to dive back down as far into his subconscious cocoon as he could possibly manage. Bunnu was no amateur when it came to escape. And even in his drowsiest moments, he understood implicitly that to forget his circumstances, even for a short while, meant first to forget _himself_. _Who_ he was and _why_ he was—to strip it all bare and start from scratch, as it were. In his nearly 250 years of life and, now, as an old emaciated man completely estranged from his family and closest friends—albeit more by circumstance than by choice—he understood the importance of this process and revered it, for there were far greater things to be done and achieved in the dark, uncertain areas of existence than in those circumscribed—and thereby strained—by comprehensibility.

And so it was that wrapped in the gentle solace of his slumbers, his mind wandered to far-off places both in his imagination and memory, as he meditated peacefully, yet senselessly on an open landscape of notions and semblances and on the ineffable permutations thereof, which—to the sleep-doused mind, to its flexible perceptions—rendered themselves all the more convincingly in spite of their elusiveness. One image would loom lastingly within reach and then recede to distant frontiers, fading away—both visually and aurally—as it echoed through forgotten corridors, only to reverberate back and emerge again before the mind's eye in a completely new form, in a completely different incarnation of itself, having shed away—like a serpent—the extraneous skins of its previous life, and yet, having somehow remained oddly connected to all which it had once been.

At one moment, he was a naked and solitary particle, spinning about an unknown axis, traversing unknowable trajectories; and in the next, he was something larger and more complex—he was something which could only know itself by virtue of its interactions with other such particles—for the bonds that formed themselves, innumerably, fixed him into the structure of what seemed a stable and ordered macromolecule, an institution which deemed itself, in its physical entirety, an autonomous and self-governed entity (of course this was an untenable claim on the part of this chemical behemoth, for in its arrogance, it neglects to appease the minority groups within its constituency, which cry impassioned cries for their own liberation and self-rule, until through some undermining feat of enzymic interventionism, the molecular Colossus is overwhelmed on all fronts and made forcibly to yield to the deafening calls for partition, thusly, redistricting itself into a newer and more stable commonwealth of independent molecules); in the moment that followed, he found himself substrate to an enzyme and then, accordingly, he became the enzyme itself, yet this enzyme, too, worked in coordination with something, once again, much larger and more complex than itself to produce a series of functions, the purposes of which were beyond its own capabilities to recognize, but were, nonetheless, the underpinnings of a peculiar process known as _digestion_ ; this process was intricate and the machinery required to facilitate it, equally so, and it was thus that he soon began to fold inward upon himself to endless degrees to take on the form of what was called a digestive _system_ ; he, then, expanded further, for this system, too, was part of a larger whole, a form comprised of many other systems of varying function (electrical impulses shot through him, his frame hardened and covered itself with flexible tissue for the sake of motile function, viscous fluids coursed for the purposes of transporting substances through a branching series of channels and byways, connected to a powerful chambered pump). Exulting now in his new vastness, he grew increasingly disappointed to realize that he was, contrastingly, quite small in relation to his surroundings, as he, in his meticulously-devised human form had now taken on the excessively diminutive role of a serf at the close of the Bronze Age, clothed in rags, laboring with the other freed slaves now in the comparably providential abundance of semi-slavery in the ancient fields of a remote, prehistoric land.

These new circumstances brought with them, aloft in the muggy air, the pervading monition that an individual, immersed as he may be in the thrill of a new persona, must avoid becoming too consumed with this role, lest the role should, itself, succeed in consuming him; mindful of such dangers, he paused briefly from his duties to catch his breath only to discover a procession of men trekking over a distant hilltop, carving into the elaborate stone pillars that lined it the edicts of a young and ambitious king who—unbeknownst to the locals—had long since laid claim to this land, declared as his subjects its peoples, and decreed, for the prosperity and tranquility of both, a series of severe religious and civil codes which, on transgression, bore devastating and horrific consequences; adrift in his secret jealousies and mad yearnings, the sickened and hungry peasant fancied for himself a nature of kingly form, markedly different from that of the enviable totalitarian upon whom he spied: he constructed for himself from the substance of dream his own kingdom where he, too, could be the young and ambitious king—much younger, naturally, than he had been external to this whimsy and more ambitious than the implements at his disposal would allow him to be, for in the depths of his imagination, he could be afforded the luxury of forgetting his age and the fortitude to disentangle from the limitations imposed on him by this simple, passionless existence his unextinguished vigor, until he unleashed from within himself the capacity to reduce to dust and innocuous vibration all which had heretofore comprised his immediate circumstances, leaving in the lurch the diminishing residuum of that lurking phantom called Time; as this youthful, but unlikely sovereign, he ruled with utter malice and unquestionable self-interest—as all autocrats should—over a country made up not of men, nor of any other nature of hominian beast, but rather of blades of grass; and as an embodiment of the grasses' shared hopes and aspirations, his ascendancy to the throne was followed almost immediately by another inexplicable transformation, wherein he found himself assuming the shape of the grass itself, albeit, not in the form of a single, solitary blade, but as the whole of which all solitary blades must invariably become parts; extended further in his fancy, he spread himself beyond the horizons to take on more topographical forms: those of pastures rolling into grass-stalked hills and smoothly-contoured valleys, oscillating upwards and then downwards, convexly then concavely, before descending finally to plains—punctuated by wild grasses, tangles of weeds, roots, and cohabitating mosses—all of whom he forged together into a singular soul, a distinct and consolidated group consciousness which rippled passively in the traversing breeze; if this was not enough, the idling and imaginative peasant was visited quite suddenly by the prospect of consociating with this amalgamated group awareness a realm with which he maintained a greater familiarity: the realm of Man; henceforth, he became the binding force of all social groups, the avatar of that shared pride and sense of belonging that formed the basis of all patriotism; he became the collective search for meaning in the arts, the sciences, the humanities, and abidingly, in religion; then he evolved once more: this time into an unquenchable sense of dread, a nagging lack of assurance brought on by those daunting remainders which purported themselves _negligible_ in the face of their accompanying solutions, as though expecting one to ignore blatantly the ensuant implication that no answer could truly be whole; he, thereupon, assumed the aspect of mathematical determinism, which compelled him rigidly and fastidiously—as though overwrought by a newfound strain of numeric cynicism—to seek to reduce all known quantities to nihility; accordingly he came to languish in a fresh despair and he descended like a twirling, swaying feather back to the safer and more comfortable sphere of anti-intellectual curiosity, as he wiped sweat from his brow and proceeded once more to till the fields.

The conclusion of this wandering narrative came in such a deliberate manner as would befit the closing of an act in a play, or some otherwise lofty exposition in a piece of literary drivel by a self-important writer with a warped acuity with respect to the mundane, who, in his myopic orchestrations of reason, sought to instill what should have been an uninspiring fate with imagery that spoke to its hidden magnanimity as though its protagonist were the benevolent and unwitting victor of a negligible battle recognized only by those sensitive enough and blessed with enough skillful virtue to encompass its high-minded attributes in an artistic framework; it was as a consequence of this that the serf fell under the weight of what seemed the _instinctive_ pressure to cast his eyes mindfully upon a nearby patch of lilies, which were veiled by spun-web layers intersecting three-dimensionally like netted planes; the legs of a spider dangled prominently from behind one petal of a flower as this calculating predator lay restlessly in wait for its pollen-seeking prey to ensnare itself in this intricately-woven trap; enraptured by this glorious feat of architecture, yet dismayed by the cruel necessity built into the foundations of its sublime structure, the now-disheartened protagonist looked dramatically to the disingenuous sky, which had misled him to thinking, in the purest beaming of aspirations, that the pursuit of beauty and the drives of instinctual necessity were, in fact, mutually exclusive, and he shook his fist, cursing infinity before finally murmuring to himself spitefully, "To what lengths of treachery must I, too, extend myself that I might live to see another day of this?" And as though to signal the close of this dream-hewn narrative, an interval of darkness erupted until only faint outlines and scant echoes remained.

In the blackness of this immaterial cocoon, it was the image of the waiting spider behind its ominously resplendent web and the words of that ill-fated, however mindfully exploited, character of the lowly Serf—to be sure, those elements, impelling him, for the mere sake of survival, to commit himself to a destiny necessarily treacherous—which lingered most lastingly in Bunnu's mind for what seemed eons beyond the conclusion of the dream. The vague and unfocused likeness of this treachery seemed to defy all hopes of losing form in that prolonged moment of null existence between dreams—in that dormant fog which separated one subconsciously-contrived story from the next and in that sempiternal gap through which a seeming wind of semblance could be said to sweep—but instead, it persisted ever so quietly like an overstaying guest who bore, along with the silent volumes implied by his continued and unabated presence, a strange, enigmatic smile. Its stubborn resistance to dissolution conjoined with it a new mystique—an atmosphere of import unlikely to be rooted in any grand, yet frivolous feat of conjuration, but instead in some external aspect of Bunnu's waking existence, which, despite its apparent significance, he was unable to discern immediately. _What could it be?_ For a moment, he thought he'd best attempt to recall what "aspect," in particular, this had been so that he might gain an insight otherwise unattainable to him in his daily distractions, when, suddenly, the faint gleam of this memory miraculously cast itself upon him as with the light of a guiding star— _This must be it_ , he thought, _this light shall unquestionably lead me to that quality on the outside which begat this burdensome dread_ —but then, at the sight of it, it dawned upon him that over the course of his interminable voyage, he should, in pursuit of this elusive memory, ultimately run the risk of losing sight of, if not forgetting altogether, those developments, and surely, that initial web-spun treachery for which he will have originally departed. To confuse the matter even further, there seemed to be nothing which could prevent him from entertaining the likelihood that this nature of light—as with starlight—traveled great distances and that those rays reaching him now had, thus far, undertaken a centuries-long excursion, having been imparted from a heavenly body no longer occupying the place it once held out in the vast reaches: a memory long since burned away, or one which had burst rather suddenly, leaving now only fragments of what it had once been and an ever-fading specter in obsolete hyperextension, a phantom beacon which could only mislead him now to a state of waking.

This, of course, would be of no use to him.

### III.

And now, the brief intermission between dreams was finally drawing to a close and the next story commencing: this time, he began not as a particle, nor as a serf at the dawn of an Iron Age empire, but simply, as himself—or rather, what he knew to be _himself_ , which was equivalent in his mind to an experiential certitude, a set of necessarily convenient prejudices which framed and rendered navigable his reality external to dreams—for it seemed now that he had drifted close enough to his waking state to remember who he had been, or rather, his position within the context of his waking life, thus, bringing familiar constructs of identity to descend upon and reshape the formless sentience he had briefly, in that ephemeral void, occupied. His surroundings had also changed in that interval between dreams—like background sets in a theatre production—as he was no longer relegated to the nebulous and infantile thinking of some prehistoric time—on the contrary, in the course of that intermission, time had advanced with alarming rapidity, propelling him centuries and millennia forward to an age in which mankind had already shrugged off its own slow beginnings, scoffed upon its primitive ancestors, and begun to deem as infallible that notion that human achievement was what made life more fulfilling and the Universe more comprehensible and that advancement of his own species was, in lieu of a God, the only true virtue worthy of his worship. It had been in the name of that benevolent entity called _Progress_ that Man had, therefore, sought to establish for himself a technological dominance over nature: by force of axe, by tensility of ocean net, by caliber of firearm, and by potency of pesticide, he had conquered the forests, reaped the bounties of the sea, tamed the deserts, obliterated the mountains and impregnated the fields! Yet, Bunnu could see no change: he now existed in an era no more sensible than the previous and, despite its cultural and scientific advancement, an age no more enlightened than slavery in the Bronze Age. He remembered suddenly the edicts of that young king, wondering if they remained carved—as they had been upon those pillars of stone—similarly indelible on the conscience of Man. One, however, could not hope for too much: even inscriptions fade with Time.

He, now, began to run—for running seemed the only logical response to this nonsense—through a crowded marketplace which formed itself around him with increasing clarity: a bazaar in an indeterminate town he'd never visited. He was being pursued—perhaps because other elements of the past had also adapted themselves accordingly over the course of the mysterious space-time leap afforded by the intermission—by a mechanical, steam-driven sales spider, ten times the size of its prehistoric predecessor and a great deal more courteous and supplicatory in its nature. This ambitious, yet amiable creature jumped from turban-to-turban, upon the heads of shoppers and merchants alike, blathering on wildly about the benefits of his preferred brand of hair tonic, which gave his head of flowing hair its remarkable shine: "b-but...y-you see, this tonic is infused... with... uh... na-nano-mechanical... pheromone amplifiers... you know, f-for those special occasions...when _Fornication-D-Bicarbonate_ s-simply... w-won't stimulate the receptors of that... uh... that special lady... a-and, well... _a-and/or_ c-cross-species significant other..." It sighed, "C'mon pops...cut me a break. I've hit a bit of a bad streak! Just need to close on this one to turn my luck around. So, have a heart, yeah? If, for no other reason, than for the sake of progress. And Industry! Why, yes! My dear friend, just consider your mercy a selfless offering to the _Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade!_ A karmic investment with the potential added benefit of a sizable tax write-off. Works out quite nicely, right?" Somehow, the spider had managed to deliver these last lines all in one breath.

As it happened, the goddess of which he spoke—the Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade—was watching the action from a nearby sidewalk café, sipping _Ambrosian 89:Line Error - Variant B Special Reserve_ (a.k.a. _Sybarite's Delight_ ), snickering at the goings-on and farting with excessive appreciation. The Goddess was, in fact, a fat old wench, who smelled worse than a rotting corpse and neither washed Her greasy silver tangle of hair—which, itself, nested an awe-inspiring variety of vermin, the least repugnant of which was the common louse—nor took very good care of Her grimy, blackened teeth, much less Her nerve-dead, pus-ridden gums. Beside Her sat a much more distinguished-looking chap with a long gray beard, a top hat, and tuxedo, who drank and ate nothing, but took notes furiously at Her dictations, erasing agitatedly whenever he, with his pencil, had inadvertently recorded one of Her frequent belches and nodding his head in acknowledgment whenever the bawdy old hag saw it fit to add emphasis to Her phraseology with a precision squeal of flatulence.

This aide had been born in the Silent Era (which had been, as its _literal_ meaning might suggest, an epoch of unconditional and complete silence implemented society-wide and by governmental decree) and he had, thus, missed that window of opportunity in early childhood cognition wherein one was capable of acquiring language skills by way of emulation of and verbal interaction with those in one's immediate surroundings. When he passed the critical age in adolescence at which language acquisition ceased to be instinctive, he lost completely his ability to convey his own ideas meaningfully except through a series of gestures and expressive abstractions. However, sign language, too, had been declared illegal by the theocracy of the time, so there was no standard frame of reference by which language could be allowed to generate organically within his society. Thus, he and his brethren were, as a deaf child without special instruction might otherwise be, communicatively isolated from one another and, therefore, in possession of very little or any language at all. However, it was also because of this mandatory vow of collective verbal and physical silence that he had the distinct privilege of training in a certain secret craft which allowed him to harness the hypersensitivity brought on by this so-called impairment and apply it to a new super-ability: one which allowed him to capture every phonetic sound of every human language exactly as uttered, and similarly, every image visible to the naked eye, and to reproduce each (or both) with an unwavering sense of recall into an intricate array of newly-originated logographs.

This special skill was what had first brought him to the attention of the Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade when She was searching for an administrative assistant; this, and his unknowing, yet amusing propensity to record utterances of both the voice box and gastrointestinal system without favor and, more precisely, without the ability to distinguish one from the other, until committed to paper in his unique array of asemic pictograms. To Her, there seemed something poetic in having Her mouth and Her anus have equal say in matters of extreme importance. In fact, when searching for an assistant, She had had no need of a stenographer at all, but upon hearing of him, there was a certain appeal to the idea of having someone whose renderings of dictation could neither be read aloud by him nor Her; nor by anyone for that matter. That way Her declarations remained pure and free of misinterpretation; and thus Her unknowable and unrepeatable commandments, by virtue of this, took on a more ethereal consistency: a seeming air of _augmented godliness_.

The man stroked his beard and leaned back in his chair until the top of his hat pressed up against the pink sandstone of the building just behind him. The sunlight of mid-afternoon reached his eyes and he squinted, unwilling to blink. The Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade took another sip of her drink before leaning towards him and whispering with her putrid breath, "The struggles of this pathetic spider make for delightful dinner conversation. Shall we order something? Not quite dinnertime yet, but I'd fancy if the shopkeep could wrangle us a lively enough specimen! Anything with a bit of fight to it will do, really! No need to write that last bit dow—whoa...oof...there goes another one! Smell that! Might have to change me panties this time. Don't mind, do you? Didn't think so!" She rolled up the bottom of her gown, bringing it up to her knees to reveal a pair of fleshy, varicose-overrun calves with long unshorn wooly hair. Reaching in, she picked her buttocks up off the seat momentarily as she strained to pull the soiled underwear along her thighs to her knees, at which point she was able to remove them completely, depositing them in a tiny tote bag. She, then, produced a cleaner pair from the same bag, repeating the same harrowing process, except in reverse.

"S'ppose I ought've wiped," she grinned knowingly, "but we both know it's just a matter of time before... but, anyway, back to that miserable spider. See him now, so fleet of foot in pursuit of the elder brother of the venerable and indomitable _O.,_ our beloved robber baron and majority shareholder of Guni Incorporated. See him now—I am not so concerned about the fate of _O.'s_ insignificant older brother, for I am told that he bears resentment for his adopted sibling's success and feels the need to overcompensate for it through flagrant and random displays of conscientious objection. Objection to _what_ exactly? That which makes him appear weak and inferior, I guess—those elements vital to ambitious beings such as ourselves: Aggression! Industry! Enterprise! Expansion! Faster, Faster, Faster! Thus, we shan't worry ourselves about him. He—his name is Bunnu, I believe—this _Bunnu_ is merely a minor character, for he has amounted to nothing in his life and has similarly brought his younger brother and all others who've known him little more than profound shame. I'm told he went to prison, as well. Despicable! Thus, I ask you instead to cast your gaze upon that mechanical spider with its robust head of hair: yes, this is no coincidence, as it is this very hairstyle which has driven him to the heights of such desperation. Heed my words when I say that it is far more devastating to rise in status and gain the reverence of one's peers and then to fall, than, dare I say, for one to remain, contentedly and unfalteringly, a lowly and uninspired mass of sediment with no aspirations for upward mobility—much indeed like this Bunnu character. The story of the spider is a tragic one, for he now finds himself in an unsatisfying and undignified profession. He was once the terror of the insect world; the insidious mastermind, who in his beguiling craft, brought the quintessence of survival to a complex and brutal art form; the prodigal architect and the compulsive weaver, who in his mathematical and spatial cunning, manipulated curvilinear, multidimensional grids and further employed a highly-unorthodox abundance of negative space between adhesive threads with the effect of rendering nearly invisible that which should otherwise have hung conspicuously in plain sight; the rapidly-evolving menace, for it was only natural that his prey should adapt newer and cleverer defense mechanisms through generations of random mutation and natural selection, but this very same process was underway within the spider, too, as he must, for the sake of his own preservation, possess those traits which rendered him a more effective predator and—in relation to his own predators—an agiler and more elusive prey. The factors guiding transformations within species, however, are multivariate and complex. Even, I—the omnipotent Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade...dear, oh dear, 'tis such a tiring name to say in its entirety all the time: I shall have to refer to myself hereinafter as the G.C.I.T.—even I, the G.C.I.T., am unable to grasp the essential, unseen dynamics which underscore this constant reshaping of form and spirit, but I can theorize that it was the change of its environment, its interactions with Man, and its inevitable subjugation to the wheels of progress, which cast this once formidable creature into the pit of shame. The origin of its hairstyle is mysterious—as I mentioned, I am unable to see its benefit—but I can imagine it proving useful in the world of Man. See those thick, moist locks, which curl gracefully outward in such symmetrical waves from the back of his head: he might have been an orchestra conductor who had managed to attain such a prestigious position solely through the benefit of his magnificent _Maestro_ hairdo. What, indeed, are the requisite components of a hairstyle befitting a Maestro conductor—surely you must be wondering this—but I have faith that I would know a Maestro hairdo instantly upon seeing one...and _this_ is, undoubtedly, a genuine Maestro cut. The effects of this hairdo are far-reaching—behold now its dramatic bravado of slickness and, _good heavens_ , just look at the arrogant amount of space it occupies around the spider's tiny, tiny head—thus, one is only expected to afford himself the luxury of donning it so long as he remains a genius. The pressures of feigning genius—as with feigning madness—are sufficient to create terrific anxiety in the overcompensating soul. One mustn't, however, infer from this that the spider is anything but a genius. All the same, just as a tailor could not expect to adopt easily a profession as a smith, so should a master architect, as the spider, not expect his skills to transfer easily to the realm of rhythm and sound without an excessive amount of practice, or at the very least, a series of precisely-positioned neural bridges. The spider would have had neither, so barring unusual circumstances—for example, barring the case that he had been hailed a genius in advance of any attempt to prove it—he would have found himself standing awkwardly on the stage of a concert hall at his first performance as a conductor, struggling to pick up the baton with his flimsy legs, and finally giving up the whole charade to confess his fraudulence to himself, his audience, and his theretofore awaiting gaggle of goose-necked players. I trust you do not believe me! I bid you cast your eyes upon his quivering, shame-filled face; look upon that frightful lack of pride and the irrational panic that consumes him. He has become comfortable wallowing in passive subservience to the whims of the Buyer, who, now, willingly or not, dictates the terms of the spider's survival. That hairdo—er...well...perhaps I'm mistaken: I, despite being a deity, am unafraid to admit this—that hairdo may not be that of a Maestro. In fact, now, upon closer inspection, it appears to be a wig of some kind. Yes...it is a wig. I have wrongly postulated his experiences by using a misleading data set. Let us try again."

She paused and closed Her eyes. Taking a deep breath, She whispered audibly, in spite of the noises of the marketplace, "I shall require a moment as the boilings of my mind bubble forth another backdrop upon which we might envision the inimitable imprint of this hairstyle and the wearer who finds himself attached to it, whether physically, spiritually, emotionally, metaphysically, or otherwise; a wearer, who is, nonetheless, as easily discarded—just as expendable, though he could never be self-lacerating enough to discover so for himself—as the discharged suppuration of a sore. I see it forming—yes! The setting appears such that we will have to assume he had been a barrister with the High Court, who had ascended to this miraculous fortune by establishing dominance over his multitudes of nemeses through the magnificence of his wig's plumage—much as the peacock aggressively extends his tail feathers to emerge victorious over his sexual competitors—but who, once again, through some strange turn of events, found himself somehow disbarred, further ejected from his position, and concomitantly despised by all. Despite his pitiable nature, I must say that these circumstances would seem to suit his hairstyle better—do not be mistaken by my choice of words, for if I were to say instead 'the hairstyle would suit his circumstances better,' this latter supposition would reflect the causality incorrectly and would not acknowledge the importance of the hairstyle in determining his fate, as it stands to reason that it remains that very axis from which all the events of his life, like spokes of a wheel, should extend outward and encircle him in seemingly gradual perpetuity. I am sure you must find it as equally amazing as I that this flowing, silver mane of his had, all along, been a form of prosthesis, and that it had, through some bedeviling wizardry, guided the spider's destiny, even from afar, prior to his procurement of it. This doesn't seem possible, but to deem it entirely unlikely would be an unnecessary exclusion. I, in fact, believe that it is essential that we should consider the motives of the wig itself. Naturally, the happenings by which the wig and spider became one entity would remain a mystery, but I shall not doubt that this propitious union should have its origins in anything but intention, albeit, not on the part of the spider, but rather in the opportunistic zeal of the wig, which sought, above all else, to distinguish itself from the staggering multitude of rival wigs by elevating its status as an inanimate object to that which was critically important to the survival of the animate: a thick and hairy form of life support, without the benefit of which, a host should simply wither away and die, for this wig would have become that essential accessory by which he derived his fortune, his honor, his integrity, and hence, his sustenance. And this was most certainly true of the spider. Once acquired, this wig would have imbued the spider with that exaggerated sense of self which rendered the otherwise pointless endeavor of quibbling incessantly over trivial clauses and infinitesimal legal details an undertaking far less daunting and, in fact—at least, for the sake of that stimulation that flushed through one's ego upon victory—a good deal more gratifying. He might have done well for a time: in this sort of profession, one's wig has the power to determine one's place in the pecking order. Barristers with lesser wigs, after all, have been known to evoke profound derision from their colleagues, the extent of which might even propel them to leave town, or sometimes to take on new professions altogether. A similar pattern to this might account for this very spider's undoing. After all, the tide of sentiment can easily be turned, with respect to one's colleagues, with the sudden appearance of a rival, who, in his subversive scheme to annoy and undermine at every turn, manages to weaken his target at the core, generating a vexing anguish, which can only serve to eat at one's sense of assurance from the inside-out. I could not know, for certain, the exact nature of the spider's undoing, but in my estimation, he would have been outdone by some other species of creature—a magpie, for example—who, by dint of an even fancier (and abidingly, _more opportunistic_ ) wig, had risen to prestige, singled out the spider as his rival and ultimately bested him in the only way befitting a true gentleman ( _gentlebird_ , if you prefer): by spreading malicious rumors with the intent to sow discord amongst his team of aides, spark mockery from his inferiors, and otherwise besmirch unalterably his reputation, leaving him with little recourse, but to fall from the rank of gentleman (or, _gentlespider_ , yes...) to a far more disgraceful position, hence the woeful display you now see before you. Would it have been better that he had died with pride rather than suffer even one solitary, degrading moment of this? I have no answer to this. I should, myself, shed a tear at so steep a fall as his, were I not, in fact, greatly benefiting from the sales revenue he continues to generate. I do not feel saddened by his position, but rather his descent, for he was once such a noble creature. There are few such creatures anymore. And certainly, no creature as noble as I—the G.C.I.T.—do you remember what that stands for? 'G' surely stands for 'Goddess'...the rest is hazy. What was the 'I' again? 'Initiative,' perhaps?" She now spat on the table and waved Her hand dismissively, "Bah! No matter! I declare by the seven scraggly hairs of my womanly mustache that this spider shall see its efforts rewarded!"

With this proclamation, the pores on the tip of Her nose dilated excessively as the slabs of skin overhanging them flapped in trills and ruffled percussively like the music of sails in a harbor breeze; at this, Her hitherto stoic aide let out a snort of relief and mild contentment, as he could now see the futility of suffering any further the inner tumult of a disillusioned soul in the face of overwhelming hypocrisy. Though insensible to the denotative meaning of Her words, he could grasp by the asemic pictograms he had scribbled down, the intuitive malice which underlay them. Of course, he had, for a very long time, assumed that Her compassionless, unforgiving tone had, nonetheless, laid the groundwork for greater and more meaningful endeavors—that She wasn't simply gabbing on endlessly about petty things, but rather engaged in the high-level functions, to which She, in Her managerial capacity, must be committed, in order to see to it that the best results were to be had from those over whom She governed. However, now, upon seeing the pathetic spider being mocked so relentlessly by the deity who was, in part, responsible for making him this way, he began to feel for the first time that he had held Her to too high a standard in assuming, without provision for his own naïveté, that Her words, actions, and mannerisms should all accord to a logical and infallible pattern, the rudiments of which were to be dictated by the role She fulfilled: not just as _any_ deity, but in fact, as that _specific_ Deity, Who oversaw and advocated the eternal advancement of commerce, industry, and trade. If anything, She was poor at management, but She knew that Her position was permanent, so She had very little, if any, motivation to put forth the effort to strive for the best possible results. He stroked his beard again, fixing his now-disapprobatory eyes upon the vulgar, drunken slob who occupied this post. He had not the words to express either Her stunning complexity, nor the frustrating, yet somehow pristine grandeur of Her oft contradictory nature.

He now looked again to the marketplace: shadows of long-dead men crisscrossed, often merging, then separating; ghosts of tourists of travels-past kicked up dust and spat casually upon the sand-speckled pavement; mirages of a herd of Lesser Bison-21, drinking from the water of a distant oasis, shimmered up from a bare patch of sidewalk through which no one dared trespass for fear that these venomous beasts should advance upon them and drain them of every drop of hydrating fluid; bands of shade grew over the facades of buildings, stretching to encompass the street and its shifting crowd of people as the sun dipped and the sky slowly darkened; in the billowing eve, calls of sellers collided in air in jumbles of heretofore nonexistent phonemes which now manifested new language, constructing highly improbable and perhaps even monstrous word combinations that could only serve to encode and further dictate the terms of a newly-devised Universe (or set of Universes), the likes of which would be far beyond the imagination of any sentient being here, who, hemmed in by the parameters of reason that gave shape and boundary to this particular Universe, would be relegated to disregarding altogether those unlikely elements and, certainly, those seeming irrelevant factors which lay well outside the scope of his understanding or capacity to theorize; stray dogs with bioluminescent fur barked at a dealer in illegal parlor game equipment, who skulked at the corner of the darkened alley they had marked as their territory, whispering surreptitiously to passers-by about the unmatched intensity of field generated by his electromagnetic Repulsion Ball paddles; overhead hung huge bronze Scarabs suspended in air by thick elastic cables which connected each metal insect with the ones next to, in front of, and behind it, until the whole network of them hung over the town in a static grid pattern, despite their tendency to bob and sway at the slightest breeze or tremor; the smells of rotting meats, spices, nuts, vanilla tobacco, urine, naphthalene, and quick-dry semen swirled upward in fumes from the streets to creep over buildings, escape between the elastic cables, and envelop the Scarabs whole in their invisible clouds, before finally sweeping over the exterior of a giant pink translucent bubble that was perched high above the entire Scarab Grid; a nude Bodhisattva floated in the center of this bubble with his knees to his chest and his eyes closed, as he contemplated just how far out of the bubble and into deep space the tensile wires, which pierced his arms, legs, ears, eyes, nose, throat and genitalia, extended: whence they came and why, apart from their apparent purpose as a mechanism for measuring stimulus-response activity in Him, for he was merely a test subject in a double-blind experiment; an old, wounded veteran of a forgotten war looked up at the enlightened thinker-cum-examinee and he cackled rancorously thus, "Was'ing time, ai'cha Pap'y! Alrea' don seen me a fur bi' and kin te'l yewda trut' ai'so gran as yew fancy! Wa ha hahaha!" He let out another guttural laugh of cathartic, self-inflicted madness as a tear came to his eye; people were shuffling back and forth, ignoring the grizzled old fool, who seemed to scream spitefully at the heavens above from his rusty old wheelchair; money and fish and antiques and shoe polish and drugs and quick-dry spermatozoa, meanwhile, passed as effortlessly as fluid between free-moving clumps of mass.

"Hey'sa Mack listen sales ain't my strong suit but my son ya see he was badly burned by some little brat with a magnifying glass well melted actually so I hads to get me some spare parts from a mechanic to get him back in proper working condition but actually dems was just secondhand foreign imported crap you know what I'm saying yeah dems parts gonna give within a week I'd say so my best hope is to get some of the newer lightweight shit the Titanium-3 but you know how costly that can be and t'be honest not even sure that making this sale alone would be nuff to cover the parts and labor remember the good ol' days when we wasn't mechanical well I'm sure you don't because it was a while ago but anyway back in those days we didn't have to worry about rust but we still showed signs of wear organic matter runs down just like machines do after all the only difference bein's the ease with which we can replace our parts I do have to say though that can't imagine how my family survived before these here metallic exoskeletons steam-driven pistons not to mention the precision web cannons must have been hard back in those say you know what I just remembered I have some leftover samples I can give you they're in this little compartment right here where I keep my Metro tokens I'd be happy to give you a few if you're interested the samples I mean not the tokens I need those for the return commute..."

Bunnu was, meanwhile, desperately attempting to lower the sensitivity level of his listening to that of a mere 'half-listen,' finding instead to his own chagrin that he had been, all this time and without intention, absorbing and processing every word spoken by the spider and the G.C.I.T. and even, strangely enough, acquiring, as though by some thaumaturgical omniscience, those visual details observed silently and henceforth committed to paper by the G.C.I.T.'s bearded assistant. Thus, it seemed his senses were a good deal more attuned than he wished them to be at the moment.

And so, helpless to block this barrage of unwanted information, he now began to wonder—for the sake of mere diversion—as he shoved his way through human obstructions, just how the spider's natural process of evolution had begun to incorporate artificial enhancements such as Titanium-3. This jump from the _natural_ to the _artificial_ would seem too formidable to perform stepwise, however, there could be no doubt that this had been the case; but then again, it may have been specious to assume that the motives underlying this traversal were rooted in anything but that which was natural in its own force of momentum. For human beings, indeed, it could be said that the manipulation of resources and inanimate elements for the purposes of extending abilities and traits was, similarly, an instinctual drive indispensable to the perpetual desire for one-upmanship: a process, no doubt, part and parcel to the collective advancement of the species by means of competition. It should only follow that such transformations, however peculiar and seemingly distorted in their manifestations, were and had always been a byproduct of Nature.

The spider's compassion for his son—which was, to the bane of those who might have seen the poetry in it, just as much a biological mechanism as his own breathing and just as much a survival mechanism as his own brutality—had similarly evolved to incorporate the economics of ensuring the perpetuity of his genes well beyond the span of his own lifetime, as now evidenced by the critical importance he seemed to place on obtaining for his offspring those supplementary parts which could affect artificial extension and which should, henceforth, give way to the necessary creation of enhanced abilities within the ecosystem. Conceivably, a purely organic, unenhanced spider would lose out to its mechanically-supplemented counterparts in the game of self-preservation, priming it for either migration, reactive adaptation (a branching of the species, as it were), or, as in most cases, extinction. On the other hand, an obvious downside to the _trans-arachnist_ augmentation of traits, which this dear Father Arachnid sought, would be the intensified pressure for each spider to succeed by whatever means necessary—even by force of betrayal—and to preserve, without fail, its own genetic future. This would only serve to spur endless mistrust and a ruthless race between rival spider families within the same spider species to ensure the survival of these spider offspring well into a future so distant that it would even boggle the minds of their very spider progenitors to consider the living conditions to which they should all, one day, be subjected.

And thus, it seemed a bit of a ruse: this idea of laboring tirelessly for a benefit unknowable, and yet for one which was rooted solely in Nature's mechanisms and not truly in one's purest and most independent of aspirations. It seemed a ruse on the part of Nature that to work within—and not irrespective of— its mechanisms should be the noblest of virtues. It seemed a ruse that the greatest achievement of any creature lied in its ability to entertain unquestioningly Nature's firm commandments; or to otherwise deceive itself into thinking that it has succeeded in driving Nature into a corner and has, thus, triumphed over it, when, in fact, this perception of victory is, yet, another deception, and accordingly, another mechanism by which it is unknowingly controlled. It seemed a ruse that fear of death should be the sole motivation for living and, yet, to quell this fear made the prospect of living itself seem all the more absurd; to extend this further, the notion of living one's life for the purposes of pondering the absurdity of living was an even greater absurdity in and of itself, which thus, by _reductio ad absurdum_ , rendered the fear of death a necessary function of life and any lack thereof, a trifling matter rooted in self-inflicted incoherence.

The notion of self-awareness and individual achievement was, thus, an illusion necessary toward instinctive ends, which seemed mutually beneficial (perhaps even essential), both to the individual entity and to Nature itself, but which were, above all else, solely essential to Nature (the individual entity was, in actuality, manipulated by his instinctual drives in such a way as to consider his own ends to be unique and driven by his own personality, his initiative, his ego, his esteem, his principles, his passion—but in fact, he was just as mechanical as the mechanisms his existence served). The very thought of this suddenly saddened Bunnu and he felt his legs slow down, whilst, swelling within him, he started to feel an unquenchable pity for this spider, who had clearly been deluded and led further astray by his own instinct: betrayed, if truth be told, as to the exactitudes of his own purpose. Slowing to a walk now, Bunnu suddenly felt himself being pushed from all sides. It seemed that one was either pushing or _being pushed to push_. He peeked back over his shoulder at the approaching spider, who, in a sudden pang of nervousness, reverted to his panicky stutter, "Atta B-boy, let m-me tell you, m-my friend, y-you won't regret this ch-cha—Hey! W-Where a-re you go-go-go-?"

Bunnu shoved again at the people around him, now fleeing the spider at a more frantic pace than before. He kicked up sand behind him as the spider's voice became more distant. Turning down a side street, Bunnu veered left immediately into a vacant alleyway and finally came to a stop, assuming this to be a suitable hiding spot. The spider, however, having seen through his prospective buyer's attempt to hide, followed exactly the same route, knowing soon he would have him cornered. Yet, over the course of this relentless pursuit, a deep fatigue was beginning to set quickly into his frame, as a silent flush of corrosion crept over him. His joints suddenly creaked loudly as metal parts scraped together and sparked. Steam whistled piercingly outward from the flaked-away perforations on his thorax as a rapidly-advancing, rust-induced old age impelled him abruptly to stop, sigh a heartfelt, squeaking sigh, and dejectedly announce his retirement to his scores of steam-powered progeny, who, having seemingly appeared in the alleyway from out of nowhere, looked at one another incredulously.

Bunnu no longer had the temptation to flee, for he detected, even within himself, a certain fatigue he failed to comprehend. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly like a motor running down, as he listened to the old dying predecessor impress emotionally upon his brood the importance of carrying on his life's work and settling his affairs outstanding, for fear that all his efforts and all for which he toiled and was abidingly made to suffer should be reduced to naught and, hence, irretrievably lost—erased as he soon would be from this world and from this life, which had born such terrific importance to him. His entreaties were steeped in ardor, yet his tone graceful, until it seemed that through his self-serving appeals to keep alight the smolderings of his initiative, he were achieving a level of peace, typically unattainable in what he'd perceived—ambiguously, of course, for he was driven mostly by servomechanical controls—as Life. In spite of this, the children, unmoved by the gravity of their father's sentimental declarations, ignored the tasks with which they had just now been charged and proceeded—as though yielding to the pull of overriding entropy— to strip the weakened _pater familias_ clean for the spare parts, devouring, as they encountered them, those sparse, remaining fragments of organic matter, not unlike those which had once comprised their common prehistoric ancestor. They, then, argued amongst themselves for what seemed like hours over what was to be done with the meager fortune which their father had amassed and which now remained in his estate collecting zero interest. Pledging each of them at once to obtain the services of his own attorney, with whose help he should be able to swing the matter over to his own favor, the siblings brought their pettifoggery to its inevitable stalemate and finally went their own separate ways, but not before discarding, in the nearest rubbish bin, the remains of their dear departed father's hairpiece.

And yes, it had been a wig, after all.

### IV.

Again, a fog descended as elements of this second dream faded out of view before Bunnu could make any attempt to register them lastingly in his mind for future reference. In fact, the first dream was gone too. What had it been about? Was there a story? Had there been a first dream at all, or was this certainty of its existence simply a now-fading fallacy rooted in the second? Dreams have the remarkable power of not only altering memory, but also certainty: an unfortunate side effect which could only make present matters appear all the more bewildering. It seemed pointless, however, to dwell on uncertainty. This exasperating exercise, after all, could only serve to bring on a painful twinge of inner turmoil from which there would be no pause, and for which there should be no hope of alleviation. For the moment, it was best to maintain his certainty that the first dream had, in truth, occurred, but had failed to leave behind any recognizable traces of itself which would allow him to recall now what it had been like. He was sure that some aspects of the first dream had carried over into the second, perhaps manifesting themselves in different ways, but again, such details were bound to remain a mystery. It was strange to have experienced something, to have been conceivably an active participant and yet to possess no lingering recollection of moments which, in their own time, may have born significances now unthinkable. It was very strange indeed.

Pulling laterally away from this line of thought, he now found himself reflecting on people from long ago, on faces he could now only hope to see in dreams, for some of them had long since departed from this world, while others still remained, but were no longer a part of his life; still others were neither deceased nor out of his life entirely, but, in fact, alive and well (presumably), yet living in some place inaccessible. In his youth, he had wanted nothing more than to leave his hometown of Bahlia, to see the world and to find his place; now, he understood that, in doing so, he had given himself over to endless wanderings, a life of migration from life-to-life, albeit not necessarily a set of migrations one must view as physical, but rather a set of migrations between circumstances, a set of migrations where the players surrounding him were just as likely to move as he, but nonetheless, a set of migrations calling forth a life unalterable only by its lack of permanence. Along with this came the slow, but dawning realization that he had relinquished his claim over those new memories he could have created alongside the friends and relatives closest to him; and that he had, furthermore, ceased to exist in such people's minds, except as a faint and indistinct silhouette of what he had once been, situated seamlessly against the vivid and oddly memorable backdrops of spaces and moments which shall never be again. Sitting at a café and staring wordlessly out at the rainy sidewalk as the person sitting across the table did the same; playing childish games in the classroom when the teacher's back was turned; standing in front of the guests at his wedding feast and holding the warm, yet delicate hand of his smiling wife to the applause of family and friends and thinking that, maybe—just maybe—this could have been the happiest day of his life and that no imminent joy could ever surpass this feeling; slouching on the sidelines during a football match as he complained to his other uncoordinated teammates about how infrequently he played; buying bread at a bakery—that same shop he went to three times a week, if only to get a glimpse of the sweet, giggling shopkeeper's daughter whose name he would never learn and to share that brief, but painful moment when their eyes met, though neither of them, in their shyness, could break the glorious silence, neither could quash its beauty by speaking, until finally, it was time to break that gaze before the madness would overcome him and he, in his desperation, would be forced either to proclaim his undying affections for her, or to kill himself on the spot: he had once been so unmistakably intertwined with all these scenes, which were so fresh, so clear in their own time that they might have transpired mere seconds ago. And now, in the passing of years, he had, to all these friends, family members, and acquaintances, undoubtedly become the face of a distant person in some painting of a crowded city avenue from a different era: a face oft-glanced-over in favor of the closer, more discernible ones.

In dreams, he could visit again these places he'd been and the people he'd known. Yet, in this fugue of reminiscences, he remained invariably bound to accommodate the absurd logic maintained by his subconscious with unswerving devotion: that these people, if he met them today, would remain unchanged from his most distinct memory of them. This undeniably solipsistic view, while somehow endearing, often caused him to feel simultaneously saddened and overwhelmed by the nostalgia it engendered, sometimes leading him to find upon waking that over the course of the night, he had wept a great deal. His heart would be blissful and ridden with despair all at once at seeing again those faces; at revisiting those places which he knew so well he'd thought very little of them at the time, but which, now awakened an inexplicable stirring of sentimentality. These moments, as he knew them and fancied remembering them were gone outside of his dreams; gone: for if he could reminisce even in the presence of those with whom he had experienced them, their outlook on the circumstances may contrast with his own, having been tainted by the moments and experiences subsequent to that frozen subject of recollection. Most likely, this well-intentioned attempt at recalling moments together would instead have the undesired effect of creating a rift between those otherwise bound by their distinct, yet inviolable and unspoken memories of them. Thus, the whole endeavor could only be distressing and fruitless. The people and places—and even the _Bunnu_ — that existed in those moments had faded away; or rather, they'd traveled out of reach, encapsulated in their own bubble of space-time in a cosmos of perpetual expansion and contraction. Suffice it to say that they all—the _Bunnu-of-moments-past_ not excepted—dwelled now exclusively in a place best referred to as _Elsewhere_ : a realm unattainable and elusive, the most viable substitute for which existed only in dreams. And yet, as its sole observer and conscious participant, each relived experience could only prove to be isolating and lonely for the dreamer; all these real-life companions, once alive and replete with their own emotions and aspirations, had deteriorated to his idealized perceptions of them, to mere conjurations of the mind.

### * * *

Bunnu remembered now a friend that he had met nearly 140 years ago (long after leaving his hometown and long _before_ being imprisoned): a bearded accordionist who performed on the old cobbled streets of the riverside resort town of Yami. His name had been Bhakti, but he changed it to Bucky shortly before his death; posthumously, he came to be known as neither, but simply as the Bittersweet Melodist, for he was, after his death—albeit not in life—remembered very much for his melancholy disposition, which, in the subjective mists of memory, added a layer of vague and unexplained tragedy to the otherwise whimsical and warm-sounding tone of his music. There was an air to him, an elated and refined spirit which seemed to inhabit him when he played, which was noticeably absent when the music ceased. It sometimes seemed as though by playing he were channeling some divine presence which blessed him as its holy medium. And thus, wrapped in the harmonious solace of his own music, his face often took on a gentle, almost angelic demeanor as a pure and loving smile spread across it; his nature when performing had a soothing sweetness to it, so much so that it was the delight of children and of honeymooning couples, who all marveled at the sight of him playing and dancing along the riverside streets at dusk, infusing the warm air around him with such verve and joie de vivre. His face was mirthful and his voice carefree: a manner which persisted even when the music ended, but faded slowly as its reverberations dispersed, echoing down the scattered avenues, through dark, narrow alleyways and fizzling to indistinguishable static noise in the rundown, abandoned quarters of Yami.

When in the company of his closest companions, Bhakti would retain a different breed of joviality, as though he were a completely changed individual from when he was in the midst of song. All the same, his pleasant atmosphere would remain unaffected and was often even further enhanced by a certain nervous humility, the genuineness of which he obscured most effectively through coordination with his impenetrable veneer of politeness. And yet despite his lighthearted and cherubic exterior, upon spending some hours with him in a private setting, one might notice that, over time, he would begin to appear increasingly withdrawn, increasingly reserved in his manner of expression and, without cause, even increasingly guarded in his responses to questions, until, surely enough, this sudden turn of supposed bashfulness would come to be mistaken by some as a testament to his hidden and darkest insincerity. However, if he was insincere in any way (and, surely, even now, no one could know for sure whether he truly had been), this may have come about through necessity, as he was not the sort to exhibit even the slightest degree of irreverence by saying something disagreeable to his friends. And if, by some mistake, he happened to do so, he would quickly recant it and apologize _ad nauseum_.

Despite the care and propriety with which he conducted himself, he was, naturally, not without his share of peculiarities. Sometimes, his features would sour for a brief, anxious moment when someone spoke favorably of his music, or said perhaps that they had been moved by it. Or, when, for example, he would happen to meet, by the riverside, a vacationing family, who spoke eagerly of their everyday lives—of neighbors and relatives and of the scandalous affairs of some local barber—his face remained bright and attentive, but his eyes might drift _Elsewhere_ , perplexed at some other matter, or possibly even at some binding fundament which related both to himself and this family and which might account for their mutually pressing need to exchange niceties masqueraded as mundane, and often unavoidably vicious, gossip. And then, as though abandoning his heretofore saintly disposition, he, too, would begin to speak in an enthusiastic manner of trivial things related, for example, to a taxidermist he once knew; or, for the sake of evading disappointment, he would speak delightfully ill of his neighbors, though he bore them no true resentment; sometimes, when asked, he felt pressured to boast of his musical instruction by the gifted composer, Valmiki-8, although he had only, in truth, met the man once and it was at such a young age that the sort of instruction he had received was of the type that might be given to any child largely for the amusement of the pantalooned and petticoated souses standing around, watching, and guffawing complacently in the parlor of some faceless person's dinner party.

In crossing this divide between the sweet humility he had previously possessed in song and the outgoing sociability that his position suddenly demanded of him, Bhakti made the transition so gracefully that it rarely raised eyebrows. In a profession such as his, after all, even more important than the music itself was his ability to schmooze with his audience and often his willingness to banter amiably in the hopes of seeking favor with his street patrons. After all, no matter how well he played his accordion, it was his charming stories between songs which proved most engaging for tourists and which further satiated their craving for that splash of local color, otherwise absent from their monochromatic existences out in their stuffy cubicles in the city. And, of course, the adroitness with which he was able to perpetuate this mystique of being a _colorful_ character from a _colorful_ place was directly proportional to the monetary gains which could be expected in tips from the visitors, especially if his stories adequately catered to their one-dimensional views of life here on the outer fringes of the Republic.

Unfortunately, there was no way around his having to do this. Regardless of whether Bhakti minded relenting to their shameless and petty demands for tacky showmanship, this was simply the nature of the beast. As a street performer, he was inextricably committed, not only to encouraging, but also to further enabling this sort of behavior on the part of the tourists. Personal feelings on such matters were minor concerns, after all, in the face of what one perceived as his duty. In fact, a consummate professional, such as himself, might even become so dutiful in his fulfillment of obligations to his audience, and in fact, so skilled at assuming the roles actuated by their fancy that the disfigured and corrupted version of _Bhakti_ which resulted could only come to supplant the original from which it was derived—this is to say that the accordionist would come to doubt his own self-image in favor of that which was projected upon him by his patrons, much in the way a captive animal in a circus may forget his own primitive instincts in the misguided hope of placating his gawking throngs of spectators (benefactors, as it were) who were paying for the privilege to visit him. It was, seemingly, those contradictions, those skillful self-deceptions and, in turn, that cloudlike ambiguity with respect to his own true nature that seemed to account for the private and solitary sufferings of Bhakti...at least in the tourist season.

Then again, all of this was only speculation on _Bunnu's_ part.

Others would surely have seen Bhakti's situation differently, even Bhakti himself. How much Bunnu's assumptions were shaped and colored by his own prejudices about people he could not know. Naturally, however, in the course of reminiscing about his friend, Bunnu's preconceptions—particularly those justifying him to view negatively the indistinct countenances that pervaded Bhakti's audience, to fear their crude inclinations, to envision their wicked smiles and their whispered barbs—would all undoubtedly play their own considerable roles in giving false dimension to memory. But then, no reminiscence would truly be complete, without a set of biases to frame it. And dreams were—in very much the same way— no less reliant upon the presence of such predispositions, if for no other reason than for that of mere simplicity.

To continue: underneath Bhakti's adeptness at ceding to and further manipulating the whims of the tourists to his own advantage, there seemed, to Bunnu's mind, a shivering sadness in direct contrast with the upbeat tone of his music—a shapeless sorrow, which haunted, but at the same time, fascinated Bunnu. In much of the time he had been acquainted with the Bittersweet Melodist, it seemed there was little truly to know about him save for those brief, but rare instances where some integral aspect of him appeared to shine outward, perhaps unwittingly: some misdirected anger or a tone of unexplained acrimony, even when speaking of some trivial detail of the day. It seemed that perhaps those narrow windows, those brief and nuanced moments of raw, unfiltered emotion, when taken together, could form their own isolated episode, much like a series of still images, which when viewed in rapid succession—as with a kineographic flipbook— might unfold a story theretofore unseen from one's slower and fastidious examination of each still frame. There were these split-second facial expressions or verbal reactions on the part of Bhakti, which should have been forgettable, but which somehow clung steadfastly in Bunnu's mind.

Sometimes, these lasted longer than a second.

### * * *

There was that one winter's evening in the off-season when the two of them spoke in the dim light of Bhakti's bare-walled and sparsely furnished flat; that evening when the Bittersweet Melodist allowed unwittingly that carefully constructed mask of his to slip away for that rare, but prolonged instant; that evening which seems, now, in retrospect, a subtle and mocking prognostication of the accordionist's untimely and brutal demise by evisceration, years later.

The discussion on this particular occasion had started off mildly with a humorous monologue from Bhakti regarding the apparent health hazards of tea-drinking, the claims of which were espoused by some drunken vacationing physician who had wandered over from a riverboat casino to the main avenue of Yami and into Aunty Durga's teahouse, one day, presumably for the sole purpose of decrying the enfeebled matron as a merchant of death. Bhakti had apparently been there, too, when the chap had stumbled into the establishment, to the pained grimaces of Durga and the surrounding tourists. After mumbling unintelligibly for a few brief moments at the coat hanger, the fair doctor proceeded to hang his hat clumsily and slump himself down in a doily-covered chair adjacent to Bhakti, whereupon he cocked his head back and confronted the ceiling of the teahouse with a prolonged diatribe about the corrosive effects of its purveyed product upon the health and well-being of all humankind. Over the subsequent three hours, the man, in fact, proved himself rather knowledgeable about the subject, delivering verbatim the exact wording of a recent paper written by one of his most esteemed colleagues on the subject and interjecting at appropriate points, his own addendums, based upon his many years of clinical study. Aunty Durga, meanwhile, less distraught about the detrimental effects of what had become the lifeblood of her family business than by the spectacle being created by this disruptive buffoon, did the only thing that seemed logical to save the situation, both for herself and her customers: she poured the man a cup of tisane, hissing disapprovingly, as she did so, "Sober up, you fool..."

Laughing as he explained this scene to Bunnu, Bhakti said with a hint of hesitation, "Whether or not he was a fool is not for me to say, b-but I do believe the man may have had a point. Can you imagine? What if we were shortening our lives unsuspectingly every time we had a sip of tea? Why...in the wintertime, I must average at least five cups a day! A-and what of the monks? They drink tea in their daily rituals. What is one to say to them? Anyway, dear Aunty Durga, bless her soul, was beside herself at his audacity to interrupt the peaceful atmosphere of her charming little shop."

At this, Bunnu remarked, "You know, Rakesh-7 once told me that the Kaguya monks of old used to drink tea by the liter between meditations. At the time, I thought it had to do with the cold of their mountain monasteries. Now, I'm not so sure. There were a strange lot, the Kaguya. According to Rakesh-7, they were always looking over their scrolls for loopholes which could be exploited for their own personal benefit. In fact, their leaders would designate at least two hours out of each day to be used for the purpose of the careful analysis and reinterpretation of the Kaguya scrolls. He said the whole Monastic Order had been founded upon the premise of cheating one's way to holy eternity. Maybe the copious amount of tea they drank was a roundabout way of speeding up the cycle of death and rebirth that brought them closer by degrees to the Ultimate Truth; I suppose it was a way to cheat the system without necessarily committing what would be deemed as suicide, _per se_. The reason for even entertaining this thinking, as I understand it, is that according to their faith, each successive incarnation of life pushes them up the metaphysical food chain and, correspondingly, one rung up the spiritual ladder. So, I suppose it's only natural that their ambitions, imprudent though they may be, would cause them to seek out the quick and painless solution, rather than having to endure the painstaking process of meditation and self-flagellation typically required of the other orders. And by way of this tea, perhaps they could die without suffering the spiritual rebuke otherwise directed at those who killed themselves by more direct means. Like Rakesh said: a loophole." Bunnu nodded to himself, proud for he had been able to summon up successfully and applicably one of those many stories from his youth told to him by Rakesh-7.

Bhakti, however, remained silent for a few uncomfortable moments after Bunnu had finished speaking, staring upon the window at his own reflection, which stared not back at him, but instead looked thoughtfully out into the void of night. He, then, turned around, bumping into a stool which sat by the window and he dragged it to the middle of the floor, offering it to Bunnu with a vacant look in his eyes. It was the only item of furniture in the room, aside from the mattress in the corner and Bunnu felt a little odd sitting down, but at the moment, it seemed best to follow Bhakti's lead. The accordionist stood there facing Bunnu, but his eyes looked again at the blackened window. "In fact, that glass is almost nearly covered with dust and grime on the outside..." he said about it, as he stroked his beard, "At nighttime, you wouldn't really know either way, but this being your first visit, I suppose you could only have assumed that the window was completely transparent. It's a bit disconcerting to be misled in such a way, no?"

Bunnu shrugged and replied in the hopes of reassuring him, "Well, to be honest, I wasn't thinking very much about your window, at all. I reckon everything has its own time and place in which it becomes significant; its own context in which it becomes apparent. Perhaps, in the daytime, the distinction between the dust on the surface of the glass and the light that exists beyond it would have been more obvious. In any case, right now, such matters are of no immediate importa--"

"What?" the bearded accordionist reacted abruptly, "B-but..." His eyes then bulged outward in furious panic, as though overtaken by a pressure fueled internally by the boilings of his paranoid and irrational hysteria. "WHA- WHA- WHA- WHAT?" he said again, incapable of saying anything more. His hands and lips began to tremble, until suddenly, he erupted into a fit of nervous giggles, sputtering all the while with a disturbing rapidity and intensity, "F-forgive please!" His eyes darted nervously about the room, "B-by the way, have ha-have you seen that the prices at Aunty Durga's have gone up? A-ha ha ha! I spoke to mon seigneur-Q about it, but I don't think he's willing to smack some sense into the...the d-dear dear woman. Haha! Yes? A-ha! W-Why it now c-costs a good three and three quarter Juleps for a mere honey ocha. So, I gave the old wen—wen—er...woman a fiver and asked her to include a bowl of piddle-doused scuppernongs, which the dear dear dear dear dear woman—d-dear and kind! Yes, yes... _kind!_ Bless her heart, for the dear dear woman was good _and kind_ enough to oblige my special request...a-ha ha-"

At this, Bunnu found himself, too, erupting into a waterfall of nervous man-giggles—these trickled out from his mouth and their sound reverberated like delirious micro-screams throughout the bare-walled flat. A tightness formed in his chest, pulling concavely inward—and from all angles—shreds of _pectoralis_ and _latissimus dorsum_ fiber, clumps of pulmonary tissue, shards of splintered ribcage and vertebra, as well as slivers of shredded skin, until all depressed conically and on a parabolic trajectory toward an origin amid what he presumed to be his exact pinpoint center of gravity (transformed now into a singularity with a gravitational field of unmatched intensity, the force of which was unrivaled by even the most formidable of black holes). What fresh anxiety coursed, as a result of this change, like a virus now through his nerves and then multiplied exponentially before branching out and flushing through the arteries, the veins, the capillaries: he could not know. In the feverish madness which ensued, his blood grew hotter and correspondingly thinner in viscosity; and thus, it soon vaporized, only to recondense _Elsewhere_ , having now been contaminated by this new angst-infusing agent. His blood pressure shot up rapidly until scorching hematocytes spurted out through the walls of their vessels to escape beyond the confines of his circulatory system and swirl—as though in a whirlpool—in the direction of this newborn singularity with such incredible centripetal force as to separate themselves into tiny congealed clumps of ionic bloodfish, which thereupon swam chaotically and without deterministic pattern in schools about this infinitesimal, but dense mass. The pinpoint singularity further tested, by turns, the limits and the malleability of what he had understood to be his ego, stretching it until it began to tear away like flesh from bone at the force of the implosive pull. An awful psychotic fear surged within him, a chaos that arose naturally with this recession of long-standing order. With this fear came a thirst for violence—in his irrational panic, in his now-hostile excitability, he suddenly wished for nothing more than to tear away the face of the bearded accordionist, to peel away the skin—to melt it and boil it away until the skin became a gaseous cloud—in the hopes of exposing the simple wire mesh that lay concealed beneath it, holding it in place and giving it form. Surely beyond this wire mesh would be a host of knick-knacks to be examined closely, perhaps even adopted for one's own. That which comprised Bhakti's essence will have dispersed into such odds and ends, an arrangement of items in space for which there could be no other accurate designation now than as _mere objects_ : decaying symbols no longer imbued with any meaning and no longer subject to any connections to the vessel which holds them. No connections whatsoever, whether sentimental, logical, or metaphysical. Without the face which sought to conceal them, they were mere objects and little more. And without a face, little more makes up a man than this!

Bunnu had no sooner resolved himself to this action than Bhakti's voice took on rather swiftly a well-modulated and repentant tone. The bearded accordionist suddenly regained his composure and said slowly to Bunnu, patting him on the back, "Apologies, friend. I...well, I think the weather has put me in a rather foul mood." Bunnu continued laughing stupidly for a moment and then suddenly stopped altogether as he felt the anxiety-inducing agent creep out from his body and through his pores. The wintery chill of the room returned to him and he shivered slightly as it cooled the beads of sweat that had now formed on his forehead. Upon achieving this moderate level of peace, he made sure to stretch immediately both his right _serratus anterior_ muscle and then his left extensor _digitorum longus—_ and specifically in that order— for he had once been told by Rakesh-7 that this was always the appropriate action to take once one's most violent and murderous of inclinations have adequately subsided. This tidbit of advice often proved useful to Bunnu in the summertime when his hormones were most profoundly at the mercy of the elements and, when in the midst of the season's overwhelming heat and humidity, he was inevitably at the heights of madness. In the winter, of course, this sort of phenomenon was most uncommon, which was why, as he felt the calmness decidedly settle over him, he grew somewhat curious as to what it had been about Bhakti's sudden outburst that had managed to affect him so. Even now, there was something that had been greatly disturbing about it all.

Bhakti, in the meantime, continued on, insensible to Bunnu's musings: "You see, I'm afraid I'm not myself amidst these short, gloomy days and these long, dreary nights. I prithee not to take offence." His face drooped. The poor man now began to look exhausted, as though deprived of fluids after a long day scrambling mindlessly and with no particular destination over dunes under the desert sun: presumably, he had dehydrated himself not as a consequence of some internal blistering heat, so much as by dint of his own unquenchable fury. Or, perchance, this drained look about him was simply caused by his embarrassment in the aftermath of this peculiar fit. Whatever the case, a drastic change in his mannerisms instantly became apparent, as though an invisible layer of poise had suddenly crept over his skin. His facial features tightened as well, seemingly bound tautly by twine to a crank inside his head: his mouth became square and his lips quivered sensitively in the chilled gusts of calculated concentration being channeled their way through hidden ducts. Bunnu could only assume this was all some kind of survival mechanism. Bhakti had instinctively sensed the oncoming danger and adjusted his behavior accordingly. His features were now stony and his eyes heedful.

Surely he would allow no more slip-ups.

"None taken," Bunnu said, also composing himself as he stood from his stool. He, too, affected a veil of politeness to conceal his previous desire to rip away the face of his most convivial host. "The short days are indeed tough, both physically and mentally. The fatigue can sometimes get the better of us without us realizing it. I shall take my leave of you. Perhaps, you require some rest? Anyway... the innkeeper will be expecting me back for dinner."

"Yes, yes!" Bhakti babbled on anxiously, perhaps trying a little harder than usual to behave normal through his weariness. Despite his aplomb, he remained a master of nervous overcompensation: "M-my regards to the old bloke. And p-please thank him for the invitation and tell him I w-would be delighted to attend this year's Foundation Day gathering. I'm g-glad to hear he's not including the Akbar twins on the guest list this time around. The last thing we need is them spoiling the party with their anti-Republic twaddle...which, well, I suppose they are entitled to their opinions, but I must say, they made the other guests rather uncomfortable with it last year. There's a time and place for everything, no? Politeness must prevail, yes?"

"Mmmm..." Bunnu said noncommittally to these last couple sentences, for fear of responding in a way that would make the situation any more awkward than it already was. He walked out the door of the flat and back into the depths of the bitter, windy night. Wind ruffled his hair, reminding him briefly of the Karakaze in his hometown of Bahlia, which somehow restored within him a feeling of comfort. "The Akbar twins will be conspicuously absent from this year's event," He turned to face Bhakti at the doorway, "but that might not sit well with some."

"It is as you say..." Bhakti responded with a sigh as he closed the door.

That final image of Bhakti for that fraction of a second just before he was out of sight and insulated once again in his frigid, but dimly-lit flat would repeat again and again in Bunnu's mind for years to come: that seeming sigh of relief—that moist cloud of breath which puffed out of Bhakti's mouth by the glow of the oil lamp and into the frozen winter air of the room, hanging for moments and then evaporating; a billowing vapor inside of which swirled something Bhakti wished no-one-else-to-see.

### V.

Bhakti's flat was above a florist's and an anal suppository shop, both of which shared the space on the ground floor of an old bluestone building, and both of which belonged—along with the rest of the building—to a long-time foreign resident of Yami by the name of mon seigneur-Q. Bhakti and the elderly Q had, over their many years of acquaintanceship, struck up a special bond reserved typically for family friends. mon seigneur-Q had been a business partner of Bhakti's father and a frequent guest at dinner well before the boy had been born. He even visited the home often when Bhakti's mother was still pregnant with him; hence, it could be said that Q's acquaintance with Bhakti had been forged long before Bhakti himself—in his, then, fetal warmth— had even been cognizant of the world for which his body was being incubated and his appendages shaped.

Beyond this affable relationship between families, however, there seemed a deeper attachment between Bhakti and Q, which sprouted, more likely, from their perceived lack of 'belonging' amidst the people of Yami, than from any other surmisable seeds of amity; which is to say, it was this sense of _being out of place_ , with respect to the community, which seemed to account for their close kinship. This may well have had to do with the fact that they had both been orphans from a young age: somehow this had granted them both the privilege to see themselves as outsiders in any given context, and, in turn, to embrace a mutual empathy which arose amidst their unvanquishable sense of self-imposed isolation; on the other hand, the nucleus of this shared sentiment may have been centered somewhere deeper and in a much less conspicuous area of human experience—in an area beyond, perhaps, even the grasp of language or memory. Whatever the case—and in spite of their implied fellowship with one another—they managed to co-exist on a perfunctory level as citizens with the rest of the community, while at the same time, maintaining a curious emotional distance from its other members, for reasons unknown even to themselves.

Unknown, but not unimaginable.

Conceivably, when confronted continually with the obligatory—however disingenuously ingenuous—gentility of Yami's citizens, one might easily think that there was no other way one could expect to survive than by hiding his precious sensitivities deep and in a place inaccessible to these people from whom he might sense a latent and unspoken—albeit wholly imagined— animosity. Bhakti and mon seigneur-Q were no strangers to such a phenomenon. And yet, the townspeople seemed neither concerned by nor aware of the insecurity and the alienation they inadvertently evoked in Bhakti and mon seigneur-Q. In fact, most of them didn't really bear any negative impressions of the two, at all, as neither had done anything, in particular, that was worthy of criticism, much less resentment. In fact, many of the townsfolk admired mon seigneur-Q for his acumen as a fortune-teller, business leader and diplomat. Of course, the compassionless safeguard of emotional detachment adopted by these two would-be, wannabe social outcasts was overlooked by most, especially in formal gatherings, as Q and Bhakti still seemed unable to break away from engaging in the same diplomatic graces as the others. And thus, it seemed that never could a dubious eye be cast upon the artificial smiles that tore across their faces in reaction to some mild quip voiced solely in the hopes of pleasing or amusing them; nor was there a scrutinizing gaze, nor even the crack of a sardonic smirk directed toward their exaggerated and overdone gestures of apology, gratitude, and hesitation, as these, too, were part and parcel of what people in this region of the world referred to, almost mechanically, as 'politeness.' Thus, any contempt on the part of the community for these men would have been fabricated entirely in the imaginations of the men themselves, for in their ceaseless self-consciousness, they might have the tendency to mistake even the slightest movement of an eyebrow for a silent and incisive judgment. Unfortunately, Bhakti and Q's compulsive mistrust of others was not something either of them was able to control easily, as it may have come about as a natural and instinctual defense mechanism to those threats which had been prevalent in the environments of their respective origins.

### * * *

The exceedingly long story of Q's origins begins in the Outlands, where he had traveled until the age of 10 with his nomadic tribe, before his clan was suddenly struck and subsequently decimated by an unknown infection, leaving only him as its sole survivor. With no other recourse, he pressed on by himself to his tribe's intended destination: the island of Buccal, which was a known refuge for many a noted scholar of the day. He lived out most of his teenage years and young adulthood among different sets of Buccalese foster parents, being passed from home-to-home—as was the custom with the orphaned children of this island city-state— going to school and assisting various scholars with their research, until the town was finally sacked by pillaging hordes of barbarians from the north. At the urging of his tutor, he fled alone by sailboat, following the gentle freshwater passages inland, until he finally arrived at the port of Dab Parhg in the Nolce province of the Hidimban Empire. There, he enrolled in a university, continuing various topics of research for many years, before being conscripted for military service by the Hidimban Royal Army, which was, at the time, embroiled in a series of border conflicts on numerous fronts against the allied forces of the Kingdom of Sousuke, the Daitya Shogunate, and the Slave Republic of Hidimbi (led by their demented, yet ruthless female sultan, Mirabai). More interested in continuing his intellectual pursuits than by the petty power plays of that era, Q took advantage of the first available opportunity to desert his legion, amidst a trek through the jungles of Bas Padoun, and took refuge in the village of a tribe, theretofore untouched by the imposition of civilized governance. While he waited out the resolution of the war, he passed his time in the village by investigating the hierarchies of family and spiritual leadership, the role of kin-selective altruism, and the notion of individuality versus cooperation in this small-scale, tribalistic framework. However, after years of studying this primitive community, Q started to think endlessly of the similarities between the ways of these people and those of his once nomadic family and he came to yearn again for a life of endless roaming. Taking one of the daughters of the village as his wife, he proceeded with her by raft down a river, even deeper into uncivilized territory, where gluttonous and vile demons, at least 10 meters tall, swung from trees, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting humans. The waters became rough and—because he was, as yet, a novice when it came to the navigation of even the simplest of watercraft— they were forced ashore. Fearful of being attacked in the lawless chaos of the demon realm, Q and his wife took hiding in a nearby cave. However, the Asura demons who ruled over this country were not at all interested in attacking Q or his wife. They, in fact, had greater aspirations. Soon, the Asura found them and offered temporary asylum, along with working and spousal visas to live in their kingdom for the purposes of serving in their Ministry of Information. The newlyweds accepted this offer and it wasn't long before they were assisting the Asura in the drafting of propagandistic declarations which appealed to devout believers of all religious faiths and which attested to the divine essence and omnipotence of the misunderstood Asura, as well as to the sheer inadequacy, incompetence and mismanagement of the buffoonish deities currently receiving and undoubtedly hoarding most of the devotees' generous offerings and prayers. The Asura took a great liking to Q, for he was as monstrous-looking as they, with his large iridescent armored shell, which hung from his back as would a tortoise's; in addition to this, despite still being a relatively young man, he had a rather ugly face, which was as ridden with craters and was as barren and craggy as the face of an asteroid. His wife, on the other hand, was quite feminine and exquisitely beautiful: something the demons detested strongly. However, a particularly romantic demon by the name of Jaswinder was oddly enchanted by her; so much so, that he hid daily behind a tree, under which she napped unknowing of his presence, and he sang into her ear folk songs from the demon world—delightful melodies about stealing innocence and befouling virtue and defiling irreparably any shred of altruism remaining in even the most damaged and cynical of beings. Unfortunately, one day, in doing so, his protruding jaw accidentally bit off her tiny head, sending Jaswinder into a howling frenzy of self-destruction. Q, awakened from his own nap under a nearby tree by the incredible racket being caused by this hysterical beast, soon learned of his wife's demise and made for the nearby mountains, crossing over into the theocratic republic of Samadhi. For three years, he mourned her loss, performing austerities everyday alongside a group of monks from a mountain monastery and—when he wasn't otherwise occupied by his grief—feasting ravenously on the daily buffet of sweets which constituted these portly monks' diet. In his misery, however, it seemed that Q had an unquenchable appetite and thus he soon ballooned to an unhealthy weight. The monks of this order saw the pursuit of obesity as a form of self-denial—more specifically, they believed that to eat beyond the point of discomfort was to deny oneself, in one's sincerest and most utter devotion, the comfort of stopping at the point of fullness. It was an oblique form of temperance, for it was of the kind which might typically be mistaken by the casual observer for overindulgence, but it was the exaltedness of this sacred gluttony and the shame experienced collectively, should any one of its members have failed to see his gastronomic duties through to their completion, which conferred upon this ritual its quality of discipline. Hence, Q managed to move quickly up the ranks of the spiritual hierarchy, becoming Grand Abbot of the Temple for a brief period of time, before finally losing his appetite and being demoted permanently to _mon seigneur_ —a title that had no official meaning in this order, but was an honorific generally ascribed to ex-Abbots. Unfortunately for him, however, after 3 years of gorging, the sugar content from all the sweets had managed to not only rot most of his teeth, but also wear out his pancreas. Ailing in health, mon seigneur-Q took his leave of the mountains and made for the Hidimban colony of Akutagawa, in the hopes of finding a physician qualified both in the dental and endocrinal arts. However, upon registering for temporary residency at an administrative office, Q was immediately sent to another counter in the basement of the building where a pointy-faced man with a pointy nose told him that he owed an exorbitant amount in back taxes since leaving Dab Parhg, Nolce. To this existing total was added another monetary penalty brought about by reversals on his tax exemptions for military service, the balance of which he now had to pay back to the government immediately and under threat of detainment, due to his desertion of a military post in a time of war. Fortunately for him, the tax clerk's wife, who happened to be cleaning out the office's overstuffed filing cabinets and desk drawers at the time, took a great fancy to the alluring sheen of mon seigneur's iridescent shell—in fact, the simple woman had an unexplainable childlike fascination with shiny objects. So much so, that she kept winking suggestively at Q from behind the tax clerk, as the unwitting husband stood at the counter and read dispassionately from some document that he was required to recite verbatim, which was presumably some sort of invocation for any tax offenders who sought absolution for their monetary sins. Motioning out the window to the street it faced, the buxom wife made lewd gestures at Q through an inexplicably skillful coordination of her hips, elbows, pinkies, and belly fat. Immediately after his tax consultation, the two met outside the window of the office and departed together by carriage in the middle of the night for her hometown of Cape Fukurokuju. Along the way, they made furious love daily, all the while talking dirty to one another about monetary matters. "Wealth is wisdom and wisdom wealth," his new wife—he learned upon marrying her that her name was Akane—said, rubbing his rough shell in seeming ecstasy. "You shall make me a wise and wealthy woman! Far more so than that lifeless deadbeat of an ex-husband." Upon arriving in the village of Akane's upbringing, they were greeted by a tiny old man with a forehead that seemed to stretch and hang slightly forward like a pouch of skin over his eyebrows. He had a long gray beard and wore a robe. In one hand, he held a large bow compass, which jewelers often used to measure precious stones. In the other, he held a monocle, which he soon put to his eye to examine closely the consistency of Q's shell. "It does seem to resemble Octavian Blue," he said carefully, "Your parents pay a fair price for this laddie?" "It was common attire for people from the island of Buccal," the young mon seigneur responded with a shrug. "I'm told it's meant to promote longevity, but I'm afraid I don't know what will happen to me if it's removed." "Well..." Akane winked, rubbing his shell, "I suppose there's only one way to find out!" The old man went to work with a hammer and chisel, but seemed incapable of breaking through the shell. "I shall require a harder material to cut through this..." the old man said. Before he could say anything more, a clan of Cro-Magnons, which had been masturbating in the direction of the sea on the ledge of a nearby rocky cliff, came thundering down the hill, in the direction of mon seigneur-Q and the crowd of townspeople that now encircled him. The crowd quickly scattered and the Cro-Magnons abducted Q, slaying the old man and Akane in the process. He was taken to a cave and was made to suffer their wretched cooking, their painful preening, and, worst of all, their intolerable artwork for the next few weeks as these intelligent apes had taken him to be a discerning authority on visual art, due to the showiness of the ornamentation adorning his backside. Apparently, they had wanted him to judge some kind of art contest featuring cave paintings of various animals indigenous to this region, the first of its kind amongst this lesser-evolved community. One of the Shamans spoke thus, "Mmmm mmmm eeeeeerrrrrk aw!" leading mon seigneur-Q to the intuitive assumption that the Shaman was secretly hoping his awkward-looking teenage son would win the competition, so that this pimply-faced youth may establish himself early among the other primitives as an authority on the ways of the world. Unfortunately, this hairy little boy didn't know his left hand from his right, but this was not something one could easily tell a proud Cro-Magnon parent. Before the contest commenced, they all shared in a concoction in the skull of a wild beast. Upon drinking this concoction, Q had the faint suspicion that it didn't agree with him. He looked around the cave, which now consisted of little more than blurry patches of light and dark. Within minutes, he was puking violently. He awoke suddenly in a bed in a white-walled room in another country, being studied by a team of doctors with thick mustaches and strange accents. "You've been here for the past twenty-three years," one of them told him, excited by this new development. Apparently, before even reaching the hospital, he had been wandering around the countryside, babbling incoherently and fucking anything that moved—somehow completely devoid of the ability to form or retain memories—for, from their estimates, 12 years, until he had happened upon a town. Soon thereafter, it seemed that the erratic wildness of his behavior got him committed to this sanitarium for these 23 years. "Your wife is here to see you," one of the nurses came in to announce. "Wife?" responded the two-time widower quizzically. "Darling!" an elegant woman in an obnoxious patchwork of animal skins and fancy dress said to him from the doorway, "How I've worried about you these 23 years! It seems you had gone rather feral for a time, but I'm told that you are feeling much better now. Is that right?" Not knowing what to do or say, mon seigneur-Q nodded stupidly, hoping that in doing so, it would jog his memory of this woman. "I must apologize for the conditions of your care. Father would not permit me to put you up in a better hospital. Please forgive him, O' Bubsy, he's very set in his ways and you know how vain people of his stature can get! In any case, I spoke to the nurses, Bubsy! I can take you home soon." And so, within a matter of days, mon seigneur-Bubsy nee Q (presumably, "Bubsy" was his official title due to the noble lineage of his wife) was feeling strong enough to leave the hospital. Thus, he and his wife set forth across the snowy tundra and in the direction of her palatial family estate by way of a sleigh drawn by a team of plump and fancy-looking long-haired cats—of a breed that similarly descended from feline aristocracy. Upon arriving at the domicile of his grace the Viscount Khilikoff, they were escorted immediately by guards to a long, narrow room adjoining the Viscount's personal quarters. It was a simple area with stone walls, a row of windows that faced a barren snowscape, plush benches and purple carpeted floors which appeared to be stained in various points with a tar-like black residue. A thin, tiny-headed man in a dusty gray suit and glasses came out of the Viscount's room, informing both of them that only the daughter was to be admitted to see her father. In the meantime, her "guest"—as he put it—was either to stay seated, or to stand quietly outside the gates of the estate. The gray-suited man seemed to emphasize the latter of these two suggestions with a distinct clearing of the throat, as though unaware of the severe blizzard-like conditions outside the palace. Given these options, mon seigneur-Bubsy declared, in spite of bulging eyes that were now blazing insinuative beams through his skull, that he preferred to stay in the warmth of the waiting room, noting to himself, upon saying so, that there seemed to be no identifiable source of heat within this room. No fire, no stove, and no radiator--thus, he found himself wondering, as the gray-suited man and his wife took their leave of him, from where the warmth was emanating. He decided to pace about the room until he could find something that could account for the vast difference in the temperature between this room and the cold outside. He looked through the windows at the falling snow, incidentally stepping in one of the black tar spots, as he did so, to find an intense heat running up through the sole of his boots and warming the bottoms of his feet. "Rablefee..." a voice said from behind him suddenly. mon seigneur-Bubsy wheeled around to see the gray-suited man standing again in front of the doorway to the Viscount's quarters. The man continued as he walked toward mon seigneur, "The black residue. It's called Rablefee. It is of unknown composition and unknown origin, but His Grace the Viscount is a great believer in its therapeutic powers. In fact, he owns scores of warehouses with barrels full of the substance. It is believed to be a bacterium of some kind, although none of our men have been able to confirm this for us." Bubsy nodded impatiently, looking over the gray-suited man's shoulder and toward the door of the Viscount's quarters again, in anticipation of his wife's return. The man in the gray suit stepped deliberately into his line of sight. He cleared his throat again and continued, "It seems the Viscount's daughter has been taken ill. She is to be sent to a spa in the countryside of Sousuke. Unfortunately, we cannot offer you a place here, as you are not the holder of any official title—the Viscount's daughter, in the unfortunate madness wrought upon her by her terrific ailment, has got it into her head that you are married with her, and has therefore taken you for a Bubsy, which, I have no shame in saying, you most certainly are not. However, His Grace the Viscount understands that you are simply an innocent bystander in this matter and has shown great magnanimity in his wish to offer you employment as a crewman on one of his freighters bound for the Outlands. It has been decades since the last Rablefee mission, so naturally, he is concerned that other buyers have emerged who will hoard this scarce commodity. You understand—it's not a matter of necessity to him. It is merely the opportunity cost of not possessing more than he currently has which is the sole motivation for this mission—this and his fear of someone else possessing more of it than him. Please do not misapprehend me when I say that whether or not this resource is renewable, it is incumbent upon us all to deem it scarce, regardless of what information may later come to surface regarding its properties and composition. Thus, you and your fellow crewmen will be charged with the duty of procuring and transporting as much Rablefee as your ship can stow from the remote desert mining communities that sell it. If you require more storage capacity, you are expected to contact us via telegraph and we will wire you the funds to make additional transport arrangements. Be aware that this is a long journey. It should take you three years just to reach your port of call. From there, you are to depart for a trek through the desert, starting with the nomadic villages along the perimeter of the M-34 Basin. It is a long journey, indeed, but once you obtain the adequate amount of Rablefee, you are to return immediately to your port of embarkation. There, you will receive compensation and further instructions. Should you complete this mission to the satisfaction of His Grace the Viscount, you will have succeeded in gaining his favor and he would be inclined to show his gratitude with a cash reward—on the condition, of course, that you thereupon leave the country and never again return. If you fail to satisfy His Grace—well, we shan't speak of those consequences right now. Nonetheless, if I may be so bold, it seems to me that either way you have very little, if anything, more to lose at this point. However, do not be swayed by the musings of a mere servant to His Grace. In the end, the decision is yours." And so, five weeks later, mon seigneur boarded a ship bound for the Outlands. Upon doing so, he was immediately greeted by the ship's communications officer with a transmission addressed to him from his wife. The telegram said: "Bubsy, I hope this finds you well. I'm going to come out and say something that has been on my mind since the day I picked you up from the hospital: I think the fire is out of our relationship. I hope you understand what I mean when I say this. I don't know how else I can explain it really. After all, let's face it: You clearly aren't the same wild, slobbering and sadistic Bubsy I once knew. When we first met, 32 years ago, you were a malicious and ferocious beast with the manners of a Cro-Magnon. And now...well, now you are simply one of my father's puppets. You may think me a fickle creature, Bubsy, but I can't stay married to someone who's unwilling to beat me over the head and drag me around by the hair every now and again. Bubsy, let's go our separate ways...and always remember the good times. Fortunately, in this country, it is possible to divorce via telegraph correspondence. Just as well, as I've found myself a new Bubsy right here at the spa. I do hope you aren't sore at me, Bubsy. Actually, I guess I should call you Q now, instead of Bubsy. I hope you aren't sore at me, Q. Well, best of luck, Q. Stay well...and don't forget to breathe!" Upon reading this, Q crumpled up the telegram and threw it overboard. Three times a widower, for she was as good as dead to him now anyway! At any rate, despite the mild annoyance he felt at this wife he barely knew, the situation had brought him here. Now, there were newer and more pressing matters with which to contend. For one, much had changed in the 35 years that he was incoherent. Technology had advanced beyond his ability to fathom—to wit, he didn't even understand what a telegram was or how it worked, but, in fact, knew that this invention had vastly revolutionized the instantaneity of written communication. Thus, he understood that it would take some time to adjust to these changes, if an adjustment was, in fact, necessary. Another matter of some significance was his new life as a sailor. He had had no previous experience in this capacity, so, once again, it would take some time to process his surroundings and get accustomed to this new role. Of course, he was excited by the prospect of a challenge, for this would be a new experience and, hence, something from which he might gain an insight previously unavailable to him. Therefore, despite the monotony of the duties over which he would assume responsibility, he had an eager anticipation for the transformation that was soon likely to occur within him: a transformation which should determine his success in this new environment. When the ship finally left port and the reality of his situation actually set in, however, he found that his anticipation of this, yet, undefined _transformation_ only served to make the challenges at hand all the more encumbering, for his gross incompetence on his first few days of work had fraught him with an unyielding impatience and a frustration with himself for not having developed sooner the skill, the agility, or even the mere coordination to perform his tasks handily. Beyond his inescapable self-criticism, life aboard the ship was difficult for Q in other, far more rudimentary ways, as it took him a very long time, in his advanced age, to acquire what the other crewman laughingly referred to as "his sea legs." Yet, he persevered, improving little-by-little, and, in time, all of these matters managed to resolve themselves to his satisfaction and mon seigneur-Q finally achieved the victory he so adamantly sought. It had taken two or three months to do it, but now he found he was able to perform all the major duties on the ship just as well as any of the younger crewmen—so well, in fact, that the captain took him on as his first mate and trained him to be a skilled navigator and helmsman. As he gained confidence in himself, he started to feel a greater familiarity with the life of a sailor, as though it were now second nature to him, perhaps because he was able to equate it somehow to his own heritage as a nomad. There were the long days at sea with nothing on the horizon, save for the rough waves to be traversed. Each day of work was purposeful, insofar as the duties performed therein should lend to the contrastingly purposeless perpetuity of the voyage. In fact, the destination of this particular voyage soon became indistinct from other destinations which may have existed previous, or which may come to exist in the future. Such destinations could only be called 'land,' as they might be seen, from the point of view of the sea-faring observer, as a mere obstruction of waves. Then, there were the frequent overnight refueling stops at ports: one night to mix with new people in new surroundings. Fuzzy images of momentary faces by firelight, amidst the laughing, the singing, the dancing—and sometimes the fighting: the people and the places were surely different each time, but because they were bound to the land, they all began to look the same. They were landlubbers and now the mon seigneur belonged to the sea. There was something about being continually on the move that made him feel comfort amidst what others might perceive as uncertainty. Uncertainty was conjoined with him, for it had accompanied him from his very origins and through the many years of his life: from his nomadic days, moving somewhere, always moving, but never truly feeling a part of a place, because it was always time to move once more. He had felt no solid connections with the people in the places where he had once lived or once visited, for maybe these folks had a much stronger connection to their own surroundings and to the cultures which stultified their perceptions of the world in befuddling prejudices—much stronger, in fact, than any connection which could be formed with him. Yet, through all his journeying, he felt now that he had created, from his own random cohort of travel companions over the years, a new family, very much like the nomadic family of his youth. They all came from different places, but at one point or another, they had shared in a common voyage with him, before their paths again diverged. The same could even now be said for the crew of this ship. The same indeed--and yet, one and a half years into their three-year journey at sea, the other crewmembers slowly started to die off, succumbing to a mysterious illness. Apparently, a pack of rats bearing some strain of virus endemic to the tropics had managed to scurry aboard the ship at one of the refueling stops and the pestilence soon started to spread amongst the crew. Within three months, Q was left as the only surviving member of the ship, for he was, once again, as in his childhood, immune to whatever ailment this happened to be. Thus, he found himself with no other alternative than to guide the boat to its intended destination by himself for the final 14 months of the voyage. Having become a skilled captain, he managed to do so with very little trouble, but in the solitude of his journey, he found himself again missing the company of the crewmembers, and in addition to that, of all those he had loved in this lifetime. The perils of traveling with companions had now become quite clear to him: sooner or later, they all move on without you and without even the ability to look back and wait. His crewmen had departed without him in the same fashion that his family and his ex-wives had done before them; and he knew once again that he couldn't follow. And so, for the fourteen months he spent alone aboard this freighter, he started to think less and less about his fellow crewmen, or even of the nomadic family of his youth, but instead he began to focus his most sentimental ruminations upon his ex-wives: those people with whom he had once had a chance to build a future. He soon began to yearn for a home, but realized that he had now reached middle age without ever having had one. He also felt this strange new urge to procreate, though he had never even entertained the possibility before. There was something about living this exceptional existence, but having nothing to continue its legacy; there was something about the idea that his thoughts, his aspirations, and his genetic memory should reach their own utter terminus with the terminus of his breath: something about this bothered him greatly. And so it was that before even arriving at his port of call, mon seigneur-Q made the decision to forsake the mission with which he had been charged and pursue his own happiness in the Outlands. Upon reaching the port, he was shocked to find it at the fringes of a megacity, far more technologically advanced than any civilization he had ever encountered. There was no desert; no M-34 Basin. He had made contact with a civilization not yet even aware of the place from which he came, except in the mythology of their ancient predecessors. Now, he was in a new place, where he could build a new life. The first order of business was to get some of the local currency. The only way to do this immediately was to sell the ship. In trying to do so, however, he found that most of the potential buyers at the pier were not at all interested in the primitive vessel itself, but rather the mechanical parts which could be salvaged from it. And yet, he sensed that, perhaps, if he had been more proficient in the language spoken here, he would have been able to get more money for the ship than the trifle for which he eventually settled. The people here, in fact, spoke a strange language he had never heard and many of them had the same craggy, asteroid-like facial features as him, leading him to wonder if this was the civilization from which his tribe had originated several centuries earlier. Unfortunately for him, this inkling of their common mutual heritage was not shared by this insular society of people. Many of them avoided contact with him altogether, or stared disapprovingly at his gaudy-looking shell, or his sailor uniform, until he realized that through all the migrations, he and his family had evolved so much in mannerisms, language, shape, and culture as to appear alien even to the inhabitants of his motherland. With the money he had from selling the ship, he quickly found himself simple lodgings and managed to get himself employment as a construction worker. By day he worked as a laborer on a variety of public works projects and by night he dedicated himself to building his vocabulary and learning the basic grammar structures of the language spoken by the people in this strange, dizzying country. Sometimes, he walked the brightly-lit streets, looking into shop windows, or into pubs, mesmerized by the sights, but all the while, attempting to take in the sounds of this new language. Occasionally, he treated himself to a few drinks at the neighborhood watering hole to practice speaking the language and to make friends in the process. Once he had saved enough money, he enrolled part-time in a university, and despite his wealth of knowledge in other academic fields, he soon earned himself the unintentional reputation as a noted expert in all areas pertaining to the life of the noble savages in—what the sophisticated academics here referred to as— _the Outlands_ (however, in this case, _the Outlands_ being referred to consisted of what he had theretofore known to be the _civilized_ world).With respect to this technocratic civilization, the areas of the world with which Q was greatly familiar were seen by the layman as undeveloped cesspools of savagery. Yet, amongst the liberal academics, there seemed to be this newfound movement to idealize the savage as spiritually advanced, for he had not yet been corrupted by the excesses of _modern living_. Thus, Q was seen by these self-congratulating, yet dainty-looking scholars as a kind of treasure, since his reactions to various stimuli could provide useful insight into the evils of civilization; very useful data could also be garnered from this to promote certain political agendas. Dissatisfied, however, with the prospect of having his proud intellect trivialized in favor of his presumably quaint cultural understandings, as well as his allegedly primitive schemata of perception, mon seigneur ignored the condescending affirmations of his so-called colleagues and set about his own research, first undertaking a private study of medicine, stealing cadavers from the city morgue and sometimes even from the medical colleges. One night while carrying a corpse over his shoulder out of the morgue, he encountered a mother and son body-snatching team in the darkened hallway. The infant was staring at mon seigneur so intently that the startled Q couldn't help but return the favor. The battle-weary old mother had scars all over her rough skin. Despite her frilly lace dress, she had thick calves which were as solid as stone pillars and enormous shoulders and biceps, as well as a square jaw. She said to him in a gruff, macho voice, "I suppose you plan to sell that bloated old carcass to the medical school?" mon seigneur, not knowing what to say, simply shrugged. "No matter," the burly woman said with a wave of a stubby-fingered hand, "I won't report you. Body-snatcher's code. I, however, can't help but notice you admiring my fuck trophy over here. His name is First Prize. He popped out of my vagina about 2 years after I had it off with a real winner. Say...you know, you look like a bit of a winner yourself. You'll have to excuse my frankness, in saying so, but I do consider myself a relatively ambitious woman. Sure, I'm a single mother now, but I won't have it off with just anyone. The man simply must be a winner. I'm not really sure what it is about you that makes you appear that way, but you certainly aren't a loser. That's for sure! In any case, there's no denying my unexplainable attraction to your _otherness_. In fact, I'm downright turned on by it. Shall we join forces and become a _family_ of body-snatchers?" mon seigneur shrugged his shoulders again in silent assent. "You might have to get a bit used to my crassness. I am, shall we say, a _modern_ woman—which means to me that I don't need to feign delicacy for anyone's sake anymore. And if that puts you off, I expect you to modify your attitude to accord with mine. I believe there is no other possible way to make this relationship work. Have a problem with that?" Q cowered and shook his head. "Good. Now take me home and split me in two with that massive log of yours!" mon seigneur-Q hesitantly obliged, despite his lack of physical attraction for this brusque, masculine woman. They soon married and began to live together, stealing bodies for a living; although, as a cohabitant husband and stepfather, mon seigneur now found that he no longer had the leftover energy, free time or the concentration to dedicate to his research, so the cadavers they purloined soon piled up and were inevitably sold to the highest bidder. He and First Prize, however, had taken a great fancy to one another and enjoyed running around the parks together, or going to market to buy some meat and fish for dinner, or sometimes even just riding the metro train together for the whole day. It was on one particular day, after First Prize had gotten himself tuckered out and started to nap in the train that mon seigneur spotted a young woman with an alluring physique staring at him with a half-smile. She wore a bright sun dress and a large hat, as she stood by the door of the metro, glancing between a map on the wall and back over her shoulder at the mon seigneur, looking away, whenever his eye happened to catch hers. It seemed she wanted to be watched, or maybe even approached. In spite of the voice in his head telling him not to do so, he felt a sensation in his crotch that impelled him to forget the boy and stand up to talk to the woman. The woman's eyes seemed to fill with immense delight as, with her peripheral vision, she watched him take the bait and slowly proceed in her direction. "Hello," mon seigneur breathed heavily at her. The look in her eyes and the sudden blush in her cheeks were an affirmation to him. There was something magical and liberating about approaching a strange woman like this and with utterly no pretense, but simply because she had been waiting there all this time for him to acknowledge his own manhood and work up the nerve to strike up a conversation. The opportunity had been dangling before him like a prize to be grabbed and he had now seized upon it, thereby finally—and seemingly for the first time in his long life—confirming his existence as a member of the world around him. There was an unmistakable transcendental glory; a romanticism radiating about what could come of this chance meeting wi- "Isn't that your son?" the woman suddenly asked, interrupting his train of thought with a musical giggle. Of course she had to say this, but this was also a part of the game. The key for her was to keep a playful distance, so as to maintain the illusion that she had not at all been expecting his approach, but the mon seigneur was prepared for this tactic. "Never seen the lad before..." he shrugged quickly and charismatically, as though hoping to dismiss the notion as expediently as possible. He exhaled as he felt micro-droplets of sweat trickling out from every pore. She seemed pleased by his response, even though it was an obvious lie, and they continued the conversation, as the bulge in the crotch of his trousers grew larger and larger. Soon, the temptation was simply too much to endure and he found himself inviting the young lady to coffee, leaving the boy where he was asleep on the seat of the train. After hours of steamy, unbridled lust, Q returned home to find the boy waiting for him in front of the house. He looked disappointed, but said nothing, not even to his mother, who was in the kitchen cooking dinner. Somehow, the poor woman didn't seem to suspect a thing. "Well, dear Winner!" she said in a happy, carefree voice, "What did you win today?" mon seigneur shrugged sheepishly in response as a pang of guilt jolted through him. If there was anything—beyond his own feelings for her—that was sacrosanct about the marital bond he shared with this woman, he had surely violated it with that afternoon's transgression. Yet, he simply hadn't been able to help himself. It was summer and there was something in the air that made him desire it, especially if it was something which couldn't be had. He burned for it—perhaps it was the heat, or the humidity, or that unforgettable perfume of hers that had rendered him powerless to his own temptations. Whatever it was, the next day, he boarded the train alone, this time striking a conversation with another attractive young woman in a very short skirt that had peeked in his direction a couple times. She was the type who enjoyed being gazed upon, but seemed unwilling to admit it to herself, much less to others. Of course, this would mean the hours she spent applying various paints, gels, molding clays and liquids to her face had been an utter waste of time. Possibly, she didn't want to come to terms with the fact that she was objectifying herself—many women had come to see the application of make-up and accessories as a gesture of self-empowerment, which is to say, they wanted to believe that they were doing it for the sake of their own appreciation, while in fact, it merely served as a facile veil of their self-confidence: a means of obtaining approval from others. Naturally, there was a sexual element beneath it all, prevalent in most societies, but denied on the surface in those cultures which sought to view themselves as being in possession of a high moral character. In any case, the time and care she had put into her own appearance meant that she was probably an attention-seeker, but knew that in the modern social context, this was seen as the wrong sort of attention to pursue, if she sought to be taken seriously and respected. Thus, she was likely ruled by her own pettiness and insecurities. At the same time, she was probably intelligent, yet stubborn. Simply receiving interested glances from strangers just wouldn't be enough to fill the void within her, and yet she was fearful of taking it any further than that. Therefore, from the point of view of mon seigneur, this situation would call for delicacy and tact. At first, it would be necessary to cater to her delusions, in order to make a proper go of it. mon seigneur played this role to a T, first revealing himself as a sophisticated scholar from a foreign land. He presented himself in such a light as would make him appear unconcerned by such a trifling thing as appearances. Then, he spoke of his great interest in the mores of this advanced and modern society, expressing his admiration for the refinement of its peoples. After this, he encouraged her to sound off about her viewpoints on a variety of topics. He took care to give the appearance that he was fascinated by her opinions and observations, imbuing her with the esteem she so hungrily sought; occasionally he would reaffirm her notions by simply paraphrasing what she had just said and spouting it back at her. This stratagem served to be far more successful than he had initially expected. So much so, that he even managed to surprise himself. Hours later, in the room of a love hotel, she would ask him, "How old are you anyway?" as she lay her head across his bare chest. "Younger than I have ever felt," he would respond, twirling her fine hair with his fingers and smiling in amazement at the ease of his second conquest. Returning home on this second day, he marveled at his own ability to succeed at talking these two women into sleeping with him. He wondered what it was they could have seen in him and then dismissed the thought completely, for it was of no concern. Nonetheless, he felt a sudden change in himself: an openness that he had never felt previously, as though a primal instinct of his were awakening. He felt a warm new excitement for life and a happiness that firmly rooted itself in the thrill of the hunt. And somehow, this new openness only served to intensify his pressing need for soulless intercourse. He rationalized it to himself through reminders that he was a man and that there were certain instinctual physiological drives which had to be seen to, in spite of his relationships with others. This attitude of it being a male-oriented necessity would similarly serve to indemnify him against the guilt which would otherwise creep up within him each time he ejaculated; and against that distressing compunction which would have been conspicuously absent even in those last moments prior to climax. In fact, without this attitude, he would also start to feel a sense of shame for having lost interest completely in the particular young woman with whom he'd happened to be fornicating mere moments earlier. The justification for his own behavior was a necessary one; and by virtue of this fact, it served as a perfect example of how a transgression made only once or twice, could—once that line had been crossed— become repetitive, habitual, and even compulsive, one-hundred or one-thousand times over. It was easy to coax oneself to violate again the same moral code as had been violated previously, for it had already been done twice now. Once or twice more would neither concentrate, nor dilute the initial crime. After all, the moment one has succumbed to his animalistic urges is the same moment that one seeks to descend further and further, as far into the base and savage realms of behavior he can manage, for he has already damned himself once over; one-hundred or one-thousand times more would not serve to magnify it so in corresponding degrees. And thus, Q was soon talking to women every chance he could get—naturally, his success rate dropped, but he still managed to copulate with a different woman daily. Then, he would return home and play husband and stepfather—unfortunately, his relationship with First Prize had since soured, but the unwitting mother had simply attributed this to a phase in the boy's childhood development. At home, a pang of guilt remained, but mon seigneur had found newer and cleverer ways to elude coming to terms with it, primarily by distancing himself as much as possible from intimate moments with his wife; emotionally isolating himself, not only from the woman who cared for him, but also from the man who had once cared for that woman. One night, however, she rolled over on top of him, demanding sex, which he felt pressured to oblige. Two weeks later, she started experiencing unusual symptoms. Three days after that, she was dead. The boy was sent to live with relatives in the suburbs and mon seigneur was left with the suspicion that his promiscuity had somehow led to the death of his wife. He went to a doctor's clinic to find out if he had contracted any diseases, but was given a clean bill of health. Still, there lingered this guilt. He returned to his medical research, stealing cadavers by night and working construction again by day. He slept very little and paid almost no attention to personal hygiene. His hair and fingernails grew to unbecoming lengths and became nests of grease and grime. He would ride the trains occasionally, but whenever he happened to catch the eye of an attractive woman, a tightness would form in his chest and a chill would shoot up his spine, until he felt an unshakable sense of foreboding at the flurry of selfish intentions that spiraled in his own mind—drives that had, at one time, been kept safely hidden from him, until his own internal defenses had weakened. Thus, he would avert his eyes in an attempt to suppress his desires completely and to reinforce again those already weakening defenses. Gone was that sense of reaffirmation of life; gone: that grandiose vigor that had impelled him to seize the day and live each moment with romantic fervor; gone was the myth of sublime spiritual and sexual pleasure, for in his awful fear of repercussions on the lives of innocent and unsuspecting people, this free-spirited bliss had ceased to be anything more than self-indulgent. Thus, he had to protect himself from the breed of happiness that could make him a slave to his own temptations, and thus, a monster of his own creation. The way to do this was, especially in the summertime, to avert the eyes, to seal over the pores of his skin from the inside, and, if such a thing were possible to do by sheer power of will, to self-regulate consciously the secretion of hormones within the body and the flow of neurotransmitters within the brain. With a concerted effort, this seemed possible. And thus, after some controlled practice, mon seigneur-Q managed to experience a nervous panic at the sight of every woman he found attractive and an oppressive flush of self-loathing, for he managed each time to remind himself of the lives he had ruined. For the sake of these people, he would embrace abstinence. He suspected upon the death of his fourth wife that he had been the carrier of an infection that was symptomless inside of him. Whether he had contracted this from a woman via sexual intercourse was something he was unable to determine. In fact, he wasn't even sure he had it in the first place. However, if it was inside of him, he had become unintentionally the wielder of a power beyond his abilities to contain. This faint suspicion soon intensified, until he felt absolutely certain there must be something wrong with him. To compound this, he started to experience phantom symptoms—a searing pain in his scrotum accompanied by a sense of fatigue, for example, which would appear for moments, seemingly at his own beckoning call, and then disappear as soon as he was distracted by something else. Distractions were, in fact, necessary to his life now. He lived the next fifteen years in utter abstinence, working, studying, and occasionally sleeping. Until finally, one day, while studying at the university library, he encountered a woman who would eventually become his fifth spouse and the love of his life. Her name was Maya and she was a graduate student who was searching for the very same book that mon seigneur happened to be reading, albeit for different purposes. "Funny, isn't it?" she remarked as Q handed her the book amidst the endless stacks in basement sub-level 7 of the library, "We each arrived at this book, from a different angle and therefore from a different progression of prerequisite journal articles and academic citations. Our different paths of inquiry led us here. You were studying something on a different tangent from me, but here we are, having intersected at the same book. I don't know about you...but for me, it happens to be a book that I have sought endlessly, one which makes everything I had hoped to study, up until now, startlingly clear. I wonder if there's something meaningful in tha-" she suddenly stopped herself, as she blushed, "But don't mind me. I'm just joking around really. I get like this whenever finals week comes around. You understand how it is, don't you?" mon seigneur found himself filled with a sudden bashfulness. His spirit was uplifted by the wonderful intelligence of this girl and by her seeming strength of character. He admired her air of self-respect and the impartial, reverent eyes she focused keenly towards all matters that extended outside of her. There was a gentle kindness and an integrity about her; a wisdom, yet a humility. All of these things should not typically be discernible about a person at first glance, and yet, somehow, with her, they were impossible to miss. He couldn't detect even a hint of the arrogance, self-righteousness, or bitterness he typically otherwise saw in the intelligent women around him. He felt inspired by her simple, unassuming presence; he wanted very much to make her his own, but at the same time, could never wish such a disheartening fate upon her. He could admire her from afar, but she must be free from the curse that his continued presence would cast upon her. And so, for a long time after this first encounter with Maya, he kept his distance and basked in his unrequitable affections for her, but then he simply kept bumping into her at the library and, without intending to do so, would find himself soon wrapped up in conversations that naturally blossomed, seemingly of their own impetuses. At first, he managed to end these conversations casually, as though there were other pressing matters to which he must attend. However, as he talked to her more and more, there were details that he became excited to tell her and topics on which he wished to hear her opinion. And so it wasn't long before he found he was unable to read something or experience something new without wondering what her reaction to it would be. He started thinking about things he wanted to bring up in conversation with her next time he saw her, but found, when they actually spoke, that there was never any time left over to do so. The conversations got longer and longer, until he decided that it was time to move them back to his apartment. After his fourth's wife passing, mon seigneur had moved to a guesthouse, where he occupied a tiny room with little space for anything else, except a bed and a small desk covered with books and papers (there was no more room for corpses, so he was forced to use the basement of the guesthouse for his medical research). "I'm sorry about the dimness of the room," the mon seigneur told her, "the window faces another building, so there is almost no natural light in here." At this, Maya smiled, "It's fine. I don't even want to show you where I live. Compared to that pigsty, this place is a palace." mon seigneur smiled at this and the two proceeded to talk through the night. Fearful of getting too close to her, he offered her a seat at the foot of the bed, while he stood uncomfortably in the corner of the room that adjoined the doorway, careful to maintain at least a meter's distance between himself and his guest. He invited her again another night and they continued to talk, but this time, she patted the spot next to her on the bed. He obliged and she took his hand in hers. "Why do you remain so far away? You brought me here back to your room and you have this look on your face like you are afraid to break me." mon seigneur looked sadly into her eyes and said, "I fear I have broken too many in my lifetime. So much so, I'm afraid I'm broken myself." For a moment, a puzzled look crossed her face and then a look of compassion. She smiled warmly and said, "Whatever you have had with others I'm sure was symbiotic in some way. You must forgive yourself, or you will continue to hold yourself back from true happiness. You must overcome your fear of self-betrayal." mon seigneur put his arm around her and pulled her close, saying, "I will do as you say. I have been betrayed by women in the past, as well. Perhaps, the betrayals I have visited upon others, since, were rooted in those initial treacheries." She kissed his neck delicately and said, "I shall restore your trust in yourself and in others. I, too, have been no stranger to perfidious intention. I, too, have had such intentions visited upon me. Most recently, I was deceived by a man I truly admired. His name was Coronado. He was a ship's captain for a foreign navy. Now, he is gone from my life. I had no choice, but to purge him from my heart. You know this feeling. In your eyes, I see a pain I understand too well. I see a gentle wonder about the world that I, too, have long possessed. I see loyalties betrayed and an enduring pride that has allowed you to carry on as a damaged, scathed soul, but to carry on nonetheless. I see a soul who once sought to impress beyond his abilities, but who is now ready to shed his vanities aside in a humble and selfless gesture of love. Long have you journeyed alone for reasons you never understood, but possibly suspected: I, too, have done the same. Now, there is no one left for me to impress, no one I wish to prove wrong. Now, I prithee to take me along with you on your endless journey. In union, we shall discover together what has long eluded our minds, toyed with our consciences; and, in union, we shall acquire new eyes and, in so doing, discover again those simple truths in life that we have hitherto swept aside in our vain ignorance. I prithee with all my humility and in your loving compassion to take me as your own and allow me to take you as my own. In spite of our fear, we are impelled, not by the emotions which rule us, but by what we hold dear as virtue, to persist unfalteringly and yet with the greatest delicacy and care." And so began his romance with Maya. The two remained happy for a very long time. mon seigneur finally felt like there was nothing missing from his life; there was no longer any reason to embark on further travels; nor did he feel the urge to seek the attention of other women. For the first time ever, he felt complete and total bliss. Nevertheless, he resisted his initial impulse to ask Maya to move in with him, deciding instead to wait until after they had married. In the meantime, they contented themselves with study dates at the library, picnics at a small park by the harbor front, and with visits to the aquarium, where mon seigneur could explain enthusiastically the details regarding the habits of each species they encountered. Sometimes he might catch their reflections in the glass of the water tanks and remark to her about the wonder of the human species; about those things that were clearly far beyond its own abilities comprehend, much in the way a species of jellyfish could never understand its own intricacies. He had spent his life studying the world and its people, but from his own admittedly fallible perspective. Deeming it fallible from the start, as a scientist is generally inclined to do, did nothing to quell the torment of a being who stared at his own reflection, seeking in some way to alleviate his confusion, only to realize that any attempts to simplify his own thinking about himself and his environment would serve to complicate further his previous understandings. He had spent exhaustive hours staring up through telescopes, or down through microscopes, all the while wondering what had been peering back through at him from the other side. He had studied communities of men and women; he had begun to learn the mechanics of their anatomy and methods by which their lives might be prolonged or sustained; but still he had not at all come close to an understanding of the lineaments to which life—and surely the existence of life itself—could invariably be reduced, if such a thing were even possible. He watched together with Maya the tranquil jellyfish drifting in the dark currents of water, sometimes softly brushing against one another and then floating askew in some other direction; he was powerless, but to think that they existed in the same condition as man, similarly oblivious, but similarly too intertwined with their own motions to conceive of those elements far removed from their influence or their capability to be influenced. He remembered mathematicians he had met who had discounted, as too theoretical, notions belying the rudiments of their laws, for these had emerged from formulae concocted in imaginary domains of space-time—in domains which certainly did not have a place in this world of mathematical absolutes, but which could be seen as ontological possibilities, so long as the sanctity of these very time-honored absolutes was allowed to be violated and henceforth, tainted for all time. This was something, however, that his mathematical colleagues seemed unwilling to do, for it was far easier to dismiss these imaginary entities as negligible, than to reassess that which they had long taken in their field to be givens. Now, with his energies dedicated more to picnics and excursions to the aquarium, Q found himself less concerned by what was happening hundreds of light-years away in the vast reaches of space, nor was he inclined to dissect his own motivations for partaking in these premarital mating rituals; instead, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the gentle spring breeze in the park, he delighted in the feeling of warmth which would arise in his chest at the gentle brush of his hand against that of his beloved Maya, he felt a flush of miraculous and sweet elation at the sound of her voice as she recited poetry from a book she had found, quite by chance, one day on a park bench. It seemed now that by breaking from his detachment with those aspects of human nature which he sought to study from afar, he had afforded himself the luxury of devolving to the object of this initial inquiry; yet, in doing so, he came to realize that the inquiry itself had, from its very beginnings, been sophomoric and misguided, condescending and specious. That is to say that he understood that his own sense of detachment—though seemingly essential at the time— had paradoxically served to thwart his efforts, and beyond even that, to render them preposterous. He felt humiliated by this realization, but all the same, incapable of despair, for it had been his path to something here which was much more meaningful. He found that meaning on those gloomy, rainy days when he lay together with Maya on his bed in each other's warm embrace; or in the tears that filled her eyes when she spoke of something she had seen that had moved or saddened her; he found it in that feeling he had whenever she fell ill: that feeling that, given the opportunity, he would switch places with her in an instant, if only to prevent her from suffering another moment of misery. Until now, he had succeeded in existing on the fringes of every society that he had ever encountered. This had been no problem for him, given his nomadic heritage. Now, however, he had a sense of belonging that derived from the power of this love relationship that existed between himself and Maya—this feeling of attachment had somehow seemed to center him with respect to the rest of humanity, until, for the very first time in his life, he ceased to feel like an outsider. Nonetheless, he wondered about Maya's origins, for she never spoke of a family, nor was she seemingly bound as many women were, in this particular country, to marriage through prearrangement by her parents. In fact, no talk of parents, or siblings, or cousins, or aunts, uncles, and grandparents ever occurred; and no talk of any other aspect of her childhood ever seemed to arise between the two of them. This caused him to wonder if she was similarly experiencing—as he was— this level of attachment for the very first time in her life. If this was the case, this would only serve to strengthen their bond with one another; and yet if it wasn't, it would not necessarily weaken it, but it might breed feelings of insecurity in him, for there would still be so much that remained hidden about her. This was not to say that the nature of her relationships with others would, in some way, influence her relationship with him, but somehow imagining that there might have been sides of her that he had not yet seen caused him a great deal of concern. Possibly, it wasn't so much a matter of concern as it was of pride; he might feel betrayed and disappointed in knowing that, all this time, there were others in her life who were, all along, equally, if not more important than he. But his own expectations and insecurities aside, she was still entitled to be an individual and show only that which she sought to show him. This, of course, was her prerogative and his was not to question. Yet, it seemed odd to him that in finding happiness, he had also exhumed his own insecurities, for fear of losing that very happiness. Regardless, in spite of all that remained enshrouded in mystery, he had no choice but to take what he saw of her at face value, for—genuine or not—this was what fed into the dynamic of their relationship. Still, he wanted to know at least the basics of her background. In his moments away from her, Q would remember this curiosity and try to remind himself to bring up the topic the next time he saw her, but whenever he would actually meet her, he would invariably get distracted by something else and forget the matter altogether. However, there was one day that he didn't forget. They were having a picnic in the park by the harbor front. Upon seeing a large family picnicking beside them, he finally remembered all the questions that had, over the years, stacked themselves up in his mind regarding her upbringing. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm by sheer weight of this sudden realization got the better of him and caused him to unleash these questions in an unintentional barrage, to which she was helpless to respond, but to blush slightly and rub her arms uncomfortably as though suddenly feeling the chill of a passing breeze. Terribly embarrassed by the way he had approached the matter, Q quickly withdrew his queries and asked her instead if she wanted to go back to his room, to which she nodded with a shy, yet suggestive smile. They returned to the guesthouse and made love for the rest of the afternoon; and once again, he forgot all about the questions he had asked in the park. Their lovemaking was, in itself, rather unique. It was much different than what he had experienced in the past with his previous wives, or even in his anonymous flings with young floozies. He felt an energy flowing through him, radiating outward and externally over his skin and to the tips of his fingers and then trickling gently over her tender flesh. His electrified fingers glided over each nerve ending on her smooth body and she would moan softly. The small of her back dipped slightly inward and laughingly he would run his craggy, ugly face along it to examine every microscopic rise and fall in its surface. Then he would turn her body over and press his cheek lightly up against hers and he would enter her slowly. The two of them seemed to shudder at this instant melding of energies. Her hands would clasp his shoulders tightly and then slowly relax, as they ran over his back to stroke his iridescent shell lightly. He was careful to moderate the pace of his pelvic thrusts, for the force of them, by sheer weight of the shell, might have been enough to crush her fragile body. Back in the era of his anonymous flings, he might have used the weight of this shell to enhance the aggression of the intercourse, for this was far more animalistic and fierce, which was pleasurable in a completely different way than the sweet gentleness with which he would handle Maya. In those days, it had been the sense of betrayal evoked by the illicit nature of his affairs which served to enhance the excitement, until after climax, at which point he would generally lose interest in his companion altogether. With Maya, however, those moments after synchronous orgasm were a paradise all their own. Their bodies merged, as did their spirits. Until suddenly, inside of this cocoon, he became allergic to the outside world, knowing that, in leaving this selfish, yet comforting embrace, he would again be overtaken by an immediate shock, at first, by the coldness of the outside world and then by the disaffected nature with which other people seemed to regard him and also each another. As time went by, it started to feel like he constantly had to work up the nerve to leave this warm cocoon everyday and venture out into the cold, harsh world to perform what he saw to be his duty for survival—by his time, he had obtained a permanent resident visa within this country, so he was finally able to get white-collar employment with a small textile firm—and then he would return to Maya again each evening to seek consolation in her warm affections. Away from her, life in the world seemed like an endless struggle, but back in her arms, all the frustrations and disappointments of the day melted away. His life was becoming one of routine, but it was happy and secure and he wanted for nothing more than that which he already had; although, truth be told, he _did_ want to live in a slightly more spacious and adequately-lit flat than the tiny guesthouse room he had been occupying for over twenty years. So, he saved up some money and moved to a larger place with two bedrooms and a large kitchen, in the hopes that Maya could someday move in as well. The next step for them as a couple, of course, was obvious. And so, after seven and a half years of courtship, the time

finally came for marriage. In the interests of saving money for their two-year long honeymoon, the two of them forewent a ceremony and simply registered for legal marriage by post. Instead of bothering to wait for their certificate by return mail, they immediately boarded a ship Q had hired and embarked on their honeymoon cruise. At first, it seemed the perfect honeymoon. Three days into the voyage, however, Maya fell unexplainably quiet, retreating blatantly from Q's affections to stare out over the water, as though pondering something. For days, in fact, she stood at the bow of the ship, watching the approaching waves, sometimes sighing or shivering, but never saying a word. At first, Q implored her to eat something, but she would simply ignore him, gazing forward hypnotically at the horizon, her wispy blonde hair fluttering in the wind and her eyelids flitting continually to retain moisture in spite of the gusts. At night, mon seigneur would retire below deck alone, eating only crackers, instead of the gourmet food he had stocked in the cupboard, and then he would fall asleep alone on the bed, hugging a pillow. In the morning, he would awake and find her exactly where she was when he had left her the night before; her hair would still be blowing in the wind. He started to find it peculiar that she was able to stand so long without moving. She never ate anything, never drank anything; she never even used the toilet. After a week, he started to get used to this; he would say to her a quick "Good morning" and then park himself in a deck chair near the stern of the ship for the rest of the morning, reading a book and sipping from a cup of fresh white coffee. Two more weeks passed like this, and then she finally spoke. It was mid-afternoon when this happened and Q had come around, as he usually did around this time of day, to rub her cold, goose-pimpled arms with his large, strong hands and to kiss her on the cheek to wish her a good afternoon. Upon doing this, she immediately said to him, without breaking her gaze from the sea, "My presence must seem weaker to you than it did before..." Not knowing exactly what she meant by this, mon seigneur shrugged and said nothing. She continued, "I am sorry to have been so cold to you these past few weeks. I've just been thinking about a lot of things." mon seigneur nodded and said, "So it seemed. I hope you aren't having second thoughts about all this." She turned to look at him and smiled. She looked more beautiful than ever, "My dear, I will always, always, always love you. You are everything to me." A tear came to her eye. mon seigneur laughed at this and embraced her immediately, feeling a sense of relief rush over him. "It's fine, Maya. Everything's fine." She sighed and said, her voice now muffled by the mon seigneur's smothering arms, "I sometimes wonder whatever happened to old Coronado." "The man who jilted you? No matter now, is it? Why should we care about him? No reason, right?" Q laughed as he released her from the embrace. "Maybe," she replied with a hint of hesitation. mon seigneur cackled joyously as he returned to the helm to look over the navigational charts. "I was thinking a few days on land might do us both some good. I can change course and we can be at the port of Priya by tomorrow morning. What say you?" She turned to him suddenly, as though not hearing the question, "Q? T-There is _something_ I probably neglected to tell you. I'm not sure if it's really that important. It's a minor detail, really, but I guess in the interest of full disclosure, I ought to tell you now, since you are my husband." mon seigneur-Q shrugged and said with a delighted smile, "I'm intrigued." She walked behind him and rubbed his shoulders until he smiled and sighed a breath of relief. "Well, dear girl," he said empowered by his own great levity, "don't leave me in suspense. I'm eager to hear your _startling_ revelation!" She whispered slowly in his ear, "OK. Well..." _"Yes?"_ "I am..." _"Yes? Yes?"_ "...and have always been..." _"Yes? Yes? Yes? Yes?"_ "...a figment...of your imagination..." _"Ye-huh?"_ Suddenly, Q turned around. She was gone. And now he was back to square one again: all alone and with no future in sight. Q sailed by himself for another two years, replaying the whole eight-year charade in his mind, again and again. He felt dull and strikingly unsentimental about it. He looked out over the water and it meant nothing to him. The waves were taking him somewhere, but it didn't matter where, because nothing that would happen from here on out could possibly affect him. He had resigned himself now to not caring anymore. He was no longer curious about the world, or himself, or about this Universe which clearly sought to torment him endlessly. His misfortunes had finally taught him something valuable: he would allow nothing to touch him ever again. From this point forward, he would resist all temptation, turn his back on his own curiosity, and look upon the world with the same malevolent eyes as had long been cast mockingly upon him. If there was a God, he cursed Its miserable existence. It would hereupon be an enemy to him. And if there wasn't, it was just as well. Either way, his hatred for all was so intense that it should extinguish the very love from which it was conceived. And thus, he ceased to feel. There was nothing further in which to believe that made the prospect of _feeling_ worthwhile. Daily he woke up and cast downtrodden eyes upon the sea and he would say to himself with a hint of regret at his hitherto lack of indifference, "All a dim illusion, was it? Surely it was foolish of me to think any of this had meaning." He would then spend hours staring at the sky, wondering how best to pass the time if everything—even the sky itself— were for naught. He arrived at the conclusion that there was no best way to pass the time. The only way to deal with the illusion of time was to endure it, knowing full well, all the while, that one was truly enduring nothing at all. Unfortunately for him, this nihilistic resolution to dispassion didn't suit him very well and he soon became extremely bored. Faced now with the choice between further boredom and further suffering, he impatiently chose the latter, sailing another few weeks along the coast , and then inland, before finally dropping anchor off the shores of the fishing village of Yami. In the early morning, the waters were peaceful and the air pleasant. Yet, there was something else that started nagging at him about this new place. It was in the sounds he could hear emanating from the water itself. He looked down into the river and immediately he let out a loud and raucous laugh, a boisterous, hearty old hoot that resounded all along the river and through the valley in which Yami found itself situated; it bounded and bounced inward through canyons and it reached the edge of a forest, far away, and then echoed into a cave where it roused a hibernating bear, who jumped up at a start, realizing that he had overslept by many months and, in doing so, had missed all of spring, and who hurried out to greet the long-proliferating nature in the forest outside, remembering again the purest joy of living. Q had been on the edge of doing something drastic, but the sight of the river had succeeded in releasing that inner tension to the winds and letting it howl thereafter to awake all else that had, until now, been sleeping far too long. He took a revitalized breath of fresh air, for, swimming in the water below, he could see an alarming variety of freshwater creatures, swimming tenaciously and with great vigor against the current of the water. He knew many of these species quite well. He had studied many of them, but they each came from different places. It was strange that they should all be able to coexist in the same ecosystem like this. Unless they had adapted greatly to the climate of this area, there must have been special conditions that allowed them to survive. How was it that species A had not fallen prey to species B? Surely, species C and species D would need to compete to thrive in this environment and yet they seemed to live harmoniously independent of one another. In addition, there must have been certain adaptations that some of these creatures had taken on in order to exist outside of their native saltwater environments and in this colder freshwater habitat. With this flurry of observations, old mon seigneur-Q suddenly felt a miraculous reawakening within him of that intellectual curiosity which had propelled him on all his academic journeys through the years: they were, thus, the source of a glorious rejuvenation! He didn't know what exhilarated him so, but there was something about the peculiar dynamics of this ecosystem that greatly intrigued him. He immediately jumped from the ship and swam to shore to emerge on the riverbank. And when the inhabitants of Yami finally encountered him for the first time, he was found examining insects on the muddy riverbanks, laughing ecstatically and muttering to himself like a madman about the implications brought forth by their existence in this particular biome. The two men who witnessed this spectacle—a pair of elderly fishermen who had never met a "foreigner" in their lives and who assumed, then, that Q had been some kind of human-tortoise hybrid—looked at one another briefly in awe and ran immediately back to their homes to tell their wives.

### * * *

The rest is, more or less, history: mon seigneur found that he was now too tired to journey any further. He had migrated to every corner of the planet and had left no meaningful trace of himself in any of the places he'd visited save for his blood, his feces, his tears, his sweat, his seminal fluids, his dead skin cells, his hair, his nail clippings, and his countless other kinds of organic material (naturally, in addition to these were the various pollens, spores, insects, fungi, rodents, birds, crustaceans, worms, planktons, and the millions of other unidentifiable microorganisms that had also migrated with him). Regardless, now, he felt deep sense of fatigue, which is to say he just didn't have the energy or the motivation to move anymore. Thus, his decision to settle in Yami came not out of preference, but rather out of default; in fact, he looked upon Yami as he had any other land destination since his commission as a sailor: as a mere obstruction of waves.

Many of the inhabitants of this provincial town took themselves to be indigenous to this region of the world—although this was most likely a false assumption, for, surely, some forgotten group of ancestors of theirs had journeyed to this land mass from _somewhere_ —and, in their presumed homogeneous purity as a race, they had mixed attitudes toward the arrival of Q, whose facial and body features were such as they had never seen before (even among the similarly homogeneous people from their rival city-states). In fact, at first, he generated a lot of attention amongst the residents of this then-simple fishing village. Some of it was negative and xenophobic—stemming from a general fear of the unknown more than anything else; at other times, their collective curiosity about him seemed a bubbling stew of endless admiration and wonder.

For some time, he set up a tent on the banks of the river and continued his studies of freshwater life, subsisting on his own. However, he knew that his ability to sustain himself would only continue to be possible, so long as the weather remained warm. In fact, the summers in this region brought with them a soothing southwesterly breeze, neither too hot nor too chilly. But eventually, he knew he would have to move indoors. This would require the cooperation of the locals. And before he could get this, he would need to learn the language.

At first, his progress with the Yamian tongue was rather slow, but having become a skilled linguist over the years, he was soon able to isolate those root syllables that were common with other languages of seeming similar origins and, from these phonemes, devise a rough diagram in his mind of how to piece basic words together into simple phrases and sentences essential to survival communication. He understood that he would have to disregard the nuances of polite and casual forms, all the while hoping that the language he was learning was an explicit, low-context language, rather than a highly-intuitive, high-context language, so that he did not require advanced cultural understandings in order to become proficient. Judging, however, by the close social bonds of the people here, it seemed that the language was more likely the latter than the former and that he would, therefore, surely have his work cut out for him.

Language aside, he knew that it was necessary to win the locals over with some benefit that could be seen in his presence. In particular, it was the elders of the village that he worried about most. In his rare dealings with them, it seemed to him that they had retained all the arrogance and entitlement of their respective aristocratic upbringings. About a century earlier, a political revolution had forced these men and their families into exile from the primitive excesses of their now-dissolved country and brought them to converge on the peaceful, yet bucolic settlement of Yami (which, through partition, thereupon became its own independent city-state). In this new place, their standard of living had fallen substantially, but they took some consolation in their ability to preserve, through their remaining plethora of wealth and military resources, their elite status over the other long-standing residents of the town. The disparity that existed between the elite and the general citizenry—not so much in terms of wealth, as much as in the relative sense of entitlement possessed by each—had the effect of causing the latter to deem themselves far less cosmopolitan than the former and, as a consequence, far less confident in their own abilities to take on positions of authority in the village. They, thus, deferred to the elderly elite on all decisions vital to the well-being of the general populace—the most pressing of which being their common defense against the raiding horsemen and bloodthirsty marauders who regularly descended upon them from the hinterlands and who demanded unreasonable tributes in return for not setting the village's temples and holy altars ablaze. Naturally, despite constant failures at effectively keeping this persistent threat at bay, the elders' crudely defined systems of order and severe codes of religious and civil law did not spark very much dissent, for they had managed to sow into the people enough of an inferiority complex and a sufficient fear of the gods to maintain utter and unconditional allegiance. When mon seigneur-Q first appeared before the elders, however, he was surprised to find that these men were not nearly as knowledgeable about the outside world as they proclaimed to be. In fact, they turned out to be rather dim-witted, highly superstitious and easy to impress. So much so that mon seigneur-Q managed, within the first twenty minutes of his meeting with them, to earn himself a temporary place in Yami as the state's chief practitioner in the "new" scientific discipline of phrenology.

His success in achieving this post can be explained rather simply.

Quite recently, the village had been visited by a group of nomads (who could scarcely be called _true_ nomads, as they were in possession of nearly identical features to those of the Yamians—conceivably, they were just a semi-nomadic and pastoral clan of merchants, from the same dissolved country as the Yamians, who now wandered the countryside on a cyclical trek from province to province). At any rate, these "nomads" had apparently talked many of the older, more affluent villagers into buying sets of archaic-looking phrenological maps. Unfortunately, due to the fact that these maps' many labels and designations were printed in a different language, nobody in the village had any idea how to read them. mon seigneur-Q, thus, being a skilled interpreter and amateur phrenologist immediately boasted of his expertise with this exotic art and offered to give a demonstration, if he could be allowed to set up a shop in Yami. The elders quickly agreed and that very same day, he received from the trusting old rubes a small monetary stipend to take up residence at the local inn.

As his language skills improved, his practice became incredibly popular, so much so, that he no longer had any time to dedicate to his studies of freshwater life. This, however, did not concern him, as he was starting to feel very comfortable in this village. Despite his _otherness_ , the villagers had come to treat him as one of their own, perhaps even _better_ than one of their own, for he was soon well-regarded, not only for his skills at phrenological examination, but also for his unique and disarming wit, for his artful knack with the Yamian dialect, and especially for his extensive knowledge of the ways of the outside world. After many years of this special treatment, he would eventually come to feel alienated by the townspeople, though this was not their intention. For the moment, however, he was still in the midst of what could be called his _honeymoon period_ , before the true culture shock had a chance to gain a foothold.

Nevertheless, with the profound esteem from the other residents came unexpected financial success. At first, customers seeking phrenological readings came to visit him directly in his room at the inn. The consultations usually amounted to him reading the lumps on their heads and giving them advice as to what changes they should make to their daily routines in order to maximize their life's potential. With repeated consultations, however, the direct effect of his advice came to take on a grander, larger-scale form, as he started to learn more and more about the fundamental dynamics and logistics by which the daily lives of the people of Yami were made possible. He learned the details of their methods of food gathering, of their trade relationships with the other city-states, of their lack of military readiness, of their declining birth rate, of the increasing incidence of infection conceivably brought on by unsanitary conditions from poorly-planned methods of waste disposal, of the excessive and blatant hoarding by the elders and, in particular, by the Chief of the village, Mamluk, who did very little in the way of governance, purely because his claim to the title had come about as a consequence of noble birth and little more.

It wasn't long before Q was advising villagers not only on ways of maximizing their human potential, but also on other matters intertwined with the potential of the village, which he firmly believed would lead to the ultimate betterment of all. He advised farmers on more efficient methods of raising certain crops and on the prices at which to fix them. He advised barbers and medicine men on more effective treatments for common maladies. He advised fishermen on the precise times of year that they could expect certain fish migrations. And so on, until the overall living conditions of the village started to improve vastly and mon seigneur-Q had—in maneuvering, like a skilled marionettist, these highly suggestible players—come to be regarded as the town's unofficial administrator, its prescient guru and, most aptly, its _patron saint_.

With this success came even greater popularity...and no dearth of speculation about the man himself. A lot of focus was soon being given unnecessarily to the fact of his sudden and serendipitous arrival in Yami. According to some of the gossip circulating between the wives of the village, he had apparently descended upon them from some higher celestial plane of existence to rule over the town. Yet, it seemed odd that he should do so, without demanding their utter homage and allegiance in return. They were not used to this sort of benevolence on the part of a stranger, for even the gods of their religious faith were malicious and cruel, particularly to those delinquent in their offerings. It seemed tempting to look upon him as a god—perhaps even a suitable rival for their own protective deities. However, being the devoutly fearful and religious people that they were, the townspeople of Yami were unwilling to commit the ultimate sacrilege to their own vengeful gods by deifying the town's new unlikely hero. Instead, they forced themselves to look upon him simply as a service provider and, therefore, labored to keep the balance of obligation steady by compensating mon seigneur-Q generously in cash or other tradable items. Q, of course, was obliged to accept.

As he grew busier, patients waiting in line for consultations were forced to use the foyer of the inn as a waiting room. Soon, the foyer became crowded and lines extended out the door and down the street, until Q could see no other recourse, but to move his office away from where he resided. With the remarkable sum that he now had earned in his services to the community and its leaders, he was able to move into his own office space on the first floor of a vacant house owned by a Mr. B.N. Shakti—the man who would, one day, beget a musically-gifted street accordionist by the name of Bhakti.

### * * *

B.N. Shakti was the enterprising son of an influential—albeit far less enterprising— elder. After his father's passing, he inherited a large tract of land that, thereafter, he wished either to develop, or to sell for the purposes of obtaining capital for a yet undetermined business venture. Greatly impressed with mon seigneur-Q's encyclopedic knowledge on a wide range of topics, he was very much interested in benefiting from his experience as a man of the world and perhaps getting ideas and advice that might be helpful to his business aspirations. Therefore, nightly, the mon seigneur dined with Shakti and his young wife, regaling them both with monologues about the ways of the people he had met in his travels. Shakti was greatly interested in the technological advancements of other civilizations and the means by which each of them was able to expand, make the most of their available resources, improve their standard of living and accumulate greater wealth. "Our village is engaged in the most rudimentary trade of fish with other villages. I'm not so sure they even need it," Shakti complained. "They just humor us to keep up good relations for the sake of mutual protection—which, in itself, is kind of laughable because very few in Yami are well-trained in the art of combat. At most, twenty men compose our military and mostly they serve to protect my father's comrades from the people over whom they govern, for fear of another insurrection. But that's another matter altogether. What I would really like to know from you is what resources we have here that would be useful to the wealthier, more developed countries." At this, mon seigneur sighed and said, "It's a matter of prospecting. I sense that this area might be rich in certain resources that could be desirable to others. However, you must be careful in dealing with them. Until now, the remoteness of this region of the world has fortunately saved your people from the threat of constant war. When you open trade with other countries, you put yourselves at the risk of domination by a stronger military power. What Yami needs first is to build its own domestic infrastructure. Divert the river, irrigate the fields, develop more effective techniques of animal husbandry, increase your population and stockpile your resources. Then, we start making careful trades with neighboring city-states. And once we develop the wherewithal to do so, we expand our trade to include governments outside the region." B.N. Shakti was vastly impressed with the simplicity of this notion and took his ideas for development straight to the elders in the trade council, who immediately scoffed on his proposals as immature, naive and risky. These men had seen the brutality inherent in the outside world. Many of them had fled alongside his father and retreated here to lead a simple, peaceful life. Frustrated by their defeatism, however, B.N. Shakti insisted, "Unless we emerge from the mediocrity of a simple, tribal community, none of us shall ever achieve the level of happiness we seek." The elders, in their awful fear, mocked his blind optimism and the matter remained, for some time, a purely academic question.

mon seigneur, however, was not swayed by the elders' despondency. He saw in his new friendship with this young, budding industrialist, an opportunity to create a permanent life for himself here in this village. With his expertise and facility at organizing people, he just might make himself a fixture here and hence, make for himself, for the very first time in his long, lonely life, a place truly and lastingly to call home. Yet, he understood that his own success in doing so was also somehow vested in the ability of his new best friend, Shakti, to make his plans for the town into functional realities. Therefore, he proposed to him, one night over dinner, a partnership. They would develop some of B.N. Shakti's inherited land along the river and open it as a new pier for shipping and trade. First they would trade with nearby villages and then develop trade routes with larger countries (in truth, Q knew this to be a dangerous proposition, for it would surely serve to spark a military or political takeover of Yami by a superior power, but if the matter was capably-handled from the very start, no blood needed necessarily be shed on account of it; at the moment, however, his attentions were directed more towards commercial matters than those which were political). At first, the initial investment would be made by Shakti, but mon seigneur would later reimburse him in full for exactly half the amount of all capital invested, plus the interest on the initial loan. If the venture failed for any reason, Q guaranteed him double reimbursement—that is, full reimbursement of the entire capital invested— within 10 years, though he currently lacked the wherewithal to marshal such sizable funds. Shakti, however, trusted the older and wiser mon seigneur-Q and, despite a fortnight of arguments with his wife and immediate family on matters pertaining to his fiscal irresponsibility, he eagerly signed the contract that Q had taken the liberty to draft. And so began, in spite of the mutters and moans of the trade council, this new enterprise.

Organizing labor was not difficult, as mon seigneur was able to exploit his power as a phrenologist to insinuate his patients' deep-seated desire to break away from the monotony of their lives and explore new parts of themselves. He then suggested they should come and work for him. Of course, due to his success in convincing patients to do so, it wasn't long before the administration of this new company pulled him away from his duties as a phrenologist. This was just as well, though, as he had managed to recruit no less than 70% of his former patients into their workforce. Within a year of the pier's completion, Yami was already being included along the trade route for such commodities as Wormdrool Silk by companies with charters from the then-burgeoning Republic.

mon seigneur-Q hired teams of skilled prospectors from foreign countries to seek out valuable minerals in the nearby area. Coal was found to be exceedingly prevalent in the mines to the south of the town. To the west were rich deposits of saltpeter and iron. Precious metals and semiprecious stone deposits were similarly discovered on the other side of the river, embedded in rare, but easily accessible zones amidst massive quantities of limestone. As it turned out, the environs of Yami had been mineral-rich beyond mon seigneur's wildest imagination. Q and Shakti, thus, with the aid of a team of foreign investors—all of whom had long white beards and were clad in tuxedos and top hats— started the Yami Mineral and Rare Metal Mining Company (abbreviated _awkwardly_ as the YM & RMMC). One of the foreign investors sent a young engineer to Yami to oversee for the company the construction of a number of textile mills, ironworks and dry docks, as well as the town's first stationary steam engine. Construction for all of these projects took thirteen years in total to complete and in that time, the migrant laborers who worked on it managed to create their own settlement located on the outskirts of Yami.

For security purposes, a moat was created around the laborers' settlement to prevent any incidences of crime. Nonetheless, sons and daughters of Yami fled nightly from their parents' watchful eyes and flocked to the pubs of the workers' village to learn more in their great curiosity about the ways of these lively and passionate people, and, in the case of some, to engage with them in carnal acts inconceivable to the puritanical mores of Yami's society. The migrants' settlement soon became a center for prostitution and black market dealings. Sailors and servicemen from the Republic's Navy would descend upon the village in droves when on shore leave and some would be unwilling, or sometimes even unable—if they got themselves into serious trouble—to return to their ships. Mafioso bigwigs from the Republic soon descended upon the town to get a piece of the pie. Soon illegal gambling joints started popping up in the town of Yami itself. The pious, simple people of Yami were greatly traumatized by this obvious affront to their sensibilities, but were ill-equipped to handle the changing demographics of their area, not to mention its increase in crime, both violent and venal.

After the completion of the steam power station, a group of senators in the Republic, who had invested a good deal of money into it, sent a squad of infantry into the town to see to its protection. Other projects were soon to follow, so it was necessary to keep the order in this town. The elders of Yami were slightly ill at ease with the idea of having so many foreign military units in the town, but had no way of resisting them.

One day, a Brigadier General by the name of Midas appeared in town with an escort of three black ships with enough firepower to destroy the town three times over. The Chief of Yami, Mamluk, went with his closest advisors to the docks to meet him as he walked off his ship. Brigadier General Midas smiled graciously at the gesture and proceeded to explain with the aid of an interpreter that, from here on out, he would be presiding over the civil improvements of the town and any help the Chief's men could offer would be greatly appreciated. He presented the Chief with a bag filled to the brim with currency from the Republic and then made his best attempt to address Mamluk and his advisors in the regional tongue of Yami, "You will have been made to forgiveth my mistaking grammar. A pox upon the houses of those who do not understand my recent studying of yon primitive language. On behalf of me Republicky friendy blokes, I make Grand Jester of the Big Thanking Tournament for you and your cooperationing powerfully small in our joint venture. Every moon, thou and thine magnetic Osiris shalt receiveth a benign growth of fleshy pocket filled with Republic Juleps equaling not the other amount, except for this and totaling nothing otherwise."

He took a deep breath and continued in his own language with the help of his interpreter, "I have also been instructed to construct accommodations for your Highness more suitable to a man of your stature. Your man and our great business associate, mon seigneur-Q, has told me that your official title is currently as Chief. We do not wish to strip you of this rank, but rather to elevate it. You shall be nothing less than a Nawab and you can rely on the military and the resources of the Republic to protect your people and your title. We only ask that you share a portion of the taxes with us. We believe this to be a fair and even trade." Mamluk looked back at the withering faces of his advisors and then at the elders behind him, shrugged his shoulders and took the bag of money. One of the Nawab's first acts of his new office, as suggested by his new friends from the Republic, would turn out to be the legalization of gambling. Casinos started to pop up all over the town and development of a new gambling district soon started on the other side of the river.

### * * *

Three and a half years after Midas's arrival, the Republic announced its bloodless takeover of this newly vital trading port, affording the local business leaders of this burgeoning free market the opportunity to continue to generate wealth, but at a slightly higher tax rate than previously levied. This did little to upset the growth and prosperity of the town. In fact, the technological conveniences brought by the Republic's reign over Yami improved the public health and increased the standard of living of its citizens dramatically. Within a matter of 5 years, the population during the tourist season tripled. Within 20 years, it had increased ten-fold.

Tourists, new residents, and seasonal migrant workers started to flock in from every corner of the Republic as foreign businessmen set up new casinos and hotels along the riverfront, signing leases for their properties, of course, with B.N. Shakti. And all the while, both B.N. Shakti and mon seigneur-Q became incredibly wealthy. They bought out all the remaining land along the riverfront from the simple-minded elders who owned them, quickly developing them, and leasing them out for a sizable profit. Further down the river, corporations with charters from the Republic set up factories, creating more jobs and new residential communities for the thousands of workers they employed. New towns formed around these communities. Yami became busier and busier as a trading port. The number of longshoremen working the docks in the summertime soon became greater than the original population of Yami the day Q had dropped anchor. In the winter, traffic along the river was slow, due to the harsh cold weather and the rough, stormy waters to the west. Therefore, the town went into a brief hibernation until the late spring. While most Yamians migrated for the winter, the newer factory towns nearby remained active and vibrant. Soon, Yami benefited from the expertise of the engineers residing in its proximity and vast civil improvements were made to the town itself, starting with new masonry structures and proceeding to the building of structurally-complex bridges, dams, and aqueducts.

The region began to change at a stunning pace. And by the time Bhakti was born—a mere 45 years after mon seigneur-Q had first set foot here—Yami had already transformed from a simple fishing village into a thriving resort town, which after an ambitious urban renewal project, now sat on stilts, 400 meters above the riverbanks. A bridge connected Yami with its newer and more glamorous twin, the gambling town of Xami on the other side of the river. Traffic from riverboat casinos crowded the waterways and expensive villas owned by the Republic's aristocratic elite were built in small nooks and inlets upstream. The streets were torn apart and remade with cobble and elegant lanterns were attached to lampposts along the sides. Statues of famous religious icons and folk heroes of the Republic were crafted in the main square and a huge cathedral with the tallest spire in the hemisphere was built by an ambitious architect and naturalized citizen of the Republic by the name of Alaric-1. When it was completed, it came to be a pilgrimage site and a tourist spot, which made the town extremely famous the world over.

mon seigneur, too, had become rather famous and influential in the world of the Republic, primarily amongst those working class masses who sought, by weight of their romantic visions of the meritocratic ideal, to overcome their similarly humble circumstances to defy the odds and achieve eventually a level of financial success and fame far beyond the wildest dreams of their aristocratically-ruled forefathers. Stories were told of the mysterious survivor of the sack of Buccal, who traveled far and wide through the Outlands and finally returned to the civilized world to become an innovative captain of industry for the benefit of the Republic. Some of these stories were true, others were simply myths told to add a fanciful and imaginative element to the life of a man, who scarcely thought himself deserving of such adulation.

However, there was some grain of truth to the talk of his remarkable prowess. Having a seemingly preternatural knack for business—more so than his best friend and business partner—mon seigneur-Q bought out some of Shakti's share in the company and created, from the profits generated, his own series of side ventures.

Shakti, meanwhile, started to seem less and less excited by the prospect of expanding the business and making the most of his opportunities. In truth, he had started to miss the simplicity of the old Yami fishing village. He remembered now what he had said to the elders about emerging from a life of mediocrity and now began to regret it. There was something vanishing from this town...and it wasn't the mediocrity. He could not quite put his finger on it, but something that he had greatly loved and taken for granted now appeared to be lost forever. He spoke of this once when Q came for dinner. To this, Q replied between heaping mouthfuls, "My dear friend, you are mourning the loss of something I have never fully had the privilege of experiencing. I do feel sadness at your loss, but I must confess that I would not be any less disappointed at having overlooked the potential that existed among us." Shakti respectfully disagreed with mon seigneur's view, for their mutual success had affected them each differently. Either way, the two remained very close friends and dined together frequently.

### * * *

Bhakti spent most of his formative years mimicking his father's despair. In fact, despite his lack of cognizance regarding the source of Shakti's initial depression, he had managed to reverse-engineer successfully the reasons for his own child-like sadness, molding them with his silent, yet poignant observations of the world around him, in all its contradictions and disappointments. He recognized in his youthful sensitivity that he was out of touch with something, but he didn't quite know what it was, for he had never experienced it firsthand. He sensed it in the difference he saw between his father's generation and his own. He saw it even in the cynical gazes of those far older than his father. There was an aspect to them all, which was grounded with respect to the surrounding reality of modern Yami and his generation had been born too late to acquire this countermeasure. Therefore, they didn't have the right eyes to view the things around them with the same scrutiny as their elders, hence making it easier to look upon the town of Yami as it was now and assume that it had always been that way. There were no memories of how it had been before its transformation, no memories of the values people retained before finally casting aside tradition, no memories of the way people interacted before Yami embraced civilized life. He only knew this much: there had been a change that called for a despair he was incapable of feeling naturally. Thus, in his efforts to empathize with this, he founded his own unique despair, rooted in his hopeless inability to do so.

Bhakti's mother was deeply upset by the boy's tendency to brood over matters out of his control, and therefore encouraged the sickly youth to go out and be active with the other children in the neighborhood. She blamed Shakti for the boy's sensitive and unmanly disposition and made every effort to involve him with their peers in the local community. In contrast to the emotional father, the mother could have best been characterized as overbearingly polite in nature: a temperament which could be so dulling to the life of any conversation that one might have regarded her, at times, as a kind of ornate, yet authoritative statue—a goddess, perhaps—which was simply to be admired for its high-minded grandeur, and which condemned all who looked upon it to silence. She was a woman of traditional values, who insisted on keeping with the decorum of any occasion, no matter how tragically ironic any gestures made for those purposes proved to be. For instance, at a communion ceremony held in front of a temple for a classmate who had bullied Bhakti relentlessly, Bhakti was made by his mother to sing the anthem of the Republic, as there had recently been a decree passed by the senate requiring all religious ceremonies to be preceded by the singing of the national anthem. Unfortunately, there was a great deal of resentment within the town itself, regarding this foreign intrusion upon their time-honored religious customs. Nonetheless, Bhakti's mother, in her stubborn sincerity, ignored her son's pleas otherwise and had him stand in front of his awestruck peers and give a passionate rendition of the anthem. The song managed to bring a tear to the eyes of a passing patrol commander, who stopped his men in front of the temple to marvel at the young boy singing so melodiously to his young comrades. Unfortunately for Bhakti, the officer was the only person who seemed to appreciate it, for, even though he had an incredible singing voice, this did nothing to prevent the violent reprisal that would ensue the following day at school.

It seemed that for most of Bhakti's childhood, he continued to stockpile these sorts of miseries, for his continual glumness not only made him appear all the more awkward and unfriendly to the other children, but the grandiose displays of protocol further forced upon him by his mother also served to make him all the more conspicuous than the growingly reclusive boy ever wished. In his moments alone, he collected the musical instruments left to his father as heirlooms by his grandfather and spent hours at a time in his room laboring at composing music with them. Soon, this, too, served to worry his mother.

Despite the attention seemingly lavished on him by both parents, Bhakti was not an only child. In fact, he had two older sisters, two younger sisters, and one younger brother (the youngest of the brood). His siblings, however, despite sharing the same accommodations and the same parents (presumably) lived existences vastly different from that of Bhakti. In fact, they were very well-liked, sociable people. The girls had modeled themselves after their mother in all their statuesque mannerisms and in their heightened sense of propriety. They were vivacious and stuck together most of the time, only communicating with their brothers whenever they happened to be occupying the same room. Bhakti's younger brother never seemed to leave his mother's side, always hiding behind her leg whenever a stranger presented himself, or jumping into her lap at utterly inappropriate moments and crying for no apparent reason, to her embarrassment and dismay. However, these actions were forgivable being that he was at such a young age.

Unfortunately, however, when the epidemic of Red-17 finally descended upon the inhabitants of Yami, it seemed that the Bhakti's kid brother would remain eternally that young boy. He was the first of the family to succumb to this extremely aggressive illness. This was followed by one of Bhakti's younger sisters and then one older sister, then his mother, and finally his father. For some reason, the sickness skipped Bhakti and his two remaining sisters. They became the family's only survivors.

And so it was that at the age of 15, Bhakti suddenly and rather unexpectedly became the head of the family. When the population of the town had sufficiently bottlenecked and the disease's effects upon the townspeople seemed to subside, mon seigneur finally paid a visit to the house to pay his respects to his deceased business partner and to the other family members lost to the ailment.

"Red-17 had been the scourge of the mainland, I'm told," he explained to Bhakti in his room. "This is little consolation, I am sure, but those of us who survived could only have done so by dint of some kind of miraculous genetic mutation." Bhakti remained silent and started playing with the keys of an accordion that belonged to his grandfather. "It's time for you to grow up, lad," mon seigneur said to him sternly, but gently. "You have the rest of your life ahead of you and you are the man of this house now. You carry with you the legacy of your grandfather and that of your father. Surely they'd be proud if they could see you now. But it is now your responsibility to steer the family in wise directions. Your next step should be to find husbands for your sisters; otherwise the three of you will really be in a financial fix." Bhakti nodded his head slowly and said in a tiny, wavering voice, "I wouldn't even know where to begin." Q smiled at him reassuringly, as he ruffled his hair, "Easy enough, lad. I'll help you."

mon seigneur-Q handled most of the arrangements of marrying off Bhakti's sisters, using at least half of the family's meager inheritance as dowry, as well as a fair bit of his own money. And when the sisters finally moved out to their respective villages to be with their respective farmer husbands, Bhakti was left with the big house all to himself. He told mon seigneur that he no longer wished to be there, surrounded by his memories. He wished to move on. mon seigneur offered to have Bhakti stay in the vacant space upstairs from two of his shops for a pittance in rent, which the boy eagerly accepted. mon seigneur's motivations for these paternal gestures were doubtlessly selfish in nature. He had no problem admitting this both to himself and to others. In all his years of life, and through his many wives, mon seigneur had still been incapable of producing a child of his own. He had often wondered, in all this time, if it could have been due to infertility: and if so, what purpose he could have served in surviving so many pandemics over the years; he had wondered what significance, if any, his existence could possibly have had on those around him. Surely, his initiative and the relationships he built have meant something in his own lifetime, but for him to do so much during his life and be left not even an heir to carry his spirit on into the future seemed a cruel joke. But then, with the demise of his best friend, came a new purpose. He would take this now-fatherless boy under his wing and be—not a father, exactly, for the boy had already had one who was simply irreplaceable—but a source of guidance. Now, in the final stages of his life, he could be self-assured in knowing that his wealth of knowledge and wisdom would not remain sealed tightly within the vacuum of his brain upon the day of his passing, but would be entrusted to the next generation, into its fresh vigor and eager ambition—furthermore it would be instilled into a lad he considered intelligent and sensitive enough to comprehend it.

Bhakti, however, while appreciating mon seigneur-Q's good intentions, proved to be a stubborn young man. Unwilling to take the reins of his family's business, he instead pursued his musical talents with a maniacal and obsessive adamancy. After using up the rest of his inheritance, including the money earned from the sale of the remaining properties in his father's name, Bhakti reduced himself to living out a paltry existence as a street musician and a seasonal social welfare recipient. And instead of being forceful in his attempts to provide guidance to the boy, mon seigneur-Q decided instead to let him be. While some of the elders in town saw this permissiveness, on the part of mon seigneur-Q, as indicative of the lax ways of his barbarous race, the man himself sensed that there was very little he could do—perhaps due to the relative stupidity of his lineage— to deter the budding adult from becoming a social parasite, and thus cared very little for the approximations made by others of his apparent indifference to the fate of this callow and undisciplined orphan. "The boy will go feral," his sixth wife, Aunty Durga, even warned. "Trust me when I say that being the adaptive being that he is, there are no depths beyond which he shall be unable to sink. And where will he be when you die? He will have devolved to the level of an insect, occupying rundown and abandoned buildings, taking them as his own natural habitat; and then at night, he shall scurry about the streets in the shroud of dark, jumping and attaching himself laterally like a leech to the backs of our fair citizens and sucking their spinal fluids dry in a manner befitting of any parasite. Then he shall squeeze himself through their earholes, or perhaps their nostrils and shamelessly devour their brains. Shamelessly! Just you watch: those government checks will surely be the first step to his going feral! And that'll just be the start of the downward spiral to retrogression..."

And yet, in the forty-eight years that transpired between this fateful declaration by the teahouse matron and Bunnu's arrival in town, very little had seemed to change at all on the surface of Bhakti's existence: by the age of 65, his fate as the accordionist had crystallized with the passing of seasons until it became an indispensible fixture with which the people of this tourist town could no longer deny being associated. He was still on the Republic's tit, but it hadn't yet caused him to degenerate to a lower state of being. In fact, on the surface level, almost nothing had changed at all with him; and yet, it seemed that a great transformation was occurring, all the while, unnoticed by the permanent townies, who saw the accordionist too frequently to get a sense of the gradual changes, but easily observed by tourists and seasonal residents who returned year-after-year and who could discern after their long absence, the unequivocal metamorphosis in the tone of the music itself: a tone more mellifluous and nuanced and grandiose, finer and airier and closer by degrees to melodic sublimity than in years previous. There was an angelic simplicity to it; in fact: a heightening divinity which made its composer appear increasingly crude and base in comparison.

And thus, in spite of his financial failures—and in spite of his self-styled identity as an _outsider_ — the boy had nonetheless found a permanent place among the people.

### VI.

Bunnu first encountered Bhakti in very much the same way as any other visitor to Yami did: as a passerby in the street whose ear caught from afar the sound of such a delightful melody that he was impelled to stop mid-step and walk in its direction in the hopes of seeking out its source. There was something soothing about the music which somehow caused Bunnu to remember simpler times in his own life: his days back in Bahlia before the chance to leave finally came upon him; those days before he had taken that irreversible step, leaving behind his childhood, leaving behind a place which would seem to him very different, years later, when he finally returned and had the chance to view those once-familiar surroundings for the very first time with the eyes of a young adult. The accordionist's voice was delightful, yet remorseful, as though speaking of a time that's passed which could never be reclaimed. Bunnu knew this feeling well. In fact, he knew the feeling so well that the melody had succeeded in bringing him—in his sudden flush of homesickness— to tears.

As a mere spectator, only two weeks into his stay in Yami, little did Bunnu know then that he would soon see the accordionist and the accordionist's guardian, the illustrious mon seigneur-Q—whom he had also seen walking the cobbled streets in the daytime— as his two closest friends in town. Of course, neither of them would ever come to see Bunnu in a similar light, for he was, to them, one of many people from abroad who were taken in by the charms of the town and who ended up staying to reap the benefits of its seasonal employment. This is not to say that they did not enjoy his company or delight in his personality—and they certainly had no reservations about telling him all the details of their personal and family histories—but, in spite of this, amongst these two self-proclaimed outsiders of Yami, Bunnu would eventually manage to feel like an outsider himself.

Yet, this was not for any lack of trying.

It was in the wintertime that Bunnu first had occasion to meet Bhakti and mon seigneur-Q formally. After the tourist season had finally come to a close and the first frost settled over the town, Bunnu's employer, an innkeeper by trade, would invite those who'd stayed in town for the winter to a Season's End Party in the main lounge area of the inn. As most of the seasonal workers had already left town until the following spring, the few that remained had their own close-knit community, which comprised of a mix of descendants of Yami's erstwhile elders, families from abroad who had settled in this area, and young folks like Bunnu, who managed to maintain scant, yet steady employment throughout the winter.

At the genial innkeeper's inviting, these chatty, diplomatic hominids gathered around the warm, lit hearth, sipping elegantly at Spiced Soma and engaging in pleasant, yet socially appropriate conversation. The party, itself, would be a casual affair and although attendance was mostly voluntary, to fail to make an appearance would seem such a pronounced phenomenon as to magnify itself to bespeak a silent affront to the good nature of the host, as well as to those who had made it a point to show up, thus contributing to their communal, yet unspoken, sense of outrage. Of course, rare exceptions were made in the case of illness, but this, too, couldn't be faked easily, unless one maintained the resolve to affect an unkempt look and a fatigue-ridden speech pattern, sufficient enough to continue the pretense through the next few days of visits by neighbors bearing soups or herbal remedies and speaking in intolerably sympathetic tones of voice and prattling on about some relative or the other and how he or she had once become deathly ill, only to realize that the answer to his or her problems lay in the healing powers of some obscure herb whose name was difficult to pronounce, but which grew in some remote province of a country that no one in town had ever visited, therefore, justifying the possibility that it may be more effective than other, more commonly-known remedies. Naturally, most reasonable folks did their utmost to avoid having to suffer such a terrific ordeal and thus, regardless of how they felt about the other townspeople, made an effort to accept whenever invited. Bhakti and mon seigneur-Q were among those who saw the benefit of adopting this appeasement strategy, for it seemed far better to minimize disruptions to the overall harmony of this tight-knit community by keeping appearances than by departing from what was construed by most as _good form_ and thus, having to endure the discomfort of settling the debts of social obligation which would thereupon remain unfulfilled. Doing so would invariably become an endless game of catch-up. Therefore, a break from the usual politeness could be seen as having astounding effects, not just upon the people most directly affected by it, but also upon everyone else within their immediate network. Then again, this did not mean that one would face any serious repercussions should he shun the other townsfolk and refuse to participate in their social functions; in fact, the worst effect this would have is that he might cease to receive invitations to future parties. Otherwise, aside from being the topic of jokes, or unjustified slander from time–to-time (in particular, by those most profoundly scathed by his rebuffs), he should more or less be left alone. Nonetheless, if simply for the sake of the referrals businesses might get from one another during the tourist season, the preservation of this community network was, for most locals, a matter bearing no dearth of importance.

To the profound joy of some—and to the utter annoyance of others—this spirit of cooperation concatenated itself with a most immodest kindness, the earnestness of which could sometimes prove tiring, perhaps even burdensome, for those cursed with a streak of impatience, who might, at times, view the excessive humility of others' gestures as being symptomatic of some area of their characters which was evidently lacking, and which was now somehow being redressed and compensated for in a fashion needlessly demeaning. Yet to think ill of such people on a continual basis would only prove to exacerbate, as one might by scratching at an irritating sore, some ever-present insecurity within: by likening one's antipathy toward the sincerity of their motives to an inborn jealousy of their purity, one subjected oneself to an unshakable guilt at having succumbed long ago to egoism and, in so doing, having relinquished one's innocence. From there would erupt a devastating aftershock of loss at having allowed one's sense of optimism and wonder to die away and having allowed, in its place, a general attitude of cynicism to take shape, causing one's moral fiber to fester. The dichotomy at work here was explained simply to Bunnu upon his being introduced by the innkeeper to mon seigneur-Q.

"As a newcomer," Q said to him with a crooked grin, "it may be difficult to understand how to navigate this culture successfully, so I shall make it abundantly simple for you." He leaned an elbow on the back of an armchair and shot a look at Bhakti, who, at the time, was gazing uncomfortably and nervously into his cup of Soma. "You have but two choices, both of which are diametrically opposed and for both of which there is sadly no compromise. Those choices are cruelty and kindness. I do not mean to oversimplify the case, but to state it for what it is, according to the dynamics of this locality in Space-Time. And I say again that there can be no middle ground, for from the eyes of utter cruelty, anything less than undiminished kindness is seen as having sprung from some underlyingly sinister motive; on the other hand, from the perspective of those who have surrendered themselves to unabashed kindness, the loving innocence that pervades their thoughts transforms all but the most balefully malicious of atrocities to miscarried acts of goodwill. The divide that exists between these two extremes naturally evokes further distrust from the wicked and further compassion from the virtuous. Speaking for myself, I cannot abide continued kindness, perhaps because I am an imperfect soul, but more likely because I recognize this fact and think it disingenuous to assume the guise of purity and goodness in the hopes of pleasing oneself and others. But then, perhaps I am wrong to think of it this way. Admittedly, I am not well-accustomed to this need for absolutes. Not yet, at least..." Bunnu said nothing to this, for he could think of nothing appropriate to say. Yet, before he had the opportunity to ponder the point any further, he felt himself distracted by a glare which seared lastingly into his peripheral eyesight. Turning his head, he could see the disapproving eyes of Aunty Durga, who stood by the fireplace, silently reprimanding her husband for having cast the town in such a light to an outsider. Behind her, Bhakti started snickering to himself uncontrollably as he continued to look thoughtfully down into his cup of Soma. Aunty Durga turned to him, as well, unwilling to spare him, even slightly, the forcefulness of the very same wrath she had, moments earlier, directed toward mon seigneur-Q. At the intensity of her glare, Bhakti ceased snickering immediately, covering his sudden embarrassment by sipping deeply and nervously from his cup.

### * * *

Bhakti's relationship with Aunty Durga was, actually, rather complex. Even though she was most closely related to him by virtue of being the mon seigneur's wife, she was technically also a blood relation of Bhakti's.

His mother had been a distant cousin of hers: a fact that seemed extremely plausible, given the level of formality and propriety with which she continually sought to conduct herself. In fact, she had grown up in the same household as Bhakti's mother.

Prior to the entire family's migration to Yami, Durga's father had been a small-time swindler and a violent drunk, who spent more time slumped over a mug of naphthalene ale in a dark corner of the local public house than at home with his wife and baby. Being the inept criminal that he was, however, it didn't take long before his infractions of the law got him imprisoned and later executed by tickling—back in the days when _tickling_ was the most common form of capital punishment.

Left with very little money to continue even their then-meager existence, the widowed mother took Durga to the house of a wealthy uncle of distant relation, who was a reputable solicitor, begging him to give them both a place in his household. To her gratitude, the uncle hesitantly, but graciously accepted, adding as he did so, "However, I do this not for your sake, but for the sake of your baby. You have always been fickle and irresponsible and surely you have got all you have deserved. Young Durga, however, deserves better than that. From now on, she shall have a future, the likes of which would have been unimaginable had she stayed under the roof of her unscrupulous father. I shall see to it that she grows up with a firm moral character and with the sort of decency that has clearly been lacking in her mother. Therefore, Durga is unconditionally welcome here. That offer, however, does not extend to you. You are a lost cause. But if you insist on staying, as well, I have but one condition by which you are expected to abide unquestioningly: you are to live as a servant in this household. In fact, you shall be Durga's lady-servant from now until she reaches adulthood. She is still young, so there is no need to tell her of the deal. As far as she is concerned, she will be my child. And you shall be my child's servant." Durga's mother begrudgingly accepted this offer.

And so it was that Durga came up in the household of her great-uncle— who also happened to be the great-grandfather of Bhakti. In her first 10 years at the estate, she was spoiled shamelessly by the old man, his graceful, yet strong-willed wife, as well as the couple's two jovial adult sons, for all of whom she had such a fond adoration. Naturally, she had no reason to doubt that they were her all members of her immediate family, for they all conspired to hide the truth from her, if only to spare her any unnecessary confusion and disappointment. Unfortunately, the compassion which allowed them to hatch this deception did not allow them similarly the foresight to see its effects, for in their unwitting overcompensation of affections for Durga, they managed to create perhaps the most spoiled child the family, in its long history, had ever known. The mother of the household, recognizing the warning signs early, undertook the task of instilling the growingly unruly child with the same sense of solemn propriety that had been taught to her at an early age, but realized, upon attempting to do so, that the best result she could hope for was for the girl to grasp—even superficially—all the appropriate rituals of behavior that allowed her to keep appearances during social functions, so that she might not cause any undue embarrassment to herself or to her family. Beyond this bare minimum of social decorum, it was difficult to teach those values of temperance, charity and humility which should befit a young lady of class to a child, who harbored, in spite of the rigors of the family's high social status, a yet untamed spirit, fostered further by their very overindulgences. Her great-aunt persisted, but Durga was incorrigibly self-centered and even slightly mischievous.

The stiff-necked child, thus, became, with every minor victory achieved in defiance of her great-aunt's attempts to stifle her, all the more headstrong and, because of this, all the more strident in tone, if not even a bit malicious, when dealing with others. As a natural consequence of this, she even came to treat her own biological mother —unaware, of course, of the blood relationship which bound them—as she would any other servant in the house, ordering her around and expecting her to be at her beckoning call any time of the day or night. In fact, the young Durga was unnecessarily cruel to the help, for she had never been discouraged from treating them as her inferiors. The old solicitor—who was insensible to his wife's attempts at bringing the young hellion to heel— expected Durga to administer beatings to them for even the slightest hint of irreverence, even if said irreverence merely equated to looking at her in a way that caused her to sense resentment. Unfortunately, Durga's biological mother—her lady-servant, as far she knew—had come to be seen by her as the most impudent of the lot. Sometimes the daft young woman would burst into tears quite suddenly when, for example, Durga saw it fit to scold her harshly for wearing shabby, unwashed clothing. Or, on days in which this insolent hag was being particularly vile, she might even mutter resentfully under her breath, for example, if Durga had happened simply to bite her hand because she had taken too long in bringing in the evening milk and wafers to the bedroom of her seraphic, yet unduly patient mistress. Durga complained endlessly to the old solicitor about the insufferable conditions which she was made to endure, due solely to the incompetence of her servant. However, the old man refused to dismiss the wicked lady-servant for reasons he was unwilling to disclose. In hindsight, however, this proved to be a rather poor decision, for, one day—not very long after Durga had lodged her most impassioned of complaints to date—the lady-servant attempted to strangle the poor young girl in her sleep. Overcome with emotion, however, the woman ceased in her attempt before anything more than a bruise could be suffered by her mistress. She, then, fled the estate, never to return. Durga would never learn the true identity of her lady-servant, until years later, when—at least in her eyes— such matters ceased to be of immediate importance.

The rest of Durga's childhood was pretty uneventful save for a few minor instances which shaped the sort of person she would become as an adult. One such instance took place when she was 13. She had started horse riding lessons at the solicitor's stables, but found, despite her own equine facial features, that she was unable to tolerate these disgusting creatures, for, notwithstanding their uncanny resemblance to her, their smell was an awful affront to her senses. After just barely making it through her first lesson without passing out, she went home and bathed herself in hot water for three hours, going so far as to have her servants purge the water in her tub twice. Then she doused herself with a noxiously pungent combination of imported Mumta perfumes. As she did this, she told her great-aunt, who had come into her private vanity room to check on her that she adamantly refused ever to set foot near those awful stables again. Her family was slightly concerned by her stubbornness, but not terribly surprised, as it was a trait which seemed to run in the family. She did, however, seem to be oddly sensitive when it came to smells. She could not bear even the slightest foul odor, not even that of her own excrement (because of this, the family was forced to obtain the services of a designer of specialty odorless chamberpots, who came to see this excessively clean girl as the ultimate design challenge and, hence, as his muse). Above and beyond this, however, Durga's inexplicable compulsivity prompted her great-aunt to purchase as many perfumes as she could obtain—primarily from merchants in exotic wares— in order to appease the hysterical girl. These peculiar tendencies would only continue throughout Durga's life, but, especially as she grew into adulthood, begin to manifest themselves in different forms.

Another change in Durga's life happened when she was 16 and her uncle—Bhakti's maternal grandfather—was betrothed and hastily married to the daughter of a family friend, in exchange for a dowry including, among other things, a vast tract of land in the proprietary colony of Yami and 200 mice of a rare, but distinguished breed. The family was more excited by the purebred mice than by the property itself (a portion of which, as it happened, would eventually become Bhakti's birthright). The wife and husband lived together under the same roof as the rest of the family. Soon thereafter, they had a child—a rosy-cheeked and happy baby girl, who would one day come to be the never-smiling, exceedingly polite, yet statuesque mother of Bhakti. Durga was very taken with her new "niece," so much so, that their closeness in age impelled her to look upon the bonny little cherub as a younger sister to spoil as shamelessly as she had been in her early youth.

Unfortunately, her opportunity to do so would prove to be short-lived, for, three years later, the family was forced to flee their estate, with the sudden uprising of the lower class, who sought to make an example of those members of the elite that had lived in excess, while they had lived amid filth and pestilence (in fact, some of the rioters had even been old public house cronies of Durga's father, who, in spite of their once close association with this petty villain, knew not of even the existence of his now 19-year-old daughter). The family went into exile, along with their other aristocratic friends and relatives, occupying their properties in the settlement of Yami, which was, at the time, becoming a reputed haven for refugees of their country's mass revolution.

In spite of its initial advantages to the peasantry and the lower classes, the revolution hadn't truly paved the way for a new unifying leader. And thus, after subsequent months and years of clashes between rival parties, its ultimate effect brought forth the dissolution of the vast national entity into smaller, more tightly-regulated provinces and city-states, which remained economically and militarily dependent on one another in spite of their mutual mistrust. The great-grandfather of Bhakti became a breeder of horses and mice, but was forced to live, as with the rest of the family, a much humbler existence in this small fishing village than the lifestyle to which they were all well-accustomed.

After this, the circumstances become somewhat gray, for any stories of the family's encounters, subsequent to their arrival in Yami, are more or less woven into the tapestry of the town itself and have, thus, come to possess—as is the tendency of most stories subject to frequent tellings—no shortage of dissenting versions, needless exaggerations and maddening contradictions, all of which should be dictated according to the pertinent biases of the narrator in question. Therefore, it would be irrelevant to move any further forward in its examination, except to stress that Durga and Bhakti's mother had been products of a similar upbringing, however in markedly different socioeconomic (and political) circumstances.

Hence their similarities and their differences in character.

### * * *

For Bhakti's part, the elderly Aunty Durga had never been anything more than simply another one of his countless relatives residing in town who happened to have an opinion about anything and everything pertaining to his life. Beyond this, there could be no dimension to her, no intricacies to her personality. And yet, it was not entirely without cause for him to feel this way, given his interactions with her. She had become, indisputably, a dogmatic, meddlesome old woman. It was a frustration he knew only too well and, certainly, one which had not only been specific to him. He often remembered his father complaining privately about family gatherings in which he would receive ten bits of competing advice, each building off of or disputing the others, in regards to some matter which he would never have deemed important enough to bring up in conversation in the first place, but which some old blowhard uncle of his had decided would make an interesting topic to spout on about endlessly, in the hopes of showcasing his intellectual superiority over the other elders. Unfortunately, the other ten uncles who contested his tirade as unsubstantiated poppycock thought they were equally, if not more intelligent than him. And then chaos would ensue, until, somehow, the vitriol with which his relatives managed to denounce each other for their absolute inanity only served to inject these otherwise trivial topics with such a sense of urgency that one could never hope to steer the conversation successfully in another direction. Aunty Durga was just another one of these opinionated relatives, who sought to win an intellectual victory over Bhakti by having him accord to her will: or at least, that's how he had come to see her.

And yet, if Durga had known that this was how he felt about her, she might have been surprised and hurt. When Bhakti first moved into mon seigneur-Q's old bluestone building, she couldn't help but nag Q about how he enabled the boy to continue on with his unhealthy fanaticism over that wretched accordion. And yet after 50 years had passed and Bhakti had finally found his niche within the town, she ceased to broach the topic, for he had finally succeeded in showing her that she was worrying over him unnecessarily. Unfortunately, Bhakti failed to notice this change in her attitude, assuming in his self-consciousness that even if she wasn't conveying her disapproval verbally, she was doing so telepathically. He knew that she had predicted that he would one day devolve to the level of a parasite and was unable to forget it. Durga, however, was too proud a person to recant anything she had said in the past, whether she secretly regretted it or not. In fact, she continued to slap the boy with stern looks whenever she had occasion to do so, conceivably in the hopes of masking the ever-growing intensity of her fondness for him.

Her soft spot for him was missed by most, who were easily fooled by the begrudging disposition she would take on intentionally, so as not to let on, even in the slightest, that she had come to see him, more or less, as her own son. "Go easy on the boy, Durga!" her other curmudgeonly friends would even implore over cups of Honey Ocha in her tearoom. "He may be misguided, but still, he deserves at least a little compassion!" Aunty Durga would turn her nose up at these old ladies' assertions, while, at the same time, planning in her mind what she might bake in excess that evening, so that her husband might take the extras to the boy. The only person who was capable of seeing through her attempts to mask her motherly overtures was mon seigneur-Q, naturally because he was closest to the situation, but more importantly, because he could see firsthand just how much time and thought the old woman put towards showing, in her own special and indirect way, affection for their adopted stepson.

It was said by the townspeople that mon seigneur-Q had taken Durga as his wife primarily for companionship, as they were both in the latter stages of their lives. Whatever the situation, it seemed they knew each other's ways exceedingly well, for, as in the case of Durga's preparation of massive portions, mon seigneur knew better than to accuse her of having done so for the sake of the boy. He understood her intentions, but also knew that she would flatly deny any allegations of generosity, for fear that it should tarnish her image. And so, wordlessly, mon seigneur-Q would pick up the leftovers and say in an intentionally clear and distinct voice, "Well...it would be a shame to let this go to waste. I'll take some over to the boy." "Do what you like with them!" Durga would reply impatiently; in her haste, she almost always responded before Q even had the chance to finish what he was saying, "I was going to throw out what we couldn't finish anyway."

And so, especially in the winters, mon seigneur-Q would trudge through the snow of the deserted town, in the bitter cold of the wind, down the solitary main boulevard, which, in summers, would otherwise be brimming with visitors from other lands, and he would arrive at his shops, climbing the iron staircase on the outside of the building and knock on Bhakti's door. Upon receiving these tokens of affection, the young man, in his unrelenting insecurity, would always somehow fail to recognize the treatment he was being given by Durga as special, thinking that the food was being brought his way through the kindness of mon seigneur-Q and no one else. And thus, he would continue to regard her as he might any other relative: with a veil of politeness and, sometimes even, what seemed to be a cool disfavor. mon seigneur-Q didn't seem at all troubled by the young man's aloofness toward his wife's motherly overtures, perhaps because he knew that to acknowledge the _give_ and the _take_ on either end of this circumlocutory relationship would only devalue its depth and meaning. Looking at the matter more practically, mon seigneur also probably understood the necessity of perpetuating this detachment on the part of Bhakti, for he had known the boy's inclinations well enough to recognize his desire for emotional solitude.

To break this, would only complicate matters further. Nevertheless, Bhakti's continued reserve did nothing to impede Q's relationship with him.

### * * *

In fact, mon seigneur-Q seemed to be the only person in the town in the presence of whom Bhakti never seemed to feel the slightest hint of insecurity. This, perhaps, had to do with the success of mon seigneur in treating Bhakti, in spite of his relative youth, as his equal and, more importantly, as his friend.

In summer, during the tourist season, Bunnu would often see the two standing out together on the terrace outside of Bhakti's second-floor apartment, leaning against an iron railing which went from the front door around the side of the building, and then, down a staircase, which let out into a narrow alleyway separating this bluestone from the one where the Akbar twins resided. They stood out, puffing at slant weed cigarettes, sometimes laughing, sometimes watching the people passing on the streets in the late afternoon; or looking beyond them at the riverboats with white roofs that reflected the sun so blindingly they could be mistaken as floating beacons in the freshwater; or at the casinos with neon signs, which lined the opposite bank of the river. Q sometimes brought along one of those new imported pocket radios and listened to short-wave broadcasts from the Republic of the shipping news. When the weather was pleasant and a nice breeze could be felt from the river, they remained there for a long time, sipping from conical glasses some effervescent concoction of mon seigneur's making, until the shadow of afternoon crept from the streets and over the river. Bunnu often wished to join them, for it seemed like he would enjoy a conversation with them greatly, but always hesitated, for fear of becoming an intrusion.

In the winter, on the other hand, he had more opportunities to enjoy long, yet stimulating conversations with both of them, particularly on certain evenings in the main lounge of the inn. The innkeeper would often go to bed early, but gave Bunnu permission to use the main lounge area to entertain guests, so long as the noise didn't wake him. So, at least once a fortnight, at Bunnu's inviting, mon seigneur-Q, Bhakti and Bunnu would park themselves in armchairs by the fireplace and sip at Spiced Soma and chat. mon seigneur, being as accustomed as he was to dominating any conversation, almost always took the lead, often interrupting what someone was saying to interject his own story, or even to yield the floor to someone who had seemingly been listening silently for too long. More often than not, he was yielding the floor to Bhakti, to ensure that he was engaged in the conversation, presumably so that he would not withdraw into his own emotional cocoon.

mon seigneur's greatest talent as a conversationalist, however, seemed to lie in his ability, through a barrage of pointed, often irrelevant-seeming questions, to open up every topic and make it grander in scale than it had once seemed, as though he were a mad chemist in a room full of closed vials, who, as though overcome by a sudden urge, proceeded to uncap each and every one of these reactive solutions, to allow their fumes to hang in the air, irresolute and forgetful even of their original compositions, but nonetheless liberated from their previously oppressive boundaries. It was apparent that he was not a fan of clear-cut conversations with a conclusion (and he seemed to detest those which were born of some underlying objective); he preferred instead those which would allow for a lasting question mark to hover above the heads of all its participants, including himself.

He might, for example, ask Bhakti whether he would have inspired his audiences so profoundly with his music had he been classically trained in the rigors of accordion-playing, complete with the proper stance, the requisite finger positioning and movements, and employing the proper classical facial expressions, which seemed to tighten in synchronicity with the high notes and relax with the low ones, as though one were laboring unsuccessfully to evacuate his constipated bowels. Then he would muse about whether the art of classical musical training was, in any way, similar to the art of canine domestication, for it seemed rather similar in its ability to suppress, through a process of conditioning, one's natural instincts. He would then ask if Bhakti was encoding a song instinctively his own by ignoring proper form and method, and if his own uniquely derived style was, in and of itself, of primal essence. He would then muse about whether the timbre of the instrument Bhakti had chosen detracted at all from the purity of these primal sounds, and if the perfect instrument for his instinctual expression had not yet been devised, for there was no material from which the instrument of optimal resonance could be composed. Then he would switch tracks and ask if Man-telopes are as often inspired as humans by the sounds of his instinctually-driven accordion-playing, implying, of course, that their positive reaction to this instrument might be ironic, given that their hide is, in part, used to construct its bellows. He might, then, follow this up with an inquiry as to the exact nature and need for a mating call, starting with Man-telopes as his prime example, postulating that the idea of a mating call is merely a preposterous invention of the humans: its call might, in fact, bear a different purpose, or no purpose at all (and so on). Then, he might ask about the necessity of sound and sound perception, for he was confident that all living creatures should, by their very nature, be able to subsist on their visual, tactile, and olfactory senses alone.

Each question would lead to another implication and then to another, until all implications together constructed an even larger one, which he punctuated, rather sinisterly, with a final, but looming question mark. At his questions, one could feel every cell in the body suddenly respiring, as though wishing to contribute equally to the interplay of seemingly unlike particles engaging in mid-air.

On every occasion they had to meet up as a trio in the lounge of the inn, mon seigneur set Bunnu about on this complex process of exploration, for he seemed curious about various aspects of his origins, as well as those of his parents. Then, he asked about the local flora of his hometown Bahlia. And then, suddenly, he inquired as to the whereabouts of his siblings, Didi and _O.,_ and the nature of Bunnu's relationship with them. Next, he asked about the frequency of quakes in Bahlia; then followed this with questions about the effects of continental drift upon the surrounding topography, primarily in Bunnu's early childhood. Upon hearing about this, he suddenly became exceedingly curious about Bunnu's education, his athletic and political affiliations, his religious views, his reasons for leaving Bahlia, and, finally, the means by which he ended up in the town of Yami.

And it was on this last point, in particular, that Bunnu had managed to captivate the mon seigneur's imagination most.

### VII.

A horn-studded, malevolent face had hung over the city.

The creature's fangs and claws were stained with dried blood and speckled with clumps of hair and rotting flesh. It snarled and sneered with a pointed jaw, but uttered nothing audible. Its cold, unforgiving eyes glared down at the streets and the crisscrossing pedestrians, pronouncing upon them Its severest and cruelest commandments. Its silent decrees, however, need not have been audible for them to ring continually in the minds of the shivering medallions of tender flesh below, for these warm, meaty entities were taught from an early age to kneel in the direction of their sinister and sadistic Overlord, once at dawn and again at dusk and to implore Its mercy, for they remained wary of the frightful carnage which should otherwise ensue. However, what strikes the greatest terror into the God-fearing populace is not Its eyes, nor Its fangs, not even Its claws; but, in fact, the massive stone boner which protrudes upward from Its splay-legged crotch (known in temple-going circles as Its "Consummation Wand.") Parables of its phallic menace abounded with stories of soured widows, indolent schoolboys and arrogant skeptics, delinquent in their kneeled payments of homage to this rapacious God, who, one day, in their most vulnerable moments, were pounced upon by the horny, granite brute and dry-humped with impunity by Its rough, rocky schlong until they bled from every orifice, and until they had formed in their violent demise, a union with this Holy Beast, now—for lack of a better term—inviolable. The parables also spoke of this ferocious deity's insurmountable self-loathing—springing forth from Its latent inferiority complex— which seemed to propel this Supreme-albeit-insecure-Entity to these fits of ruthless sadism. Believers were, thus, expected to surrender themselves, in their purest and most sacred sense of masochism, to the voracious, yet often contradictory appetites of this resentful, unhappy predator.

### * * *

The mere sight of this dreadful entity should have been first thing that struck Bunnu, as his ship approached the port of Yami.

Yet he had failed to notice it at all.

In fact, while others aboard his ship had been taken aback by this macabre spectacle, which loomed from the highest spire of the tallest cathedral in the hemisphere (the very same cathedral built by Alaric-1), Bunnu remained preoccupied by the presence of a far more redoubtable menace in his immediate environment: that of atmospheric pressure, which, at its sudden shift, had at first caused him a terrible earache and headache, followed by a mild case of diarrhea—although, in truth, the latter may have come about in the aftermath of his dinner of Sweet and Sour Hookworms the previous night. Whatever the case, it seemed that he was not yet accustomed to the weather in this region of the world.

He had, after all, just spent 10 years on the tropical island of Dhritarashtra, where he had worked in raw materials procurement in the 133rd Regiment of the RavanAlloy Mining Limited Liability Corporation—that is, until being court-martialed and, thereupon, dishonorably discharged from his post for conspiracy against the company, due to his extramarital-intracorporate affair with the wife of a petty officer from human resources. Naturally, wanting a fresh start in a new place, as far away as possible from the personal shame of his previous life, he signed up for duty on a freighter which was scheduled to have its last fueling stop in Yami before proceeding to the Outlands to dump its cargo of industrial waste canisters.

When the ship arrived at the port of Yami, the tourist season was already coming to a close. A slight chill hung in the air, but the town was still bustling. Walking down the boarding ramp and onto the docks, Bunnu was surprised to find that the town stood upon reinforced stilts and beams that allowed it to tower hundreds of meters in the air above the riverside. There was a loose blue netting which hung down from its streets to obscure the support beams. These nets extended between the many sets of stairways leading up from the riverbanks and further insulated the perimeter of the city, causing it to appear as though Yami were perched high above the water upon a royal blue rectangular prism.

Upon asking one of the longshoremen about this, Bunnu heard that parts of Yami had started to sink into the river several decades ago. In response to this, local politicians and business leaders had apparently spearheaded an extensive and costly project to set the town on stilts. They did the same with the gambling town of Xami across the river and connected the two with a tall suspension bridge. Bunnu also heard that there were brothels open to longshoremen and sailors just beyond the blue netting, under Yami. Many of them were situated in tents or rundown shacks built on the moist ground between the support beams.

Basically this meant that the city of Yami consisted of two levels: there was the street level—the Surface City—which was elevated from the moist, swamp-like ground by strong support beams and networks of reinforcing crossbars; and then, there was the ground below it—the Under City—which had been slowly sinking into the river for centuries. Despite the Surface City's overhanging walkways and solitary thoroughfares which overlooked wide gaps scattered here and there in its facade, it was nearly impossible to get a proper view of the Under City from above, for the shadow projected downward upon it was so penetrating as to obscure the whole of the marshland in utter darkness. So profound was this darkness, in fact, that it almost looked as though a bottomless pit had opened up beneath the city.

A bottomless pit was not a far-off description, however. A whole separate ecosystem of crab-clawed scroungers, whores with superhuman strength, schizophrenic phantoms, coprophagous bodybuilders, ethereal scapegoats, exposed missionary spies, sensory-deprived word-fetishists, reanimated exhibitionist corpses, blind hermitic fishermen, impious snake-handlers, lecherous wimps, sleepwalking hermaphrodites, mercenary cherubs and all natures of ultra-venomous flora and fauna inhabited the marshlands below the Surface City. Much of it was hidden away by the loose blue netting draped over the edges of town and the rest was unseen because of the shadows cast by the city above. Numerous lichen-covered stone stairways and ramps separated the cobbled boulevards of the town and the docks below. Heading down any one of these, all one would need to do is turn around 180 degrees and proceed through the blue netting under the stairs to gain entrance to the Under City, which was a completely different realm altogether.

Bunnu had done just this, along with his crewmates, in the hopes of finding a brothel with women free of infection. Unfortunately for them, the evening did not end up going as they had hoped, as it was impossible for them to see even three meters ahead in the near pitch dark of the Under City. After two hours of clawing their way stupidly in the dank mud puddles of this area, all they really succeeded in doing was to get soaked from head-to-toe, and moreover, to be bitten by every nature of airborne parasite and malevolent mite inhabiting this biome of the world. To make matters worse, upon emerging again from the blue netting and into the blinding light of the docks, there was a chorus of laughter and sarcastic quips from the longshoremen, who were used to seeing the same spectacle from other visiting sailors on a daily basis. "Looks like this lot got emselvesin'a quandary, yah!" "A proper quandary, I'd say. Ladies find ya's too aromatic, chaps?" "Gots nerve to say'er looking f'r clean women. What'ith vermin like you 'round? Reckon 'ey won't stay clean f'long!"

In fact, being migrants from a variety of ports around the world, both known and thitherto 'undiscovered,' almost none of the ship's crewmen actually understood what was being said to them, but being the intuitive creatures that they were, they could easily infer that it was derogatory in nature. Bunnu, however, felt partly responsible. It had been him that the longshoremen had duped, for he was the only one capable of communicating with them. The others had simply followed him, assuming that since he knew the language, he somehow knew best where to find the brothels. Fortunately for him, none of his comrades held it against him that they weren't able to succeed in their mission; it was the taunts of the dockworkers that made this possible, for, if nothing else, they articulated sufficiently the longshoremen's unapologetic culpability. Still, Bunnu felt something had to be done to appease the other crewmen, at least for the sake of the working conditions the next day.

And so, disappointed by the events of their evening, Bunnu and the rest of the crew took refuge by the fireplace of an inn on the main cobbled avenue of Yami, drinking spiced Soma and spewing venomous words into the surrounding atmosphere in a mix of foreign languages about the gall of the longshoremen. Bunnu, however, barely able to keep up with the quick dialogues passing back and forth between foreign shipmates of similar lingual origins, made friendly conversation, instead, with the innkeeper in the common language of the Republic. "I can see you're an educated lad," the innkeeper had said to him. "Fancy a sailor's life, do you?"

"When I was a child, maybe. But right now, this is strictly temporary," Bunnu replied. "Anyway, my education has done very little to enlighten me, apparently. It's merely opened doors."

"A fine thing an education is, then, right? A fine, fine thing! Here in Yami, we need people fluent in the tongue of the Republic. Like it or not, we have visitors from all over, so we need it to communicate. It's the language of tourism now."

"I can see that," Bunnu mused. "Still...it is a bit of a vapid language, isn't it?" It seemed odd to employ a code—lingual or otherwise— in order to point out its own inadequacies. In this case the words of the Republic in air had the unknowing intent of their own self-deprecation, perhaps even their own self-destruction. In some way, this seemed a betrayal, but then again, to leave its failures as a code unacknowledged would similarly seem an oversight too unjust to bear.

"Dry as a desert, laddie. Can't stand it myself, but where would I be without it? Listen, I don't suppose you know where you're going, but how about staying on with me until you figure it out? If you haven't noticed, I'm getting a bit up there in years and I could use a young lad like you to help keep the place standing in the offseason."

"I don't know. As you can probably tell just by looking at me, I'm not really good with physical labor."

"Seem a bit scrawny for a sailor, yes. And I reckon those hands haven't born many calluses; but, I could use you anyway. You'll find it's a pretty comfortable life here...and I can promise free room and board, along with a reasonable, but admittedly, modest wage. The offseason will be upon us in a few weeks, so, if you like, you can stay with me through the winter and get to know the townspeople and then decide what you want to do in the spring. What say you?"

"Well I-"

" _Oto May!"_ one of the crewmembers suddenly interrupted, dangling two plump red fruits under Bunnu's nose. They smelled rank. Bunnu took them in his hand, if only to get them away from his face.

"Best watch the strawberries, son!" the innkeeper warned. He was a pudgy man with big ruddy cheeks, which protruded like lemons and were luminous when he grinned. His hair was white and his skin pale and soft as snow. He had a big belly just like Bunnu's father, Raju. He removed his specs and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Warp your mental compass, it will. Make it go a bit haywire, in fact."

" _Toh chee!"_ the crewman exclaimed again. _"Oto May!"_

"Then again, never a bad thing to try something once..."

### * * *

Exiting the inn to the dizzying ether of the streets, he was greeted by the blinding light of the full moon, which, in the river below, reflected a shimmering vastness that spread beyond the banks and expanded outward in celestial coronas to the horizons of visual cognition. The light was so intense that the surroundings began to fade. Yet, oddly enough, he had the feeling that he was not at all far away from his hometown and in Yami, but rather, suddenly back in the safe comforts of home—in his parents' attic, in fact, talking to Rakesh-7, who he imagined to be sitting in darkness in front of him, smoking vanilla tobacco from a pipe.

Perhaps, he had never left Bahlia! Perhaps he had simply imagined all his migrations! Perhaps this illusion of distance had caused him, all along, to misconstrue his circumstances terribly!

YES!

Suddenly, this was all becoming very clear! He had, through some miraculous coincidence, managed to pierce through the veil of space-time, through the legerdemain which had enveloped him and, thus, he could realize once and for all that he had never once parted from his origin! Never once!

YES!

Or, this concept of origin, too, was some sort of illusion!

He was in all places, in all times! He spanned all the days and all their fleeting moments; all the nanoseconds and all the millennia. He spanned every quark, every dimension, every Cosmos, every consciousness. He was the real behind the real behind the real: The creative force and the creation; the originator and the origin; the web that sprung forth from the spider and the spider himself—and even the web from which he had sprung forth at birth. He was all the gods and all the worlds and all the beings: all of it together with a singular and hidden and insignificant name. All of it!

All at once!

In all places!

YES!

With this fantastic realization, his surroundings suddenly returned to him. He ran through the streets screaming with excitement. He wanted very much to make use of his new omnipresence by doing something humorous like defecating on a bench and allowing a passing baby to take the blame for it, but his stomach was empty at the moment, so he was forced to drop this idea. It also occurred to him that this sort of prank might be an unseemly use of his spatial prowess, so he labored instead to think of another which might allow him to explore his newfound potential. Perhaps a time-game would be more sophisticated—not to say that it was necessary to play a game for the sake of its sophistication. In fact, many of the most profound games were refreshingly simple. But then again, he did not have a keen sense for simplicity.

If it were something complex, on the other hand, he might not have so much trouble in conceiving it. He might, for example, play a gag on the Universe by inverting certain physical laws, such as those defining the relative states of entropy. He could make all disordered systems proceed back to their original states of order.

That would really get the Universe's goat!

" _No, no...joking aside, that might trigger a reversal in the arrow of time, thus sending me back to my childhood and then to the womb, which should only serve to be a terrific inconvenience. Perhaps that gargoyle up there with the massive hard-on can give me some ideas. Looks like he's got it all figured out. Hope he doesn't ask me to touch him anywhere. Now, how do I get up th—Ah! Here we are. This should do. Careful now...ivy may not be as firm as it...ermm... looks. But this is no matter, because when one becomes ever-present as I have, it is then impossible to be hemmed in by the limitations of kinematic physical laws anymore. If I am present in all places and at all times, how can my descent be measured? What of my acceleration? Surely the units of null-acceleration would be of unique derivation...yes yes! Perhaps they should be measured in null-meters per null-second per null-second? A-ha ha! That's a good one. Null-feet per null-second per null-second would also work. Then again, this also renders the necessity of my current ascent by ivy a similarly null proposition. In fact, wouldn't movement itself be rather unnecessary? And if this is so, how is air to get in and out of my lungs? For that matter, of what use is breathing when cellular respiration itself becomes irrelevant with the cessation of all motion? From this, I am inclined to think that without motion, physical form becomes an impossibility. No...no, it must be possible to move, for how else can I exist in this way? I am the direct result of a series of movements which themselves preceded my very conception and proceeded thereafter: of movements of atom, of dust, of moon, of sea, of species, of tribe, of parent. I myself am also migratory in this way. Motion, after all, is the natural and perpetual state of all things. And so I climb this ivy...and yes, we've arrived. Hmmm...the gargoyle looks rather angry! I should be cautious...I wonder if he can hear my thoughts. Am I talking out loud? Why, yes I am...well it seems senseless to stop now, for surely he has heard what is on my mind. And yet he just sits there with that look of disgust on his face. Maybe he doesn't like what he's hearing. No...no, that's not it. Perhaps he doesn't like the messy conditions on the streets. He seems rather a neat freak. I knew my fair share of them in the old dorm at Dhritarashtra. Never really know what's going on in their heads. I had this one neighbor down the hall—I think he was a corporal from accounting—he was constantly running a wet rag over everyone's doorknob even when he was just passing by. He had a sign on his own door which said "CLEAN" in large block letters and he simply couldn't stand the sight of dust. Rather uptight as well—he seemed to pray constantly and went to unnatural extremes to make sure that he was hygienic and that his beard and fingernails were neatly trimmed. He came from one of those fundamentalist sects of Immuno-sufficient Sanitary Transhumanists. One day, I told him to ease up on the aseptic zealotry. I followed this by explaining that the elements he was battling were mere particles of dust and that they presented no immediate threat. Germs would be worth battling, yes...but his antibacterial talc has already taken care of those pesky symbiotic co-existers! Really there's no need to interfere with the movements, the collisions and the traversals of dust! I still believe that now—for did I not just explain earlier the necessity of movement? But I shouldn't have expressed that view to him, because then he started going on and on about supernovas and the gaps between the teeth of beached whales and then furthermore about the invasiveness of red dust and its ability to gain entrance to the deepest wellsprings of our intangible essence with the ultimate intention of sapping it with tangible impurities. Not a real sociable type—him! Even declined his fair share of invitations to the aloo puri orgies downstairs on the ladies' floor. Seems he was keeping himself pure for his lady friend, who was a daughter of some big time spice dealer. Saw her around the dorm once. She was a sexy little thing, but you could tell by those bedroom eyes of hers she wasn't keeping herself pure. Oh sure...I'll bet she had the guy properly fooled. He thought she was staying chaste for him, but I could see it in her eyes. She even wanted me to give it to her...and give it to her good. Long-distance relationships can be messy affairs. Maybe that's why he was working so hard to keep things tidy and in order. Yes...simple enough assessment: I'd make a good psychoanalyst. Good thing he didn't imbibe the spices sold by his lady's father though—might have sent him on an indiscriminate raping spree. Hard stuff, that was! Yes, Yessir, he was an odd bloke and possibly a little sick, but then again, who am I to speak? In any case, on closer examination, it seems our friend the gargoyle over here is simply filthy with guano. Funny...in this light, it looks like blood and flecks of skin. Rather humiliating to have bird and bat dung all over one's member, I imagine. Anyway, I suppose he wasn't grimacing at the mess on the streets after all. And what's more, he seems to be no help whatsoever on the small matter of my omnipresence. It's a real shame... I honestly can't think of anything good to do with it. It's not a simple talent, like the ability to conjure up a tin of peach jelly on command. I guess a gift like this is wasted on a superficial wretch like me. I shall descend and yell down to the scroungers in the Under City and see what they are up to this hour of night. And then perhaps I will realize something important about myself in the course of this evening and, at the weight of the epiphany, be reduced to tears. Or, maybe that's expecting too much? OK...almost down. Right-o...so, I wonder where a good place would be for me to peek down and...uh...eh—hello, what's this? A passing baby defecating on yon park bench? Perhaps she hopes to pin it on me? But that's not on! Surely her cognitive development would not yet have reached such a level at which she should be capable of imagining, much less orchestrating such a deception, unless someone else were putting her up to this. And certainly she has not yet crossed that irreversible threshold all once-innocent humans must inevitably traverse—that threshold, upon whose crossing, one becomes capable of understanding and manipulating the seeds of deception for his or her own personal gain. But on the other hand, that naked little brat could easily-"_

Suddenly a deafening sound came to him.

" _What nature of Being makes such a sound? WHO IS THERE?" He suddenly wheeled around screaming and covering his ears._

White noise: It was coming from the blood moon, which was now itself vibrating with growing rapidity. The town around him was gone until there was only the red beacon and the darkness and the penetrating hiss.

" _It is unwise of me to be so forceful in my addresses. I should take heed. There are species of apparition which might strip me of something so vital as my sense of reason. I have heard of swarms of flies who cross over the horizons with a cacophony no lesser than this. These insects are known to inject a potent toxin into the bloodstream, extracting simultaneously from the host his sense of empathy, or sometimes his sense of humor. On rare occasions, they extract both and the subject is relegated to becoming a tiresome old bore who jabbers on interminably and uncontrollably, unaware of the soporific effects of his speech. Having thus reduced his listeners to deepest slumber, he watches unconcerned by their fates as they fall prey to their own natural predators—who themselves had long been following these fly swarms across the countryside closely, knowing somehow instinctually that these insects should be indispensible to their sustenance. But then there are other threats as well. There is the ghostly archer, Io, who carries, in his sliver, arrows dipped in remorse-inducing ointments. He rides upon a black elephant with feathery tusks and talons upon the tip of its trunk, and fins and blowholes like those of a whale which allow the snarling pachyderm to journey about for long distances by sea. Io had once been in the service of a Lesser Rajah who, in spite of his own thwarted ambitions, begrudgingly paid tribute to the throne of the High King and tyrant Maximillian-55. Io's unfortunate allegiance to this embittered mini-sovereign fashioned him into a cruel thug with a foul and unforgiving temperament when it came to collecting taxes from the holdouts amongst the kingdom's impoverished peasants. And now, because of his innumerable atrocities, he seeks, in his afterlife, not penance, per se, so much as simple, reassuring conversation with a jovial and unbiased soul on topics which plague his conscience greatly. To all with whom he speaks, he promises a boon should they be successful in their reassurances, but inevitably all who encounter him fail, for his transgressions are heinous and his soul—if he could be said to possess one—is as black as the night. He, thus, thrusts his symbolic ochre sabre into the bare soil and aims the arrows he wields—three at one time—for the body of his speaking partner and inflicts the most tortuous and exquisite psychological anguish imaginable. And then he rides away in a thunderous gallop like deafening static. But it could not be him who approaches. He is repelled by this scarlet moon, for it reminds him too easily of his own violent atrocities. I must be brave and fear not the fiercest of terrors. I dare not now mention it. No, instead I address the visitor again. WHO IS THERE, I say? I bid you to speak!"_

" _Mr. Bunnu..." a voice mumbled faintly._

" _It speaks my name! I am frightened that it could be that very fiercest of terrors I envisioned—fiercer even than the Parasitic Superego who pursues me endlessly, fiercer even than the calculating spider before his legendary fall from grace, fiercer even than the darkest nightmares materializing from the darkest imaginations of Man —for it is they that have the greatest ambitions of all. I say 'they' for this terror is composed of many, but speaks upon its intended victim with the voice of one. It is the living and speaking malady, by this I mean it is the walking pestilence, who is ancient, implacable, expansionist and ever-adaptive. I sense this threat on the horizon, advancing upon this city. It eyes the ramparts with amusement for there are no resistive devices in existence capable of holding up against the force of its grinning demoniacal visage which secretes an acrid saliva that, in turn, flushes over and softens every nature of metal by infusing it with a fast oxidizing bacterial agent. And then it speaks my name with a voice what rots petrified wood at its bilious tone, and what immobilizes— as though by planting a flag in my hitherto unclaimed breast— even my own foes who have long sought my demise. It speaks my name, well-aware that the sweltering stress of my foreboding should denature all the proteins of my body—ancillary and otherwise— as it sets a course aligned with me. I cannot escape in spite of the slowness of its approach, for it knows no frontier, no boundary which can hold it. And thus it leaves no man unscathed. It proliferates in areas of dense foliage, such as marsh and jungle, but allows itself to be carried away by all natures of migrating insect, bird and mammal. I can hear the static of its distant march: This muck-born disease molded into anthropomorphic garrisons which, foaming at the mouth like a pack of rabid curs, ceremoniously advance from all sides inward upon me. The Augean wastrels of the Under City are delighted by the coming of this most blessed of ailments, for it stands to reason that they are already immune by virtue of their having grown long-accustomed to their putrid dwellings. Their enmity toward their overlords has made them warped and bitter enough in their thinking to seek to bring harm both upon themselves and, in turn, upon their own kind. Thus, they rejoice at the coming of Illness and at its anticipated victory over all of humanity. But still they are wise enough to flee while flight remains a feasible option. No, no...if still they have not evacuated their sewage-encrusted hovels, it is because they have concocted a plan, yet to be implemented. I should not be surprised if they have crafted a massive oubliette to trap their foes in the Surface City, whilst they depart and make their exodus by bladder-hewn submersible up the river and for the lands yet untouched by infestation. Still they know I am the first to be infected, for it is only me that the Ailment beckons. My grandfather succumbed to an infection brought on after stubbing his toe, my liege and namesake the Great King Bunnu-5 fell to an acute case of swimmer's ear. What Ailment shall it be when my time comes? And what shall be my final symptoms before my conscious finally recedes to its remote origin beyond this molted frame?"_

" _Mr. BUNNU..."_

" _It beckons again. Perchance it bids me to silence, and so I should comply."_

Amidst waves of static, an authoritative voice radiated from the undulating sanguine moon, speaking thus: "Dear Bunnu, I fear you do not remember me, or perhaps you lack the presentiment of our future acquaintance. The arrow of time obscures memory of both past and future circumstance with innumerable fallacies, the least trivial of which is perception. That is just as well. What must be said hinges not on such a fragile thing as memory, nor on identity, nor on belief, nor on understanding, nor on obligation, nor on virtue. It is something which must be told and something which I must take great pains to tell you. Silence your questions and listen to me now.

" _Listen I say: I speak to you now from a place far away; through spectral fields of such vastness that I am a mere particle, spinning in orbit—sometimes evolving, sometimes devolving in evanescent sentience over a probabilistic course of uncertain trajectory. I shan't say any more about this until we meet again at Placenta-C._

" _I can, however, say that there was a simpler time for me long, long ago; a simpler time in which I had an unexplainable fascination with Carnival Life. In those days, however, I bore the mask of a Pierrot, so perhaps one could see this as no great mystery. The acrobats were what drew me in, at first, and when the carnival came to town, I was compelled to watch from the moment they locked their wagon wheels straight through until they tore down and packed everything in. And when they finally made for the road, I followed them as far as the next town; down a dirt path that turned off the main highway. Looking ahead, the wheels tread an indefinite and treacherous path to a place yet undiscovered, which should soon take shape, but only upon arrival; looking back, you could see the hard-pressed mud of wheels migrating from the ashes of their origins: ashes that had once animated the stillness of eve to a frenzied rant of forms soaked in spirits—but these images now faded as the previous night passed into the oblivion of bitter, regretful memory. Now, the dance was over and regrets discarded in piles that sat adjacent to still-smoldering ashes. It had been that moment when I first gazed upon these abandoned piles that I had been filled with dread at the prospect of staying behind. It was that rendering in black—the reduction—of that which once held meaning. To imagine moments treasured in warmth, lost in the memories of dying stars, whittled away to inert, crumbling particles: how could one seek not to chase the tail of the very comet that was burning a pure and indelible path through the Moment, only to leave in its wake, the black residue of semblance exhausted to its fullest? The rains soak the grounds and soon what had once thrilled and inspired awe into enthusiastic clumps of flesh had worn away, as fabric might, to bare threads, tattered and mud-soaked—half in the ground, half-out—fading to gray with weather until its forlorn fate superseded its glorious conception. And so, I abandoned the grounds, for they should only harden to stagnancy in the light of early morning, and the world, should itself, continue in mundane rigor, as it had before the hardened molds of its form had been filled with the life force of the carnival._

" _The highway at night abounds with perils. The path narrows and loses itself often in tangles of roots, hard leaves, grasses, and creeping vines to the point that one is likely, in poor light, to get lost in the surrounding wood. To be sure, the light, too, loses itself in the shadows of tree branches and wandering Mysts. And thus, one is as likely to run afoul of the elements as any sort of bandits or predators of the night._

" _A deadly flower blooms at the mouth of a cave: petals glowing in the rays of moonlight; stems and roots exist Elsewhere in ambiguated Darkness. The Colors are unconcerned by their origins, Core unbeknownst of its Fate: the flower is, thus, obsessively conflicted with itself. Its inclinations are perennial and unpredictable—even androgynous, for it has, at its disposal, wiles both masculine and feminine—despite the rigid structure that anchors it to terrain. The flower is, at once, in ecstasy and despair, pleasure and pain, contentment and craving—until nothing is left of its withering certitude than its propagating seed. It is, thus, confused, yet alluring in its vacillating naïveté and seems to possess the unintentional capacity of drawing others into its maddening cavern of consubstantial paradoxes._

" _The Pierrot—I speak of him in the third-person, now, for he is more pervasive, more ever-present than even I—the Pierrot, despite being only a Mask one is to wear and little more, has already been pulled into such a world, as this is the very nature of his role. He, thus, rejects the flower—and in doing so, embraces it—and guides himself back from this divergent trail and to the highway by inverting his desire to not stray away from this deviant path and proceeding conversely in his own footsteps. In doing so, he manages to succeed at being diverted from his previous diversion and rights himself along the course that he had originally plotted._

" _He cackles wondrously now, for the road has liquefied and thereupon evaporated to a looming gaseous vapor that drifts in the dawn breeze. He, too, begins to drift and in his diffusion, his essence extends its awareness to incredible distances, until he can intuit, uncannily, the musings of a fox, standing upon a distant hilltop, peering down at the valley below in the light of early morn. The face of this wretched thing devolves rapidly at the sight of his new day as a streak of green ripples to bifurcate crimson, for this shrewd, wanting creature has necessity bound to its fur. He perches his front legs up upon a high rock and scrutinizes his approaching sustenance, before tramping playfully down to the trail below._

" _Fiery caravans flicker onward ho and into foreign territories, winding arroyos of a vast alien crater. This craggy mass, too, is an amalgamation of Time creeping along the crackling and decayed forms of its surface. Fissures spiderweb like wrinkles to barren plains on the face of our common father. Inside, He quivers like a victim; Outside, He's brazen and cruel, calculating and sad._

" _The Pierrot, The Flower, The Fox, and the Face: four silent partners look to the sky, as stars fade into the backdrop of morning..."_

The sanguine moon receded from sight, until only darkness remained.

Darkness and Silence.

### * * *

Bunnu awoke 12 days later in a bedroom at the inn. His body was soaked with sweat and tears.

"Hell of a run that was, yes? Reckon you won't want to repeat it," the innkeeper said to him from a chair at his bedside. He was whittling at a strip of wood. A towel was draped over his shoulder and he had in his lap a small bowl of water and a washcloth. He picked these up and put them down on the floor by his feet. "In any case, your boat's left without you and you're stuck with me for the winter. Frankly, I'm happy to have you. I just need to know you aren't making a regular habit of those entheogenic strawberries."

"No..." Bunnu said slowly. The candles on the wall of this bedroom seemed more luminous than any flame he had ever seen save for the sun itself. He had, in his lifetime, seen flames of varying luminescence, depending upon the object of combustion, but never had they been so bright and so intense as this particular flame, as though it were a tiny star which had descended conveniently upon the wick. The innkeeper's features in this light remained blurry and lacking in definition. "I shan't be in a rush to have those again. M-My head is paining me terribly."

"I 've a special herbal remedy for headaches if you're interested."

"No...no thanks, I'll manage," Bunnu muttered, sitting up in bed. "I-I heard a voice. It spoke to me from the moon. It's a very strange thing, but it seemed oddly familiar. Not the voice exactly, but its speech patterns. Its air of authority and its archaic pronunciation of certain words—its abrupt and frequent pauses, which seemed to alter awkwardly its speaking cadence. It reminded me of...of..."

"Rat Man Miyazaki?" the innkeeper asked solemnly. He suddenly seemed extremely concerned.

"Pardon?" Bunnu inquired quizzically.

"Rat Man Miyazaki. Was it him?"

"Well..." Bunnu said hesitantly, "I really...don't know... who that is."

"Forget I mentioned _Him_ then," the innkeeper said quickly tossing a towel at Bunnu. "You can use that to wipe away the sweat. If you need a bath, I've warmed some water in the tub. Was about to take a dip myself, but now that you're awake, I reckon you'll need it more than me. That is, unless you want to sweat out the psilocybin and the other toxins at the nearby onsen. It's only a 30-minute walk from here."

Bunnu threw off the blankets and tried standing up, finding instead that his legs were still too weak to support his own weight. He fell back again on the side of the bed. "Thank you for that...but who is Rat Man Miyazaki?"

The innkeeper studied Bunnu's face for a second. Then he stood up from his chair and walked wordlessly out the door, proceeding slowly through the hallway and then down the stairs. Halfway through his descent, he finally called back over his shoulder, "Better you not ask and better I not tell."

Upon saying this, the old man slammed a door behind him.

### VIII.

"Rat Man Miyazaki..." mon seigneur-Q exclaimed one wintry night at the inn, upon hearing this story of Bunnu's arrival in Yami. The aged industrialist took a sip of the Spiced Soma and flashed a look at Bhakti, who, for his own part, showed not even a flicker of recognition at the name. "I must say, I'm rather surprised that our old friend, and proprietor of this fair establishment, knows about Him."

"You're familiar with him as well?" Bunnu asked, looking not at Q, but rather into the flames of the fireplace. They seemed far less luminous than the candles in his room had been upon awaking from his 12-day trance.

"'Tis a strange thing to say, but, in fact, I have often assumed Him to be a figment of my imagination, though I could never be sure..." mon seigneur-Q said thoughtfully. "Rat Man Miyazaki..." he said again. _"The Paragon of Virtue."_ He paused briefly before adding, "It doesn't sound at all like that was who you encountered, but it is more interesting to me that the innkeeper knows of His existence. But then again, he may have heard about it from me, for all I know. Hard to keep track anymore..."

"The Paragon of..." Bunnu started to say.

"Not my name for Him. But not just any name either," Q interrupted, " _The Paragon of Virtue:_ I suppose it's rather a large claim to be made on the part of an otherwise vicious half-man, half-rodent. Of the apotheosis of all that is good and moral, one is inclined to expect a higher-minded, more refined creature than this peculiar vermin, who is so easily subject to frequent misunderstandings and overreactions, and who resorts to methodically violent outcomes for the purposes of what He understands, according to His own warped reasoning, to be the Greater Good. In fact, despite His flawless integrity—and in spite of the well-intentioned purity of His motives—He was not blessed intellectually with the gift of logic, thus causing often irrational responses and naïve, yet unjustifiably drastic courses of action. Yet, given His divine origins, I would never dream of contesting this title with which He has been so graciously endowed: _The Paragon of Virtue!"_

mon seigneur took a sip of Soma and continued, "He has a great love for sweets. He drinks a honey nectar from a clay jug that He carries with Him and eats with it a sugary candy flavored with blueberries. It smells divine. He Himself smells of violets. It is a lingering scent that stays in one's mind and reaches one's nose even at the very thought of Him. In fact, upon meeting Him, the sweetness of His fragrance is so overpowering at first as to even numb temporarily the olfactory sense. It is a scent too sweet, too pure, too steeped in beauty for any creature as crude as man to actually experience in its full glory, for he is just as easily stunned by a smaller, lesser potent dose. The presence of Rat Man Miyazaki is often first announced by smell. Then He might appear from behind a rock or from a hole in a tree, for one often encounters Him when one is alone and in the forest—or, at least, this is where I have encountered Him most frequently. He has a mild-mannered expression about Him. His mannerisms are pure and honest, for they retain a certain blankness and delicacy resembling those of a fawn; His demeanor meek, yet shallow and, I dare say, somewhat naïve. His eyes look serene and passive, even somewhat groggy for they are always half-open and half-shut. There is a hint of enchantment, an air of romance to them, as though He is continuously in exquisite bliss. His mouth is that of a man and the rest of His face an indistinguishable mix with Rodentia; His smile constant, warm and loving. He appears rather shy, cuddly and cute, so much so, that He could be the delight of young schoolgirls who would wish to embrace Him and feel His soft fur against their skin. His fur is of a grayish-brown and the backs of His mouse-like ears are particularly fluffy and pleasing to the touch. Often He scratches the back of His own ear and giggles musically at the sensation it causes Him and then He speaks. When He speaks, His tone is at first as mild and inert as His facial expression, but then His voice becomes a ceaseless echo of whispers which remain soft and airy, despite being the only sound now perceptible to the ears. The whispers grow louder, but remain gentle and bubbly. His words meld with one's deepest and innermost thoughts and further dissolve into the psyche, until one's own stream of consciousness is indistinguishable from this new agent acting upon it. Then the whisper finally ceases and He is gone. And when the umbilicus is pulled, one might look up from an activity he has just performed unconsciously, often to his own surprise, sometimes to his own horror, but nonetheless, in the eyes of Rat Man Miyazaki, for the purposes of the Greater Good."

### * * *

"It was none other than Rat Man Miyazaki who had stood with Xysticus the Unready on the battlefield of Lepidoptera; He, who had imparted upon this inexperienced and conflicted young general his righteous duty of slaughtering the armies raised and led by his beloved—and rather adorable—younger sister, Drosophila-13; He, who succeeded in convincing the dithering brother that her uncommon mix of compassion and survivalism rendered unto her a brutality most formidable; He, who presided over the girl's subsequent exsanguination upon an altar perched high on the cliff tops facing the Deionized Sea; He, who gave solace to the remorseful Xysticus by extolling to him the virtues of destroying Beauty before it had occasion to poison his brilliant and duty-bound mind with a sentimentality unbecoming of a general.

"It was also the Paragon of Virtue who had appeared in a vision to Hippophocles, the once prominent numerologist who had managed, prior to this divine intervention, to lay the foundations for the practice of Astral Malediction. Upon encountering this oddly persuasive rodent, Hippophocles suddenly came to the decision to convert to the Church of Logical Shamanism, solely for the purpose of mathematically disproving its suppositions and—by extension—its governing precepts. After his swift and uncontested excommunication from the church, he was visited again by the kind-eyed, giggly rat and told that it would thereupon be his dharmic obligation to disgrace both himself and his whole body of work by embracing Ecumenical Psychofragmentism—the soon-to-be debunked pseudo-ethos which would eventually discredit any and all great thinkers who came to be associated with its principles unifying the prevailing axioms regarding mathematics, ontology, and the cognitive elements of physical perception. With no other course to take but that which fate had unsympathetically thrust upon him, Hippophocles managed, in this final phase of his life, to alienate, by dint of his increasingly ludicrous beliefs, every scholar, artist, or theologian that had come to know and respect him over the years. He also succeeded in getting his family, his friends, and even his pet lobsters to cut off all contact with him. And yet he persisted, in spite of his growing sense of isolation, and fulfilled all the spiritual duties imposed upon him, earning himself, thusly, nothing short of a death sentence from the ruling theocrats of the time. And as though to acknowledge the fact that he had performed all the tasks in his charge with unswerving devotion, Rat Man Miyazaki paid Hippophocles one final visit: this time on the day that his sentence was to be carried out. Yet, the Paragon of Virtue did nothing to intervene with the punishment, nor did He so much as speak on behalf of the now emaciated, haggard-looking prisoner who dangled before Him in chains, yearning for little more than legal—or at the very least spiritual—reprieve. But instead, Rat Man stood in the corner of the execution chamber, tittering musically to Himself as Hippophocles attempted, between forced sips of Hemlock-5, to recant his heretical claims.

"It is difficult to ascertain Rat Man Miyazaki's intentions in pronouncing these specific fates upon these specific people. But then again, it is impossible to know what the repercussions would have been otherwise, had Rat Man Miyazaki chosen not to intervene—especially as these people had a vast influence on other human events beyond their own personal spheres. We can only assume that He was acting for the sake of virtue, or conceivably what He understood to be _virtue_ , which may be a different creature altogether from the romantic visions which we, as humans, have concocted in our arts, religions and philosophies. In fact, I must be clear now in saying that _virtue_ is simply a word that allows us to understand a more complex, yet pervasive idea. The meanings the word embodies may not be enough to explain Rat Man Miyazaki or His actions adequately. Let us simply say that His title as the Paragon of Virtue—as grand as it may sound—may still not be vast and encompassing enough to describe _that_ on whose behalf He is prescribed to act. Nonetheless, let us continue to refer to this strange metaphysical force as _virtue_ , for there is no word closer than this in the human lexicon and we still know too little about it to create a new term to describe the phenomenon. In so doing, we become inclined to turn our attentions specifically toward Rat Man Miyazaki's peculiar nature, in order to pin down a pattern defining His often erratic-seeming actions. In the course of this examination we are further forced to assume this elusive pattern to be sacrosanct and, in turn, His judgment infallible in its abidance.

"However, the arbitrariness and severity of His whims are often perplexing: The Paragon of Virtue once coaxed a father to pluck out the eyes of his baby boy because the happy old rodent knew of the child's genetic propensity to develop a keen sense of echolocation through which he could perceive the texture and color of his visual environment with greater precision through subtle sounds and from the shifts in air pressure around him. The boy grew to become a skilled horse archer and then a fierce, plundering raider, and then a general. By the age of sixteen, he and his roving hordes had brought all the Northern Lands to fire and sword. He set cities ablaze, recruited the survivors into his armies, and deftly wove from the threads of his captives' newfound mercenary zeal an amorphous civilization of greedy, glory-driven raiders with no past, no future, and a faint inkling of the present. The children of the clan were blinded at birth and taught the art of echolocation before being trained as mounted warriors. The spoils of war were distributed fairly among the raiders according to rank and the leftover gold was used to maintain their vast military machine. The empire grew more and more powerful until, all throughout the land, word had spread of the fierce king who led his legions from town-to-town, sparing none but those who agreed to ride as marauders alongside them. However, problems began to emerge within the empire stemming from the king's utter lack of clarity regarding his rules of succession and rank. It appeared that the king, in his infinite hunger for power, wanted to continue his reign beyond even his death, so he appointed none among his 6,532 children as his successor, even though they all possessed the same special genes for enhanced echolocation as their father. And so, when he did actually die, his armies disbanded and the empire was divided into 6,533 equivalent parts—I say 6,533 because legend has it that the king's faithful dog was awarded his own share. The heirs squandered the remaining wealth of the empire before parting to the winds. With the lands now having been thrown into chaos, it wasn't long before neighboring governments expanded their borders to recapture their lost territories, while, in the process, exacting merciless revenge on the progeny of those blind roving hordes who had tormented them incessantly over the previous century. It was in this way that the world's first (and possibly last) civilization of the blind came to its bitter end. And even now as I tell you this, it is still difficult for me to understand the virtue underlying the initial blinding of the boy; or rather that virtue that made it necessary for this particular man to become king as opposed to another.

"In any case, in spite of my examples, you mustn't make the mistake of assuming that the rodent merely confines Himself to interventions with political, military and religious authorities. Indeed this divine interloper has insinuated His confounding directives upon the whims of the Common Man as well. Take, as an example, the fledgling artist who attributes his financial and moral bankruptcy to the guidance of Rat Man Miyazaki. This is no aberration. Quite the contrary, in fact, as even the noblest of poets have cursed Him on their deathbeds, demanding financial restitution for their fruitless and unfulfilling pursuits of Beauty. Truly these were the pigheaded idealists who had once lacked the pragmatism to lend flexibility to their consciences and the opportunism to view Beauty itself as a transactional commodity—one for which a wealthy benefactor should be willing to provide sufficient remuneration, albeit one for which the artist himself must circumvent the smug, moralizing mechanisms of his own Ego in the hopes of satisfying this would-be patron. But let us forget about the fledgling artist—I should not have brought him up, for he is too pompous to understand the essence of virtue.

"We shall start again and take, instead, the example of the Untouchable of the Kaiiban-Shudra caste who wishes to acquire wealth for himself by kidnapping the half-daughter (or _quarter-sister_ , as the case may be) of a family of a slightly higher caste. In this case, Rat Man Miyazaki will probably fail to intervene in the act of abduction, itself, but will, more than likely, see to it that the ambitious Shudra never receives his ransom money. Why? Well...because he already has another role to fulfill in society which prohibits the acquisition of wealth. In fact, seeking _not_ to acquire wealth is a virtue in and of itself for someone of the Kaiiban-Shudra caste. Then, why should it be acceptable for members of other castes to do so? Well, it is all a matter of time, place, and context, isn't it? Virtue manifests itself differently according to different juxtapositions of these core variables. If he acquired wealth, he might seek a more comfortable lifestyle that afforded him a more palpable sense of human dignity. But then, who would tend to his duties in society? If he wasn't there to get his hands dirty, who would be there in his place? Perhaps his lot in life is not an easy one, but it is his existence all the same. And he has no reason to feel ashamed of it. Is there no virtue, after all, in maintaining one's dignity even in the midst of the most profoundly humiliating of tasks? But perhaps in assuming so, we are expecting too much from someone in his position. Yes, perhaps we are. After all, we imagine ourselves in similar circumstances and this renders us more willing to forgive his desire to escape the rigors of this lifestyle. Truly the measure of one's empathy lies in his ability to account for human weakness, does it not? Hence, we, as humans, are willing to justify and possibly even forgive his transgressions. The Paragon of Virtue, however, is devoid of such compassion. From His austere perspective, this Untouchable has no excuse. He has a predefined function, a duty. He has had it from his very birth and will keep it until his death: a slot where he is to fit into Society's Framework. Let us refer to this position as Slot C. If he fails to occupy Slot C, there remains a gap. One gap is well enough, but then other Shudras might be encouraged, upon seeing him succeed, to follow the same course. The duties are, thus, left unfulfilled, the workload begins to pile up and whatever these tasks happened to have been at the time of their abandonment, their lack of completion gives way to the ubiquitous decomposition, rotting and festering of substances left untended—understandably, the resulting stench is simply detestable, so much so, that its devastating stink begins to permeate throughout all levels of society. Presumably to prevent this eventuality, Rat Man Miyazaki has pushed many an aspiring dreamer to abandon his (and more often _her_ ) risky pursuits in favor of a life of lesser anxiety and greater security. He has caused the privileged to feel fiercely entitled to their own possessions, esteem and status; He has contrastingly kept those souls in less fortunate circumstances in check by giving them a clear understanding of the immutability of their situation. And if among the rabble there happened to be an oddball who sought to get his own when it wasn't his for the taking, Rat Man was quick to respond by wringing the hapless aspirer dry of his life force through one tragedy or another. Naturally, in making an example of the oddball, Rat Man sought to curtail any further incursions against the fabric of virtue. You may think it odd that virtue should be maintained by employing measures rooted in fear. I would think the same, but then fear is an essential force of the Universe to us frail entities, for it remains that very element that binds our virtue—the fear of consequences, in particular. Without it, we are given not to integrity, nor to a sense of discipline, but instead to indolent self-corruption.

"And in spite of all this, there still remains an ambiguity regarding the standards by which Rat Man handles decisions taken on Virtue's behalf. Naturally, it would be foolish to think that there should be a code by which he must abide, but then again, codes are how we humans can best understand the principles underlying _virtue_ and _justice_ (incomplete though these terms may be in the face of what we hope to represent with them). Thus, we invariably fall upon our own encoded prejudices regarding what is best with respect to how others should live, just as we are prone to reverting to our existing, however unrefined, prototypes for legal, economic, and social frameworks in attempting to comprehend the actions of the Paragon of Virtue. We, moreover, assume that in making the determinations regarding who is to prosper and who is to fail and in what respect, it is only natural that Rat Man Miyazaki should view certain political, economic, and civic ideologies to be far more virtuous than others. But, upon further inquiry and to our general dismay, it soon begins to seem that there is nothing to suggest that this is the case. And so we fall flat again in our assumptions and in our vain attempts to understand what could be characterized as _true virtue_. It would be far simpler if we could say that the Universe was governed by certain unassailable Truths. Perhaps it is, but we are helpless to comprehend them and so we would be wise to disregard their existence until shown otherwise. However, we are not incorrect in assuming that the Paragon of Virtue presides over human activity according to those three core variables I mentioned a few minutes ago: _time, place,_ and _context._

"Perhaps I should elaborate further. Consider, for example, that in some caste-based hierarchies, He might assume it best for the Untouchable of the Shudra caste to stay where he is, while in others, He would impel that same Untouchable to raise an army of siblings and lead them forth in combat to seize the throne and bring forth a new ruling dynasty. Consider a feudal aristocratic society, where He might see it as virtuous for a court servant to conspire with the jealous, murderous brothers of the heir apparent in order to prevent his succession to the throne. Then, take a meritocratic society— in this case, Rat Man's influence might seem less direct. In this arena, the somewhat comical rise to success of a knavish derelict could be utilized to perpetuate the illusion of social mobility, partly for the sake of spurring the morale of the lower classes: incidentally, I believe this to have been the case with _Yours Truly_ within the framework of the Republic. Whatever the case, in the course of humankind, Rat Man Miyazaki has guided the destinies of tyrants, fools, martyrs, scalawags, dreamers, predators, scholars, gamblers, and hermits alike. There is no equation that can account for the workings of the Greater Good, no language or mode of expression devised that can elucidate the wondrous contradictions entrenched in what we know to be _virtue_. And, just as virtue is no less expansive than the breadth of all human consciousness, neither is the capacity of its Patron Deity to intervene merely limited to the realm of Man.

"Indeed I speak of things far beyond the span of our knowledge or capabilities to theorize, and thus I can only give an account based on the stories told to me by Rat Man Miyazaki Himself. Let us take another example—this time outside of the realm of humanity. Rat Man Miyazaki has long been a known interloper in the ecosystem of arsenic-based life. I am well-aware that no such ecosystem is known to exist on our planet, but to consider Rat Man Miyazaki a boundless deity, we must also consider his influence on other forms of life in the Universe, besides those which are carbon-based like ourselves. Allow us to consider the microbial producers on the as yet undiscovered planet of _XYZ_ —I ascribe it this designation for it has a name amongst its own inhabitants that we are unable to pronounce, for it is voiced chemically rather than verbally. In actuality, the organisms on this planet are not complex enough yet to understand the concept of planets or solar systems or galaxies or what-have-you. In fact, they are primarily single-cell prokaryotes at the moment. Perhaps they will biodifferentiate further with time. Until then, we must assume that there is nothing equivalent to a rat, much less a human on their planet. Thus, the Paragon of Virtue's manipulations of their arsenite oxidation cycles go largely unnoticed, or so He boasts. Of course, in the lifespan of mankind, we will never have occasion to encounter these organisms firsthand, for they live on a planet too distant for us to reach and their ecosystem is, of course, extremely toxic. In spite of this, Rat Man Miyazaki maintains that they are one of His most important projects in the Universe. Who knows what transformations the next tens of octodecillion generations will bring the life forms of planet _XYZ_. I suppose He does..."

### * * *

"The origins of Rat Man Miyazaki are uncertain—in truth, I still cannot be sure if He actually exists, or if, as I said earlier, He is simply a product of the imagination. It has been a topic of some speculation for a long time. It seems He Himself is rather unsure of the truth of the matter, as well—or so I am given to understand. In fact, I have heard three contrasting versions of His life story, all from the Rat Man Himself.

"According to one account, Rat Man Miyazaki was begot of a chance union between the _God of Kin-Selective Altruism_ and an exceptionally open-minded female country rat. He was raised by His mother as a common rat, unaware of His own inherited divinity. After a year of growth, however, this proved to be a problem as He began to notice His strange mix of human and rodent-like features, which together formed a likeness in stunning contrast with those of the brothers and sisters of His litter. Accompanying this was an additional peculiar sensation—a kind of hankering—which overtook Him whenever He was around these siblings. For some reason and despite the blood relation that bound them, He found Himself completely incapable of seeing them as anything more than a means of satiating His peculiar cravings. What sort of cravings these may have been seemed to elude Him as well, but He knew that the temptation was there, lying dormant and simply waiting for His commitment to action, before revealing its true nature. The urge to act on these feelings in some manner, started to grow stronger in His adolescence, and soon became too powerful to resist. He didn't understand what this yearning was impelling Him to do, but with time, the physical symptoms that accompanied it became increasingly pronounced, to the point that it seemed as though His actions could easily slip beyond the locus of His control, degrading even to the level of involuntary bodily functions. At the swell of this weakness against His own drives for gratification, the nature of these hidden compulsions soon started to make themselves more apparent. In the proximity of His brothers and sisters, He would suddenly feel strongly attracted to them through some inexplicable force. Yet, the magnetism that drew Him to them was not of the sort which would drive one to protectiveness nor to altruism nor to affection nor to incest, but it was rather of the sort which might pique one's appetite, perhaps even enhance its relative voracity. At first, He would feel something which felt like a pinprick upon the taste buds, as though He could sense the scattered molecules of their flesh in spite of their physical distance from Him. Then the taste would flush throughout the rest of His mouth, becoming fuller and more intense as it did so. His salivary glands would suddenly start pulsing as excessive amounts of clear liquid began to ooze outward. Until finally, when the temptation became too much, He would immediately flee from their presence in confusion and utter shame. He did not know what was causing this strange sensation or why He should come to view His siblings as tasty morsels to be consumed with immense mouth-smacking enchantment, but He imagined there to be some force at work here.

"He started to wonder: Was _this_ what was meant by _sibling rivalry?_ It did not seem probable, for these drives were not rooted in jealously, nor in competition. In fact, it seemed to Him that in order for this sense of rivalry to exist in the first place, it would be necessary for Him to feel insecure or to be in possession of even a moderate lack of confidence in the midst of His brothers and sisters, but this simply wasn't the case. In fact, He had somehow always viewed His siblings as his inferiors and, in turn, they had always viewed Him, regardless of their respective birth orders, with a measure of silent awe and veneration. They all respected Him greatly, though none in the litter truly understood why—presumably it was because He possessed human-like physical features, which inspired both their fear and their admiration.

"Regardless of the case, it wasn't long before one of His younger sisters began to draw closer to Him whenever He was in their presence. When He made eye contact with her, she would erupt into a fit of rat-giggles and say nothing. And whenever He attempted to flee from His siblings, she would follow Him, inquiring in curious squeaks as to where He was going. Her growing fondness for Him was rather obvious, but it was something that He could not allow to develop further, for both her sake and His own. As time passed, however, she began to bring Him presents: odds and ends which she had foraged and which she thought might please Him. He could not understand why it was that He had become the object of her affections and why she persisted, in spite of His attempts to spurn them. After months of this, she finally told Him in a series of shrill, high-pitched utterances that she had always known of His appetites and that she would willingly, as a gesture of love, give herself over to Him, if He wished to satisfy them. Having fought off His temptations for too long, Rat Man Miyazaki finally gave in and ravenously feasted upon her tender flesh, savoring every bite with profound appreciation. At first, she began to moan in the elation of pleasing her blessed brother, but soon these rat-moans turned into rat-shrieks, which grew louder and louder, until she fell silent altogether. And when He had finally finished licking her bones clean, He looked down at her with a love He had never imagined Himself capable. What had prompted the self-sacrifice of this altruistic virgin, He could not grasp, but it seemed clear that she had seen something in Him that He was still unable to perceive within Himself and, thus, she had imagined there to be a pureness and devotion in giving herself over to _it_ —whatever that _IT_ happened to be.

"Yet, despite her selfless offering, Rat Man Miyazaki's appetite lingered. Unable to suppress it any longer, He went on the hunt, soon stalking and devouring the rest of His litter one-by-one. And then He returned to the nest to see His mother, who upon noticing the blood that caked his fur, wept apologetically for having hidden from Him His true origins all this time. Enraged at the deception, Rat Man demanded to know the whereabouts of His thitherto absent father, for He had already wasted far too much time living as a flea-infested scavenger. At this, the embittered mother, offended at her son's supercilious tone, commanded Him to leave her presence immediately, adding with a hint of resentment that His father would never accept a rat as one of His own, for a rat was a shameful creature indeed. In spite of her warnings, Rat Man Miyazaki left at once in search of the Father.

"The young demigod didn't take very long in finding His father, but soon realized that His mother had not been mistaken in her assumptions about Him. In fact, upon their first meeting at a cocktail party, the Father let out a horrified howl of laughter at having created such a monstrosity with His own seed. He nudged one of His deity cronies with His elbow and squawked derisively, 'Y'see that, Chet? I've gone and sinned 'gainst nature again!' The other deities laughed in a haughty fashion, taking turns prodding the young abomination mockingly in the chest with their canes. It was clear that Rat Man Miyazaki's father seemed to find the fact of His existence an absurdity. And yet, in spite of the jibes and the degrading treatment, the young rodent was not even slightly disenchanted with the situation. In fact, He still wished to seek Father's favor by doing something to impress Him. The way to do this, He imagined, was to follow in His godly footsteps. So, with some coaxing, the aspiring Son managed to gain an apprenticeship with the _God of Common Sense_ , one of the lesser gods within His father's circle of divine associates.

"The God of Common Sense was not very well-liked among His colleagues, due largely to His inability to read the context of most social situations and behave appropriately. His ineptitude and inherent clumsiness often caused Him to offend others unwittingly; His off-color non sequitur interruptions were similarly sufficient to bring an immediate halt to any conversation. Yet, in spite of His gentle quirkiness, He was anything but negligent in the performance of His self-styled role as the God of Common Sense.

"There had, in fact, been no such role before He came along. However, given His divine lineage, it would have been embarrassing and awkward for His family if He remained without some divine role in his charge, so His father had created this position for Him and afforded Him complete freedom as to how it was to be administrated. The God of Common Sense proved to be very committed to His responsibilities and exhibited an enthusiasm for them that none around Him could help but admire. However, he started to become a little too proactive in His intercessions in the actions of those over whom He ruled, so much so that He came to be seen by His own colleagues as a micromanager. In addition, He tended to be unnecessarily emotional in His decision-making, relying more often on His inconstant moods to determine what common sense dictated in each situation, than on logical reasoning. This naturally gave way to no shortage of contradictions and exceptions. As a result of His impetuous and—often arbitrary decision-making—new precedents were soon being created, maintained, and deemed obsolete within mere moments. Naturally, this spurred the outbreak of a host of heated conflicts, sometimes violent and primarily between humans or groups of humans rendered suddenly irrational by their contrasting views of _common sense_. What the God of Common Sense needed was more consistency. This is where having an apprentice came in handy. The apprentice could keep track of His declarations and remind Him, when necessary, of decisions that might cause unnecessary conflict or harm to those affected by them.

"Rat Man Miyazaki, however, was not very well-suited to this position, as He—despite being the son of the God of Kin-Selective Altruism—had recently slaughtered all of the members of His own kin save for His parents. Nevertheless, He provided His counsel to the best of His abilities, sometimes differing with the opinions of His master. The God of Common Sense, however, grew tired of having His commandments second-guessed and, instead of dismissing His assistant, decided to seek out other work. His uncle managed to come through for Him and recommended Him for a position as the Junior God of Party and Event Planning, which was far more prestigious and had greater growth potential, or so He had been told. Instead of naming Rat Man Miyazaki as His successor, the retired God of Common Sense decided instead to eliminate the position, largely because common sense seemed a phenomenon far too nebulous for any deity to preside over capably.

"Left with no alternative, Rat Man Miyazaki began foraging for sustenance again, living by Himself as a rat in sewage dump outside the ancient city of Magh. When His father came to hear of this, He was outraged. Abomination or not, no son of His could be reduced to such a life. Therefore, He sent an emissary to the sewage dump to give the Son a firm talking-to and to confer upon Him the newly-created title of Paragon of Virtue, which He was expected to uphold with the dignity befitting the son of the all-powerful God of Kin-Selective Altruism. Overjoyed at His father's acceptance, Rat Man Miyazaki took on the role with great pride. And the rest is history...at least in this version of the story."

### * * *

"The second account of Rat Man Miyazaki's origins varies greatly from the first. In this version, we presuppose that Rat Man Miyazaki had been in His present form and in the role of the Paragon of Virtue since Time Immemorial. Furthermore, we establish a precondition wherein He is not subservient to other deities, and wherein it becomes unnecessary to acknowledge their very existences. Thus, it follows that the second account is an utter contradiction of the first and that the two cannot exist simultaneously and in the same reality—notwithstanding, of course, an _a priori_ union spanning alternate dimensions, the bonds of which our minds would be far too frail to comprehend anyway.

"Whatever the case, we must acknowledge His presence prior to the evolution of rats on our planet, which in some ways makes very little sense, unless this was a coincidence, or unless rat-like creatures had previously existed on other planets besides our own, or in parallel universes. A third possibility would be that both rats and men had been fashioned in His likeness, but again, this seems too convenient, given the innumerable possible permutations of life available in the Cosmos—we must remember again the life forms on the planet _XYZ,_ moreover we must consider the other life-occupied shapes which are conceivable according to the variables of gravitation, atmospheric conditions, chemical availability, and proximity to other celestial bodies. Also, there are endless types and numerous stages of metamorphosis of the celestial bodies themselves—just think of the vast differences between the conditions of gas giants of pure carbon monoxide versus those of ocean planets versus those of terrestrial protoplanets of silicate or iron which collide continually with one another. However, I do not mean to offend you with such vulgar details.

"Rat Man Miyazaki, who is as infinite as time and space—finite though these variables may be—has tended to our planet as one might tend to a garden. He has seen it before days had become days—before time was even a measurable quantity by our own individual standards—when it was a series of kilometer-sized planetesimals which smashed together endlessly, attracting the resulting fragments to one another by force of their respective gravities to form larger accreted chunks of mass. He watched it as the developing protoplanet grew vaster and vaster by collision and accretion, and hot liquid metals of incredible density sunk to its center of mass. He watched its continual collisions with other protoplanets, as a cloud of silica formed a hot rocky crust which cooled rapidly amidst the violent eruptions of pressure from its liquid core. He watched as icy comets impacted the surface and formed clouds of water in the atmosphere. He watched as it rained endlessly to form the oceans and as the heat flow from the core created the Pangaea of continents that continue to drift to this very day. And when the conditions were right, He commenced with His divine gardening.

"Again, I am telling it to you as He had imparted it upon me. In saying this, I do not wish to foster any delusions on His part or on ours that He was our Creator. In fact, He is quite unsure of this as well. Thus, I encourage you not to feel a sense of disappointment at having originated from the inclinations and whims of a sadistic hobbyist. At the same time, we cannot deny that our life as we know it, irrespective of what can be deemed virtue and what cannot, is highly dependent on the prerequisite of our violent and sadistic history, much of which had ostensibly been overseen and tended to—like a garden— by the Paragon of Virtue Himself.

"It would be both foolish and cumbersome to continue our everyday existences in bliss without first denying to ourselves, for the sake of excusing our own repugnance, the inherent cruelty from which modern civilization was conceived. We blind and distract ourselves from this thinking continually, because it is disturbing and emotionally draining for us to accept a view of humanity as being exploitative of its own kind—but, then, we are not completely a free-loving species like the Bonobos either, yes? We must now assume that cruelty—a word, naturally, of our own empirical definition, and thus similarly inadequate, as in the case of virtue or justice— is an inborn trait of our kind. We might say that, in part, it has its roots in our competitive instincts. Our bodies and brains have evolved quickly through intense competition within the species. Thus, this competition—this necessary cruelty—has given way to rapid advancement. Humans are a singular breed—we like to congratulate ourselves for this constantly—but, in spite of our cutthroat tendencies, we do not dwell in isolation from our bitter rivals. We require a society to function. And there can be no other path by which a fiercely competitive, yet social species, as humanity, can afford its members the level of safety, prosperity and stability—such that we enjoy now— without its initial pangs of cannibalism, brutality, dominance and cruelty to forge the foundations, very much like the lava which formed the ground upon which we now stand. Lava still erupts from the core. Brutality, Dominance, and Cruelty similarly erupt from ours; and they are no less prevalent now than in early human history. So, we are inclined to ask: where does virtue come into the picture? With the widespread, yet dilute violence of our tribal pasts becoming a more concentrated, centralized aggression that occurs in the gaps between civilized zones of relative safety, what role has virtue played?

"Looking at the matter more closely, it appears that Rat Man Miyazaki the Paragon of Virtue has given breath to no shortage of initiatives which have allowed human existence to flourish within these past hundreds of thousands of years. One such initiative is the concept of _civilized governance._

"The theory underlying civilized governance actually started out as a contact sport played between rival teams. Permit me to illustrate for you visually the dynamics of the game." With this, mon seigneur-Q produced a small burlap pouch of mixed nuts from his pocket. Arranging them on the small wooden table in front of him, he said, "Let the donkey-chestnuts have the value _zero_. This represents an enlisted man—a military unit. They retain the value _zero_ because the nut is hollow, which is to say it is merely a shell and nothing more. What I mean by this is that an individual either conscripted into or volunteering for military service has, in his acquiescence, allowed his own personal life and aspirations to be ascribed this very same value of _zero_ through his commitment to altruistic sacrifice. Of course this would be a gross overgeneralization if we decided to equate it to real life, but for the purposes of game theory, let us allow his personal and family-oriented motivations to be minimal. For this sake, we must assume that the value of his allegiance to the team exceeds that of his individual existence. Let the almendras have the value _1._ They represent the general citizenry—the civilian units—whose survival is of paramount importance to the team's successes, as well as to its binding spirit. They could be birthmothers, children, religious or political authorities, as well as specialists in science, industry, commerce, and arts. In their cushions of safety—and on the playing field—they play out the dramas of human life. Again this is an overgeneralization wrought from convenience, but bear with me.

"The basic team configuration would appear as a matrix, like so:"

### 0 0 0

### 0 1 0

### 0 0 0

"As you can see, the unit with the value _1_ is inaccessible from the outside. An invader would need to pass through a military unit first. Naturally, there is safety in numbers, so no lone barbarian can attack, rape, kill, or tickle torture a citizen without first slaying one of his or her sworn defenders. The willingness of the military units to sacrifice themselves for the Greater Good creates a _cushion of safety_ within which the civilian units are allowed to carry on their everyday existences unharmed. The privilege of this safety is paradoxically brought forth by the inevitability of violent conflict, or from threats thereof. The protection afforded by this matrix is effective against lone or minor threats, but in the context of the game, a conflict begins to arise in the case of two or more adjacent matrices on the same playing field. Consider the following example." He reached into the sack and laid more nuts on the table:

### 0 0 0 0 0

### 0 0 1 0 0

### 0 1 1 1 0

### 0 0 1 0 0

### 0 0 0 0 0

### 0 0 0 0 0

### 0 0 1 0 0

### 0 1 1 1 0

### 0 0 1 0 0

### 0 0 0 0 0

"These are two different teams. Here we see that the number of civilians in each has increased. This is good for team morale, but it also increases the number of necessary military units to protect them. In the game, the military units will attempt to move outward from their starting positions in the hopes of expanding the team's borders and creating a larger safety cushion for its own civilians to coexist. The more civilians that can be sent onto the playing field the better the score. However, as the military units secure more and more territory, the gap between them begins to increase, so some of the civilians must either volunteer or be conscripted for active duty. With larger numbers of military units, different formations evolve. The square matrices may be an inefficient usage of space and manpower, thus the formation may become hexagonal in shape. With greater numbers, it becomes three-dimensional and dodecahedral and with a vast enough military, the configuration may go geodesic—in which case, certain units are designated to control the aerospace above their territories and are, thus, suspended in mid-air by helium balloons and attached to the ground units by elastic cords or cables.

"For now, however, let's stay with the five-by-five square configurations we can see right here on the table. When the zeroes from two rival teams encounter each other, they are required to engage in a pushing match to establish the borders between the territories secured by their two clans. Naturally in their zeal to expand their territories, border conflicts become inevitable and the military action escalates—pushing becomes shoving and so on. Military strategies develop further as the violence of their entanglements intensifies. Sometimes espionage is even employed to scout foreign territories, sabotage dams and factories in the safe zone, or gather intelligence about new tactical weaponry—of course, in such cases, we must assume the playing field to be vast and the game to have been in progress for many years. When the force of one team greatly overwhelms another, or in the case of an asymmetrical conflict, a natural reaction to the subsequent victimization, torture, rape and abuse of the weaker side's civilian units would be for some of its more psychologically traumatized members to resort to terrorism to reimburse the psychic damage. But this is a violation of the rules, for as I mentioned earlier, this is merely a game—a team sport.

"Game theory aside, civilized governance as we have come to know it today requires exponentially higher casualty-inflicting measures to secure the resources necessary for population growth in the modern world. Here, in Yami, we depend on the military wherewithal of the Republic to ensure that our everyday existence is safe from the threat of continual aggression. They are the hands that push out the foreign invaders. Yet, now the borders between countries have become tighter and endless pushing matches between the zeroes of each societal matrix have become commonplace. The aggression is still a necessary aspect of our safety, but the violence is sometimes displaced to and centralized in areas in which there is a wealth of resources to be had, in certain mineral-rich regions, for example. There, a battle over borders takes a backseat to a battle over access to resources and raw materials. Therefore, the areas with the richest deposits of resources often become the least politically stable.

"This is not to say that we, as humans, are wantonly aggressive creatures, but that to kill for the sake of our collective survival has been a necessary trait from our very beginnings. Rat Man Miyazaki understands this and perhaps has seen the benefit in banishing violence to the fringes of everyday living. Unfortunately, not all are fortunate enough to live in the _cushion of safety_. For those who do not, violence is an inescapable aspect of everyday life...and they take the brunt of the bloodshed and the carnage for the rest of us creatures of comfort. On the other hand, those of us who do not live in war zones have allowed our instinctual survival skills to wither away in the comfort of the safety cushion. Isn't that right, boy?" mon seigneur-Q smirked at Bhakti as he said this. "Whatever the case, our compassion and sentimentality have given us over to viewing our existence differently than we would if we were mired in the continual anguish of war, poverty or oppression. In the absence of physical conflict, we are inclined to reflect more lastingly on the meaning and the value of life, not just in humankind, but often also in other organisms. Of course, there are no easy answers. And so, in our philosophical confusion, our religions manage to bring us a sense of solace in reminding us that all living beings have souls and that these souls are infinitely unified to a higher force beyond our grasp. And so, for the sake of appeasing this Supreme Entity, some of us start to think that maybe non-violent coexistence would be a better option, in spite of our aggressive nature.

"Regardless of the hypocrisy that underlies our perpetual safety, civilized governance has purportedly allowed us the leisure time and the luxury to pursue a spiritual tranquility otherwise inaccessible. In this way, Rat Man Miyazaki might say that the ends justified the means. However, in some devout circles, the ends would never justify the means. The more compassionate and spiritually-inclined among idealists would naturally sneer upon this illusion of peace and be further disappointed at the moral compromises and fear-mongering tactics inherent in their systems of civilized governance. Instead, they would seek a lifestyle of lesser pragmatism and diminished wealth—often in a commune—that would allow them to pursue this concept of non-violence further and with a greater zeal. In some cases, the practice of non-violence may become a central aspect of everyday living—as was the case with the intensely pacifistic Ahimsa clans of Nobunaga back in the days of the Warlord Era. I am not sure if you are familiar with them, so allow me to elaborate.

"The Ahimsa were an intensely religious order who had been exiled to the Red Forest by one of the Nobunaga warlords, due to their unorthodox beliefs. Upon settling in the forest, one of their spiritual leaders, a woman who went by the name of Guru Lolo Rolo, decreed that the order would no longer engage in the killing of any living thing: no humans, no animals, no plants; not even bacteria. Thus, they subsisted, at first, on rhizomes and non-root vegetables. Over the next century, however, the group split into various factions, some of which had found the original order not to be strict enough in its practice of non-violence—for example through inadequate methods of water filtration, some microorganisms were still being consumed and digested on a daily basis. Soon there were over 350 factions occupying different areas of this vast, yet dense wood. Despite the Ahimsa's physical seclusion from the rest of Nobunaga society, it was not long before certain warlords began looking to occupy the Red Forest and stockpile its timber. Forbidden to defend themselves from this threat directly, some sects of Ahimsa began paying some of the gold that they had mined to mercenary armies for protection. Eventually, each clan employed its own army unit and had thus, by extension, achieved its own sort of semi-statehood. The Red Forest, however, was a much sought-after territory. Naturally, violent altercations with the armies of the Nobunaga warlords ensued and much blood was shed. However, with some luck, the Ahimsa sectarists managed to prevail without bloodying their own hands and soon the warlords retreated. And yet, after successfully repelling the invaders, the different mercenary armies were left with nothing more to do, so—in their uncontrollable drive for competition— they began turning on each other in order to establish dominance over their rival units. Seeing this as a threat to their respective clans, the helpless Ahimsa factions started paying more and more to ensure that the armies they'd commissioned were equipped adequately to battle their neighboring sects, so that the fighting would not ultimately fall to the sectarists themselves. The increased flow of money allowed the military to stockpile its own weaponry and for the officers of each platoon to enjoy a life of greater luxury. The commanders of these armies, however, knew that the only way to sustain their lavish lifestyles was to prolong the threat, even fabricate it, if necessary, so that there would be no sudden decreases in compensation. For some time, the armies had occasional conflicts, some of which were initiated merely for the purposes of bargaining with their ruling clans for greater funding. Sometimes rival army units even conspired with one another to affect greater gains from their own Ahimsa leaders. However, with their vast numbers and advanced arsenal, the power of the military was starting to extend beyond the Ahimsa's grasp. The armies stopped negotiating and started demanding more and more money as tribute from the sectarists. Similarly, the officers of each squad started taking charge of all matters pertaining to allocation of manpower and resources in their communities. Soon military ambition was dictating the policies of each state. Rival territories were soon annexed and the captured gold was being funneled back into fueling the burgeoning military machine. With time, the frequency of violent conflicts between the rival army units increased. These continued to grow bloodier and bloodier, until finally, one day, Guru Lolo Rolo herself, maddened by the senseless killing of her sacred chicken, finally set fire to the entire wood. All the trees, animals, mosses, roots, fungi and weeds perished alongside the Ahimsa and their mighty armies—all of it was reduced to ash.

"Incidentally, it was Rat Man Miyazaki whose gentle giggles and whispers had incensed Guru Lolo Rolo to commit this act. Try though we may, there is no way to isolate ourselves completely from the violence of living. Every one of our actions, even when it is eating, even when it is the simple act of giving or accepting a gift, is steeped in a violence often indirect and, most often, unintentional—for just as the luminous moon acts upon the estrous cycles of rats and upon the menstrual cycles of women, so does the luminosity of violence act upon the inclinations of humankind. Therein lays the necessity of another one of Rat Man Miyazaki's supposed initiatives for the human race: that of _politeness_.

"In understanding His intentions, here, we are to assume, as He does, that elegance is the perfect disguise for our violent nature—a mask so convincing that we often fool ourselves the moment we don it. The logic here does have its merits: politeness allows for greater harmony between group members. It might be that extra bit of effort we summon up to hold us back from ripping out each other's throats the moment we feel alienated or threatened by our differences. For the collective prosperity of a group, this would make pragmatic sense.

"Certainly, it would be myopic to minimize the goodness of people's intentions, but that is a different matter entirely. Good intentions, if they are truly virtuous, should be honest, open and pure, but never closed-off from others as we are when we affect politeness.

"Politeness is a veneer that we wish others—and often ourselves—to see. Do not make the mistake of taking this view as cynical, for there is undoubtedly an inherent beauty to our polite elegance—a grandeur that allows humanity to rise above the level of beasts. Consider the care and decorum undertaken in preparing either an animal or a human virgin for holy sacrifice. In both cases, the object of this sacrificial offering would be treated with great esteem and reverence by its handlers until the final solemn moments of its execution. Consider also the example of the enslaved dancing girl who first affects compliance, bowing humbly to the sexual gratification of her king, and who then proceeds to bludgeon the impotent fool to death with the 3-ton solid lead bust of his own father—of course we must assume that she has superhuman strength if she is capable of doing so. From these cases we can see that politeness is modest, poetic idealization on one extreme, yet calculating deception on the other; and occasionally both extremes acting in mutual concert. Sometimes, politeness is rooted in nervousness, sometimes in laziness, sometimes in deceit, sometimes in pomposity, sometimes in insecurity, sometimes in fear—often it comes from an anticipation of consequences. Some people are less sensitive to potential repercussions: these people tend to be more open and straightforward with others, but also more direct—their behavior can sometimes be construed as rude, which is indicative to others of that person's latent violent tendencies. But even these tactless, unburdened souls are hard-pressed to exist in society without occasionally resorting to, at the very least, half-truths, white lies, and omissions.

"Surely it is true that—except in the case of children who have not yet been corrupted and further motivated to dishonest action—most humans cannot function easily without deception. It is one of the binding forces of social groups, but then, there are others as well. Let us examine these further.

"Rat Man Miyazaki has developed numerous initiatives in order to foster group dynamics. The most formidable, yet paradoxical, of these is _illusory superiority_. I call it paradoxical because it is this very same superiority complex which further drives competition between individuals within a group. On the group level, however, this superiority is extended to encompass the group's identity in as far as the group sees itself as superior to those outside of its membership. Of course, this gives way to a kind of group pride. Often this group feeling intensifies when there is a common enemy. Consider the women's social club that has formed at Aunty Durga's teahouse. The group prides itself on the commonalities they see between themselves and each other. They seem like a delightful group of old women, but then when a gang of elderly female tourists finds its way to the teahouse, their disposition soon takes on a bilious nature. If one takes the time to listen, one might overhear an offhand comment about the foul stench that the air has suddenly taken, or about the foreign vermin that stow away with tourists to the detriment of the indigenous wildlife of Yami's ecosystem. Indeed, in the presence of a rival congregation, their burgeoning moral putrefaction distends uncontrollably from the base of their necks upward until their jowls puff out like balloons and the pressure to vent their antagonistic, yet potent toxins becomes unbearable. But this is only how it works on the small scale.

"Now, take again the example of the sport of civilized governance: each team in this game must inflate its spirit—in a similar fashion to the old ladies— to the absurd extremes of jingoistic ardor in order to achieve victory over its rivals. Group chants, cheers, musical tributes, national anthems, and heroic epics are composed to rally sympathies, spirits and enhance pride at their collective achievements. They become inclined to see themselves as stronger than the other side—and if their superior strength is somehow disproven, they see themselves as more civilized, intelligent, cultured or virtuous, perhaps even elegant. Naturally, most members are insensible to the logic that they would view the situation differently, if they had been granted membership to the opposing team instead. However, they have no aspirations to switch teams, so long as they feel a sense of altruism to the members of their existing group. Having a common enemy means having common empathy. However, being in possession of spirit alone is not enough. The spirit requires guidance and organization. In this case, the presence of a Coach becomes necessary. On all functional levels of groups, an authority, such as a Coach, becomes a figurehead for the team's endeavors. With the presence of such an entity, the team spirit gains greater focus—with His guidance, the virtue of playing the game comes to lie in the gains the group consciousness can exact against its rivals. In this respect, illusory superiority has allowed humans to compete both as individuals and as groups to the ultimate betterment of the species. We shall end our examination of Rat Man Miyazaki's second account on this note.

"Naturally, in the course of this telling, we learn very little about the deity Himself, but only about His relationship to our planet and to the history and the advancement of the human race. It is this account that troubles me most, but I would be remiss if I did not recount it to you. I do not agree with all of His suppositions and am not sure if in imparting such things upon me, He sought to deceive. If this is the case, however, I am inclined to think that He was also deceiving Himself. My reason for thinking so brings us verily to our third account."

### * * *

"It's getting late..." Bunnu complained with a yawn. The fire was starting to die down. Bhakti, for once, however, seemed captivated by mon seigneur's endless monologues. Bunnu yawned again and stretched, "Listen, I have to get up early tomorrow. The innkeeper needs me to fix a leak in the boiler..."

"The third account of Rat Man Miyazaki's origins," mon seigneur-Q continued without acknowledging Bunnu's clumsy intimations, "is somewhat disconcerting, but not terribly surprising. In this story, we come to realize that Rat Man Miyazaki is not a deity at all, nor is He as infinite as time and space. He did not devise the concept of civilized governance, nor did He imbue mankind with the necessity of politeness and elegance, nor with illusory superiority. Certainly, He has not tended to our planet, as one might a garden. He has done none of these things. Quite the contrary, for _He_ is little more than a constipated and mentally disturbed old man in a worn-out patchwork rat costume woven for him, many years ago, as a birthday present by his little sister. After hearing these first two accounts, this new revelation may, initially, come as a shock to you. Nonetheless, I assure you that upon hearing this next story, you may not, in retrospect, deem the idea entirely implausible. However, this third account is just as much subject to doubt as the first and the second, so what you choose to believe is something that you both must decide for yourselves; we must judge each account by its own merits, but in saying so, I realize that the responsibility falls upon me to give each account its own accurate and thorough telling, for the words that I use and the manner in which I express myself should inalterably have an influence upon your perceptions. A lesser man than myself might take advantage of this power of influence and use it to his own personal benefit, but I must ask that you believe me when I say that I am no such person. No, I do not seek to deceive, nor to manipulate, but rather to edify. Therefore, in the interest of fairness, I must depict for you the plausibility of this third account as adequately as I have the first and the second, but no more and no less. And so, for the sake of establishing a suitable frame for this final story, I shall have to preface it by going back to the very beginning and explaining in detail my first meeting with the Paragon of Virtue.

"My initial encounter with Rat-Man Miyazaki came a long time ago, about fifteen years after I had arrived in Yami. It was a foggy day in the mid-autumn and I was sitting on a smooth rock by a solitary pond in the Wood of Helsingør brooding over a recent misfortune. Of course the setback upon which I was dwelling at the time would prove later to be a rather minor one in the larger scheme of things. Nonetheless, it was likely my wounded pride which had given weight to this melancholy in the first place. On this particular occasion, the reason my heart was so heavy, the reason the increasingly weighty jowls of my face had dragged my chin so far down as to force a slump into my shell-encased shoulders, was that I had once again suffered a bitter financial humiliation at the hands of my rivals, the Akbar twins. Sitting there alone, allowing my self-confidence to shrivel slowly in the acrid paranoia which had now come to poison my thoughts, I found myself ruminating darkly over the possibility that these identical brothers had engineered a trickery most sinister against me purely out of malice, for certainly it was no secret that they opposed the economic alliances I had cemented with the Republic to the alleged detriment of the common working man. But looking back at it now and with a much clearer head, I understand their scam on me to have been perpetrated less as a consequence of their warped xenophobic ideologies, but more conceivably as a result of their own opportunistic instincts, for surely, in spite of their purportedly high-minded moral principles, they were just as inclined as any adaptive organism—just as inclined as a spider even—to fall in line with those treacherous mechanisms for self-preservation.

"To state the cause of that moment's distress more specifically, the Akbars—in a manner most befitting of twins—had managed to extract from me, for a pittance, an otherwise valuable plot of real estate which I had been hoping to sell to the highest bidder at the auction house. I do not mean to say that only twins are capable of such connivances, for, of course, there are many breeds of human in the world and, certainly, untold multitudes of vile _individuals_ who are capable of acting alone toward the ends of greater perfidy. Nonetheless, the manner in which they bested me was of the sort that only a set of twins could be capable, thus confirming my already existing prejudices about identical siblings. You might think my preconceptions unusual and antiquated—and I hope that you shall not judge me too harshly in my telling this to you—but I suppose I have always had a fundamental distrust when it comes to identical siblings, as I have often sensed, mistakenly perhaps, a pervading conspiracy in their laughter, a knowing, momentary look that passes between them as though they are, all the while, telepathically and deviously calculating their next move. As a united front, they outnumber the individual and are well-aware of their ability to manipulate any unfortunate soul caught between them to their mutual advantage.

"Whether my assumptions about them are true or not, I cannot be sure, but, in this particular matter, this nefarious duo had managed to get one over on me by starting a fake bidding war over the property I was auctioning. The pews of the white-bricked auction house had been packed to capacity with interested investors from various localities in the Republic, who were almost immediately silenced by the two brothers jabbing away at one another with petty insults and defiant counteroffers. In the end, this bidding war suddenly deflated, as neither was willing to stay in the other's presence any longer and they, thus, each fled out his own respective exit and from the room in a huff. I followed them out the front door of the building and stood on the concrete steps with them for a half hour, trying to make them listen to reason, but this only caused them both to erupt into tears and hug each other, for they had selfishly allowed their unabashed sibling rivalry to interrupt the fair business dealings of an honest man. They claimed that they had not at all been interested in the property, but had just been carrying on an earlier argument. Apparently, they had simply wished to outdo one another for the sake of spite. They apologized to each other profusely and then to me and they both swiftly made their way home to reconcile their differences. When I finally reentered the auction house, I was surprised to find that most of the potential buyers had already cleared out. The price had soared too high in the mock bidding war, so many of these hopeful investors had now moved on to different rooms in the building to bid on cheaper plots of land. I ended up having to sell the lot for an appallingly low price to a man who had been the next highest bidder. And then, apparently, an hour later, the Akbar twins approached him, insisting that he had overpaid and warning that the land would prove to be a money pit for those without the right equipment and know-how to develop it. In so doing, they managed to buy the land off of him at three-quarters of the original starting bid. Naturally, the news of this had upset me greatly and I couldn't help but feel rather humiliated at having been taken in, distracted and even moved by their ridiculous grandstanding. So, I retreated alone to the pond, where I often went to be by myself and where I knew I would have no fear of running into any of the townspeople or laborers from the village.

"Now...in the interests of accurate disclosure, it would probably be best to mention that the property that I had sought to auction off, in the first place, did not actually belong to me. It belonged to Durga. I had recently married her and humbly offered my assistance in selling off the remaining plots of land that her father had left in her name in order to obtain the capital necessary to get her new tea shop venture off the ground. Regardless of my frustration at the outcome of my efforts, the paltry sum that we had managed to earn would still be enough to open the doors of the shop, and naturally she would have my financial backing for anything else she required. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but feel that I had let Durga and her relatives down. Sitting there in the Wood of Helsingør, I dreaded my return home, for still I hadn't found a way to explain the situation to her and I knew that she would be disappointed at the result. This property had, after all, been the same land where she had spent most of her young adulthood, and where her father had raised horses and mice until his death 20 years earlier. So naturally, my chief aggravations were not with how little money was raised, but rather with the foul air of fraudulence with which this real estate transaction had now become associated. This had been a place where family memories had been made—a sanctuary, if you will. It had been Durga's birthright and of course, there had still remained some reservations about letting it go. Therefore, the sale of the property was meant to be a pure and solemn dealing for us, but now the experience had been tainted and defiled irreparably by the greed of the miserly twins. As a matter of principle, something had to be done in retaliation and I knew it. However, I have never been the vengeful type.

"Suddenly, the potent scent of violets came to me, rendering my nose temporarily inactive. My eyes began to water and my ears to ring at the intensity of the swelling sweetness in the air. Through the blur of tears, I could make out nothing more than the black bark of the Grainless Birches all around me. In my mind, I could sense their roots under the soil, creeping in helical tangles of ever-increasing complexity outward and in all directions—out beyond the perimeter of the Helsingør Wood, out below Yami's Under City, out along the banks of the river, out to the nearest coast and thereupon out into the sea; the roots crept down further along the continental shelf, downward into the abysses, downward into the ocean floor, burrowing under the corals and under trenches, and then back up again to sprout in the darkened forest on a foreign continent: all the trees of the world now had conjoined roots, for they were now of one conjoined consciousness!

"A voice in my mind thereupon whispered suddenly: _To what end must we possess and belong?_ My whole body began to shake for it was my own voice speaking, though these were words not spoken of my own volition. The chemical composition of my tears immediately changed as I became overcome with emotion. The smell of the sweetness was gone. It was most likely beyond my senses now, or perhaps I was so immersed in the sublimity of its fragrance and taste as to have become quickly and unwittingly accustomed. Whatever the case, I found myself reflecting tearfully on the notion of ownership—of objects, of lands, of other organisms. It suddenly seemed very small-minded, very conceited to seek to possess _anything._ Of what necessity, after all, was property, but to control and to dominate, for private human means, the environment from which such means would have had their very genesis? Furthermore, in what else could the proclamation of ownership be rooted, but in self-important condescension, for surely one was asserting control over something in the hopes of presiding over its subsequent preservation, administration, or exploitation? To pose these questions would seem to render for naught all my efforts for the sake of Yami's development. All for which I had endeavored suddenly felt trivial and idiotic, as though I were merely an industrious louse encouraging proliferation and private ownership among my fellow lice between the follicles of fur on the back of a helplessly downtrodden beast.

"Naturally there was the notion of private property as a pragmatic concept, for individuals or groups have a proclivity to tend to their own possessions with greater care and reverence than they would to common property. The Melic philosopher, Laxman-55, further contended that, in such cases, the notion of ownership would underscore a relationship existing between distinct people, rather than a legal association between a person and that which is said to be possessed, which is to say that ownership was, in its strictest definition, the societal distinction between the owner and the non-owner with respect to the property in question. Beyond this, the concept of ownership varied further from society-to-society according to their respective derivations of natural law, legal positivism and legal realism. Some societies—the indigenous Itako tribes of Unkoyama, for example—railed against their governments' initiatives for private ownership in favor of maintaining equal access to available resources (in the case of the Itako, this was due primarily to the fact that theirs were kin-based tribes whose membership sought to live communally). All the same, even this notion of common possession seemed to me rather arrogant, for the necessitated existence of a _public domain_ was rooted in the shared human dominance over the objects or organisms in question. And so, in my dizzying contemplation, I began to yearn for a greater law that stretched to vast limits beyond that which governed humanity alone. The voice in my mind spoke earnestly of the need for a unifying jurisprudence which could preside over all of Nature's manifestations in a manner either probabilistically fair or mathematically arbitrary. And perhaps, still, this would not be enough.

"The ringing in my ears began to subside and I could hear coming to me from a distance, the sound of a faint giggling. I must have blacked out after that, because when I came to my senses, I suddenly found myself on Durga's father's former property. Flames were shooting up from the stables, the barn, the carriage house, the rat maze, the outhouse, the laboratory, the summer kitchen, the trees, and the pastures. The heat was intense and I backed away slowly only to realize as I left the illumination of the fire that the sky was now pitch dark and moonless. How much time had passed since I had been sitting on that rock in Helsingør Wood, I did not know. I tried to search my memories to figure out how I had gotten here and what had happened exactly to bring these fresh circumstances upon me. Surely I could not have started this fire myself!

"Behind me, I heard the giggling sound again. A hand clasped over my wrist in a firm hairy grip and pulled me through the darkness. Immediately, I found myself running clumsily behind a chubby, sweet-smelling silhouette that dragged me by the arm. In the shadows that pervaded, I was not able to make out its features; nor was I able to figure out what nature of creature it was to begin with! I could not even speak to it, much less utter a word of protest, as I was now terribly out of breath. We moved over land at such an incredible speed that I had to take small steps, since the ground was uneven and I couldn't even see my feet below me. In spite of this, this strange, aromatic entity moved sure-footedly over the fields, between the tree branches and shrubs of the surrounding wood, over rocks and through cool waters of narrow streams, until suddenly, before I knew it, I could see vaguely, through the night fog, the lights of the laborers' settlement coming up on the horizon. I felt a stronger tug upon my arm as we both proceeded more swiftly across the tall grasses of the fields. The blades of surrounding grass whipped over me, and I could see, through the foliage ahead, a faint glow coming from the ground. It seemed we were coming up on a fire in a small clearing ahead. I could now smell the smoke drifting my way. It, too, had the strange consistency of violets. We proceeded with greater and greater speed in the direction of the glowing beacon and I could hear, in my mind, my own voice speaking again, though I could not make out the words, for many of them were composed of syllables that my mouth is, even yet, incapable of pronouncing.

"The voice in my head suddenly changed. That is, it ceased to be my own voice which spoke, but rather a different one that I still managed to recognize, despite my inability to place it. How could it be that someone else's voice had entered my head? Was I imagining it? No, that didn't seem right to me. As the voice grew louder, it began to occur to me that perhaps I was channeling someone or some _thing_ —a deity or a demon perhaps. This phenomenon was not unheard of, so it would not have been foolish to entertain this unconventional reasoning. Yes, it seemed I was channeling! I had never thought myself capable of doing so. After all, in my many years of clinical research into parapsychology, I had found that the channeling of spirits, demons, and deities was most common in test subjects of either profound sensitivity or abject derangement. Of course, I could not know, then, as I ran through the field in the middle of the night, which I was or, more precisely, which I was _becoming_. Nonetheless, I felt a tightness in my _peroneus longus_ muscle and it seemed that my _extensor digitorum brevis_ was helpless but to twitch, which might have explained my recent blackout and which might have further accounted for this sudden voice, as well as my growing irrational desire to bite into tender living flesh. My head began to pound and I felt increasingly agitated at the sound of the incessant echoes in my brain.

"The glow now loomed up before my very eyes. We stopped immediately and the creature let go of my wrist, before stepping away. We were now standing at the edge of a small clearing in the field. There was a circle of rocks within which a tall fire seemed to blaze—I say tall because the flame was maybe 20 centimeters in diameter, yet it shot up from the ground to a height of at least a meter. Against the light of this flame, I could now see the silhouette of His rodent-like features. He stood there for a moment with His back to me, as the whispers immediately ceased. The only sound now was the crackle and pops of the burning wood—that and our breathing. He turned to the side and I could finally make out the profile of His face—His mischievous angelic grin, His sagging cheeks, His needle-like whiskers, His oddly familiar eyes.

"I jumped with a start as something on the ground between us began to move suddenly. I looked down and let out a childish yelp, for at my feet was sprawled a spotted lynx. Was it writhing in agony? Dying maybe? No, in fact, it was merely sleeping. A memory came to me of the chemical composition of a lynx's stomach acid—I had once analyzed this to pass the time on a rainy afternoon back in my university days in Nolce. Through a series of single and double displacement reactions, followed by simple isomerization, I had been able to synthesize quite easily from it a potent recreational substance which had also certain properties that could optimize, for a period of days, a human subject's brain chemistry with respect to memory retention and attention span. I used this substance often to boost my concentration for my studies in my young adulthood, but had been unable to obtain lynx stomachs at anything but an exorbitant price on the black market in the decades since. And now, here lay before me—literally!—an opportunity. Surely, I had just as much claim over the lynx's stomach acids as the lynx himself, for would a mosquito not similarly have, for the sake of its own nourishment, an equal claim to its host's blood as the very host, whose form is so porous and so orifice-ridden as to sow lasting ambiguity into the boundaries of his own distinct physical substance? Of course, the answer, in such matters, is decidedly gray. Perhaps the concept of entitlement, to begin with, is a faulty and misguided assumption—a fanciful notion, even. Thus, equal ownership with regard to bodily fluids—stomach acids included— would also seem an illusion. Nobody should have a right or a claim to them, for the fluids themselves are indifferent to their self-styled masters. They were simply there for the taking...and, if not for the _taking,_ then otherwise for the _leaving._ As a consequence of this logic, I was reminded again of my newfound flexibility with regards to the concept of _property_ and _ownership_ and I found myself thinking that in a natural law which governed over all things, it must certainly be for the Greater Good for me to tear out the stomach of this lynx, mix up the concoction that I sought and utilize its intellect-enhancing properties for the good of both Yami and its indigenous wildlife. Of course, this would seem too simple an assessment without considering its obvious downsides.

"It was then that Rat Man Miyazaki, whose name had manifested out of nowhere in my mind, by dint of either my profound sensitivity or my abject derangement, pointed down suggestively at the lynx. My eyes followed His extended hairy digit along the cat's abdomen, until I could see projecting unmistakably from the critter, in the flickering light of the flames, a cow's udder. The mad genius had crossbred a species of feline with that of a bovine, for surely this unlikely _Lynx Bos_ was of four stomachs, rather than one! I had foolishly, until this moment, thought this to be a male lynx, not a female, but my great ignorance was immediately vanquished by the wondrous site of this lynx's aesthetically-pleasing teats. I silently reprimanded myself for not having noticed this sooner. Of course, the darkness had clearly impaired my adeptness at observation, so my prior naïveté in this matter was perhaps understandable. At the same time, I now couldn't help but second-guess the soundness of my scientific instincts. Why had it been so easy for me to jump to false conclusions, without once pausing to question them? In particular, how could I not have even imagined the possibility of a _Lynx Bos_ existing, much less conceive that one might be lying at my very feet. I started to feel slightly ashamed of myself. This Rat Man Miyazaki, if that was _His_ real name, had clearly outdone me as a scientist. Maybe that was what He had brought me here to see. Maybe, I was out of my depth!

"Whatever the case, there could be no doubt that this strange Being before me was a half-cow, half-cat hybrid and that if I were to relieve her of one of her cat-stomachs, surely she'd have three more cow-stomachs to rely upon—that is, unless all four of her stomachs were cat-stomachs, or unless she had a 2-cat-stomach, 2-cow-stomach even-split, or a 3-1 split in either direction that oscillated in favor of the cat on one day, and then in favor of the cow on the next, inconstantly alternating between these two majority states without ever achieving absolute stasis anywhere in between; of course, there was one more possibility, one that I now feared most: the possibility that all 4 stomachs were those of a cow and that any stomach that I might remove from this beast would therefore be useless to me. Unfortunately, after this brief moment of speculation, I suddenly remembered something I had once read indicating that a cow did not actually have four stomachs in the sense that one might expect, for its process of digestion was far different from that of _non-ruminant_ mammals, such as ourselves, and that all its 'stomachs'—its rumen, its reticulum, its omasum and its abomasum—were distinct, yet necessary components of this complex cycle. That is to say, cows were only actually in possession of one stomach, which was comprised of four separate compartments. I didn't know why, but somehow I had momentarily allowed this fact to slip my mind!

"Regardless, I had never examined a cow's digestive organs with my own eyes, so I felt that I would have been remiss in my commitment to my scientific duties, if I didn't confirm this for myself. Furthermore, there was no telling what sorts of changes might have occurred as a result of the cow's hybridization with the lynx. Surely it was a theoretical possibility for a four-compartmented Ruminant Lynx stomach to have been synthesized through this unprecedented fusion of traits. So, naturally, I had now but one recourse: to perform the extraction and see what came of it. Of course, this was likely to kill the poor animal, but perhaps the sacrifice of this _Lynx Bos_ would be for the sake of a significant stride in the advancement of science. If this was the case, then surely, this is why I had been brought here by this chap. Yes! This new associate of mine hadn't sought to establish His dominance over me as a (Rat) Man of Science! He had merely sought my expertise in this matter. Conceivably, my reputation as a scientist had preceded me, which one might otherwise take as a compliment if one desired flattery. Of course, I'm above such pettiness. In any case, he required my assistance now, for the job was only half-done. The half-cow, half-lynx had been spawned, but its scientific rewards had not yet been fully _reaped_. I couldn't be sure what the Rat Man's motivations were. However, one thing was certain: the stomach extraction would be left to me. And it was imperative that I should follow through with my newfound duty—natural law demanded this!

"I couldn't help but feel slightly relieved at this realization, but also concerned, for I was still compelled to be suspicious about this peculiar Rat Man, who knew so much about me, though I knew nothing of Him. I was not even sure of His name yet. Naturally, I knew I should not be so trusting, as He might have had malicious intentions for me. Thus, it was important to remain vigilant. Of course, I planned to remove the stomach of the _Lynx Bos_ either way, so I supposed His motives with respect to this were of no consequence. At the same time, I am generally inclined to believe that one should be obliged, at the very least, before tearing out the stomach of _any_ warm-blooded creature—whether cow or lynx or ursine pterodactyl—to confirm the identity of Him from whose impetus one is compelled to perform such an otherwise hardhearted task. In that sense, I suppose I am somewhat of a traditionalist.

"So, in keeping with such wisdom, I sidled up closer to my new companion and spoke carefully, utilizing the proper Yamian honorifics, 'Owing to yon she-beast's to be primed for dissection, I'll pray up on high that thou should theretofore answer my query one-fold. Methinks thine name, good Sir, by some queer fortune, should not happen to be, permitting my most egregious of errors and my most heinously self-serving of embellishments, Rat Man Miyazaki...now, should it?' My voice was barely a whisper, as I half-hoped, in my embarrassment, that He wouldn't hear me. If that wasn't His name and I had merely imagined it, He might have found this a peculiar question. However, in contrast to what I'd expected, the chunky vermin immediately swiveled His head in my direction and squeaked joyfully, for perhaps He was excited to have transmitted His name to me successfully through telepathic means. He now began speaking excitedly to me in a series of whispers punctuated by giggles. His words swirled into my mind and, once again, I could not understand their syllables, much less the point at which one word ended and the next began. Soon, however, mental images began to flood into my mind—scenes called up as though looming latently as stray memories scattered in odd nooks throughout my brain. It seemed that my new friend, Rat Man Miyazaki, had found a way to bypass the protocols of coding and decoding language by transmitting that which He intended to say directly into my brain, attaching, to these strings of raw information, the appropriate addendums and footnotes which would allow my frames of perception to adapt temporarily with His own so that I might understand the transmitted data in the way He intended. This would thereby render the _intended message_ and the _perceived message_ as one unified entity, rather than as separate entities muddled and confounded by their mutual disparities (as is, most often, the case otherwise). In other words, it was pure meaning that I was receiving from Him, not meaning filtered through any linguistic framework derived for the purposes of communication between dissimilar entities. In bypassing the necessity for codes, there was, thus, no longer any chance for even the minutest fragment of His message to be lost in its translation, almost as though this entire interaction took place on the biochemical level—we might view it as biochemical in a similar fashion, perhaps, to the way communication between ants may occur on the level of the pheromone, as often even evidenced through the usage of propaganda pheromones to alter the behavior of rival ant factions. And thus, no case could be made for even the commonest of misapprehension, for this breed of communication instilled in its recipient an empathy both pure and untarnished—an understanding at the very core of understanding! And what it was that Rat Man Miyazaki sought to transmit to me in invoking this method, I still could not be certain. The message seemed to be some kind of chronicle of the past and whatever His intentions were in imparting these details upon me, He wished for me to know the story beyond the story, the history behind the history and the logical justification for every momentary action, however irrational, taken by any one of its players. My mind wrestled briefly with an incoherent array of images—silhouettes of assailants standing at a bedroom doorway at night-time, a smorgasbord of red-colored desserts laid upon a long table with elegant crimson trimmings, a melancholy elder in the clothes of an ascetic who stroked his long beard with a stony, bemused grimace, a pin prick while hastily sewing together fabrics of patchy gray fur in the corner of an elaborately decorated bedroom.

"My surroundings faded for a brief instant and then returned. I blinked my eyes twice or maybe thrice. My vision was greatly affected by this bizarre phenomenon of vanishing and reemergence, for, upon my return, the night, which had originally seemed enshrouded in complete blackness, descended upon me anew, blinding in a fresh and sinister luminosity. My eyes were only starting to readjust, when, suddenly, the realization came to me that Rat Man Miyazaki had, in that mere fraction of a second that I was gone, imparted upon me full knowledge of His familial background. I was not sure of His reasons for recounting such matters to me, but I could only assume that He wished for me to empathize with Him in some way. And there could be no doubt that I empathized with Him fully, though I could more accurately describe this as a form of captive empathy, which is to say that I genuinely felt an empathetic bond, but only against my conscious Will.

"And, to make matters even more confusing, upon later tellings of His origin story, I would eventually realize this particular tale to be only one of three major accounts of His Past. Of course, I have already told you the other two. So, I shall conclude my overlong preface here and proceed with the telling of this third remaining account..."

### * * *

"Wait...all that rubbish was simply prologue to the third account?" Bunnu barked indignantly. There was a brief pause as mon seigneur silently took a long sip from his cup, his gaze turning to the dying fire in the hearth. The old man got up from his chair for a moment and poked at the ashes, before tossing another piece of wood overtop. There was no need for him to say a word in response to Bunnu's abrupt query: the answer was clear. As Q fanned at the flames, Bunnu looked in a panic at the water clock on the mantle. There was little chance of him getting much sleep now. He flashed a look at Bhakti, who had already, for his own part, drifted off to sleep, gripping the Soma cup's handle loosely with his fingertips. The cup had started to tip at an angle, but somehow, in spite of this, remained precariously balanced upon the fulcrum of his half-closed fingers in such a way that not a drop had yet been spilled. If he relaxed his grip any further, surely the silver-plated mug would tumble to the floor, splattering what little remained of its contents to the rug below. And naturally, if such a circumstance were to arise, the cleaning would likely fall to Bunnu and no one else. Of course, he could ask Q and Bhakti for help, but it would probably break from Yami's inscrutable sense of propriety for a host to expect his guests to help in any cleaning whatsoever. In Yami, there seemed a set of unwritten rules regarding the etiquette of hosting a function, from which one was expected never to waver. The origin of such rules was, of course, a mystery. Presumably, they had come into being organically as a result of a set of precedents and been further solidified through repetition and societal consensus. Being new to this region, it was still a bit difficult for him to grasp. And to make matters worse, it seemed that one rule that he had, until this very moment, failed to notice was that a host was never to interrupt his guests in the middle of a story. mon seigneur's nuanced lack of response to his outbursts, however, now seemed to signal to him that his behavior till now had been somewhat inappropriate. This was not to say that Q's intimations had been admonitory in nature; quite the contrary, for Q had reacted to Bunnu's ignorance of the proper etiquette in the most empathetic way possible, as he had probably once been in a similar situation himself. In any case, Bunnu's interruptions had possibly proven to be rude to both his guests, and for that he couldn't help but feel rather disappointed in himself. But then again, how else was he to signal to them that he had affairs to which he must attend the following day? Perhaps there was no way. The host was to cater to his guests' slightest whims, regardless of his external circumstances: there seemed an element of logic to this, perhaps even poetry. Yes, perhaps it was best to honor his guests in a manner that befitted a host of greater magnanimity than himself. To do so would be the most utter expression of humility and of grace: indeed, something of wondrous beauty. He had, until now, overlooked this way of thinking and now felt slightly insecure, for perhaps he had been making mistakes all along, with respect to the proper amount of esteem which was to be afforded his guests. A tightness now formed in his chest as a sudden anxiety overcame him. He looked at Bhakti again and sat back in his chair, hoping, with some embarrassment, that he had not been an unforgivably rude host. All the same, he wished Q would finish his story soon and let them all get to sleep. Cultural mores aside: that would seem the _decent_ thing to do. It was indeed a pleasure to be a host, but it was also, to some degree, for one still unaccustomed to the etiquette of a different culture, a disconcerting exercise, for one was made to sacrifice his best approximations at common decency in favor of an all-pervading, overriding set of sensibilities which were altogether, and for lack of a better term, _foreign._ He closed his eyes and had another sip of his Soma, allowing his impatience to melt away in the pungent fragrance of its spices.

Meanwhile, mon seigneur-Q, as seemingly unconcerned by the irrational consternation of his host as he might be by the buzzing of a mere Myna Gnat, took his seat again and carried on with his story unabated: "In calling up these images to mind again, I must take us back two and a half centuries to the court of King Baxter of Blueberry. Surely, this is not the sovereign's true forename, for, in all my travels, never have I heard of a kingdom called Blueberry, much less a King Baxter: what ludicrous-sounding names! Let us assume, at any rate, that the names have been changed for the sake of preserving the dignity of those upon whom this story is based. More specifically, let us assume that the dignity of their _roles_ is being protected rather than the individuals themselves, for these men and women—alive or dead—were merely the flesh which occupied the circumstances and nothing more. By now, this very flesh will have long begun the eternal process of degeneration, atrophying along with any clear insight into its specific nature. Thus, all the characters about whom we shall speak are equal now as rotted flesh and as mildew-speckled bone, withering away along with any reliable memory of them to continual and infinite reduction by halves. What indeed is the half-life of a mortal consciousness? What is the half-life of a memory of that mortal consciousness? Of course, this is purely an academic question and of no immediate concern to those of us existing in the world of the living, for we possess already a memory, in its stead, which serves as a basis of our perception of the past. Accurate or not, this nature of memory allows us to understand the past according to the positions occupied by the flesh about which we seek to know, but, unfortunately, not in a way relative to the flesh itself—that flesh stripped of identity and circumstance, that flesh which, in its most rudimentary capacity, had once collided, interacted, fought, competed, negotiated, cooperated, and mated with other flesh: there is no history of this kind, thoroughly naked and telling enough, which is accessible to us, for we are composed of the very same substance, the very same flesh, and sadly incapable of stepping outside of it, even momentarily. Thus, in spite of these characters' equality in death, there remains a certain social and spiritual inequality in the surface memory which lingers of them as the once fresh, regenerative protoplasm which occupied positions of varying relative prestige in prior circumstances. Yet, this is the only sort of memory about which we are capable, as mortal beings, to speak. I say all this because I want you both to understand that, in spite of the purity of Rat Man Miyazaki's intentions, this account is invariably subject to be flawed from the outset. I cannot say if this would be His fault or my own, but I must warn, in any event, that it can in no way be deemed objective truth. Perhaps we can, at the very least, construe it as truth from a certain point-of-view. Whether or not this should be sufficient, I cannot say. Nevertheless, allow us to continue..."

### * * *

"The legendary monarch, King Baxter, despite having over 10,000 wives at any one time, had only been blessed with as few as two daughters and one son in his lifetime. The son was known as _Emmanuel_ and the daughters shall, in this story, be referred to as _Cookie_ and _Sepia_ —naturally, all of these names, however incongruous-seeming, are also aliases, but perhaps, you were able to discern this without my having to tell you. In any case, Cookie was the eldest of the three.

"Born 17 years prior to Baxter's coronation, she enjoyed the continuous adulation that the next 167 years brought her as the only child of the Crown Prince, and the presumed heiress apparent to the throne of Blueberry. On the matter of how much Princess Cookie was loved by her court subjects and companions, there could be not even the slightest hint of a question. From queens to noblemen to the lowliest of maidservant, there was no one who could bear to resist fawning shamelessly over this cute, bubbly child who was so joyful and feisty and so much in the spring of her youth that it was rare that her demeanor should be met with anything less than a broad, rejuvenated grin. It was that vivacious spirit of hers, that happy-go-lucky spark which inspired so many court poets to compose what would eventually come to be the greatest romantic and literary masterpieces of Blueberry's Golden Age. In simply hearing this story retold now, it may sound a mystery to us, though it was not at all mysterious to those who'd met her, how it was that she won the hearts of so many so easily. Surely, the profundity of this idolism cannot be expressed properly in words, so we must do our best in our attempts to imagine it. People spoke often of her many virtues, not the least of which being the ease and the gentleness with which she embraced all around her. There was an openness and a loving spirit to her that ne'er a person could deny once he caught first sight of her. Yet, there was possibly also an element of selfishness to this approximation of her, for one might have projected upon her, unwittingly, all of his hopes and aspirations, imagining her to possess qualities which, in their deepest fusion and symmetry, caused her essence to appear hospitable to those of all but vanquished spirits, like the sight of an uncharted land mass to a sailor hopelessly lost at sea.

"Surely, even my words do not do this phenomenon justice. To provide a more suitable example, it was often said in the court that her purity once even brought forth tears from a visiting prophet, who was so touched by her level of spiritual and moral refinement that the elderly cleric thereupon found himself shadowing her from afar for several days, stroking his long beard thoughtfully and taking fastidious notes on her mannerisms and facial expressions, so that he might attempt to adapt these methodically into a strict regimen of daily austerities for his enlightenment-seeking disciples to follow.

"Of course, there could be no doubt that the greatest adoration of all came from Baxter himself, who spared no expense in indulging her every craving. Even when he was still Crown Prince, he would arrange for weekly parades and sporting events to be held in her honor. Every year, on her birthday, gladiators would duel for the oft-spoken of, however rare, privilege of being granted a thirty-second audience with her, which would, to their eventual dismay, consist of little more than the opportunity for the blood-soaked victor to bow silently in front of her gigantic throne, before being escorted back to the center of the arena, where he would thereupon be drawn and quartered for the amusement of the spectators. The brutality of Baxter's affections for Princess Cookie did not end here. As she grew into adolescence, she started to develop an intense affinity for the color red. Seemingly overnight, all of the furniture in her private quarters had found itself either painted red or replaced altogether, the headboard of her bed was encrusted with rubies, and her daily bathwater was mixed with crimson salts and sprinkled with scarlet rose petals. A special pony with red fur, a red mane and red pupils was even bred for her. The snow-capped peaks facing the palace were painted anew weekly with the fresh blood of serfs, prisoners, and heretics. The clouds above were often seeded with special capsules containing dyes, so as to redden their hue. And whenever Baxter returned from his military campaigns with his father's generals, he felt obliged to bring back with him, on the backs of camels, of elephants, and of mountain lice, trunks loaded with blood-soaked tunics fresh from the fires of conquest. The red-splotched fabrics would thereupon come to adorn the dresses of Cookie's dolls, the aprons of her chambermaids' outfits and even the linens in all the palace's guests' quarters.

"In her young adulthood and after Baxter's coronation, Cookie won the affections of many a princely suitor from a foreign court, who wished to make her a queen in his own land, partly to cement an economic and military alliance with Baxter, but otherwise because he wished to possess a woman who was so sought after by his rivals. Cookie, however, knew very well the value that others placed on her and came to ascribe, overtop of this, her own assessment of worth which would always inevitably, and to the aggravation of her mother and her other 10,218 stepmothers, outbid and supersede the offers tendered by those insignificant mites who sought foolishly to possess her. Her notions of self-worth were, as a consequence, appallingly high and the standards to which she might consider submitting herself impossibly unreachable. Naturally, this unyielding sense of confidence went a long way in adding to the momentum of her suitors' persistence and in further inflating the value of each proposed lobola far beyond the monetary value which would otherwise be offered for the hand of a princess from a kingdom of comparable means. Of course, in spite of her impending need to spurn all who sought to achieve a marital union with her, she was not without her own carnal desires, many of which, from her adolescence, had been catered to by her maidservants at her own insistence and many of which otherwise required the masculinity and physiology of her many male tutors. This latter situation was a matter of great concern for the queens, who, at first, had sought to fit young Princess Cookie with a chastity belt in her early adolescence. Invariably, however, it had been the young girl's willfulness which had won out over their adamant pleas for decorum. Many of the queens feared that her imminent deflowering would only prove to besmirch the royal family with an indelible stain of commonness. Indeed the queens conspired to make the headstrong girl acquiesce to the rigors of her role, but found themselves, instead, suffering for their own attempts at forcefulness, for the girl was certain to wreak upon all who defied her a vengeance most lethal, as evidenced by the _unfortunate incident_ which took place soon after the matron ranked 1,237th in the queenly hierarchy informed the menservants that they would all be castrated if any one of them ever engaged in sexual intercourse with the princess. The following night, a mysterious horde of 47 eunuch ronin converged upon the ill-fated queen's private quarters and sliced the wicked matron to pieces before ritually disemboweling themselves in the courtyard of the castle. No one knew where the ronin had come from or, for that matter, what had impelled them to perform this detestable act, but there could be no doubt that the princess had something to do with this. Two more unrelated incidences of matricide would follow in the years leading up to Cookie's eventual demise, but it was with this very first incident that a startlingly clear point had been made to Cookie's mothers.

"Cookie's malicious tendencies took on other varying forms over the course of the next several decades. Eventually, she renounced marriage altogether, but still delighted in tormenting her suitors with games she devised for the purposes of humiliating them. In one such game, the suitor in question was expected to extract his own eyeball with what appeared to be a set of metal chopsticks and toss it across a pond so that it would land upon a lily pad adjacent to its farthest edge. If he was successful in doing so, the rival with whom he was expected to compete was obligated to sneeze through his ears thirty times while masturbating wildly at the sight of a eunuch servant's dung served up on a fancy dinner plate. Cookie would, through all of this, sit under a blue marble pavilion overlooking the pond, giggling melodiously to herself and running her fingers gloriously over a collection of eyeballs that she kept by her side in an exquisite golden urn.

"In her despair at Baxter's 10,730th wedding, she began to channel her lesser volatile sensitivities toward the realm of personal growth. She read numerous books on the topic and even enlisted the king's many monks and scribes to scramble about the endless stacks of Blueberry's Royal Library of Metageography in order to hunt down various parchments deemed applicable to her exploration, presumably in the hopes that the crumbled sampling of Archaics they returned with might shed further light upon some esoteric detail or another in her spiritual quest and thereby instill her with the insight required to ascend a few microns higher up the ladder to absolute enlightenment. Upon exhausting her available supply of reading material, Cookie started to invite gurus of many faiths to provide guidance for her on her path to righteous understanding. One such visitor was the prophet of her youth, Morell: a man who, largely thanks to the inspiration he'd gained through his visits with her as a child, had summoned a rather sizeable religious following for himself, in addition to a reputation, far and wide, as a spiritual revolutionary.

"However, upon his long-awaited reunion with Cookie, the bewhiskered sage was immediately perplexed and, to a certain degree, even disillusioned by the disparity in temperament between the princess that he had known a mere eighty-five years earlier and the one who now asked for his assistance. Had he made his initial assessment in error? If so, the effects on his millions of disciples worldwide could have been devastating. In invoking the behaviors of the young princess in his rituals, he had hoped to provide a means by which his disciples might stimulate a pathway of psychological and spiritual regression to a simpler and unsullied state of being, whereupon, and with the right guidance, they might learn to embrace certain moral absolutes. Of course, the success of this latter process was contingent upon the ability of these newly-childish disciples to conform with Morell's rigid spiritual parameters to the letter. Morell had assumed this to be the most effective way for them to achieve moral perfection. But upon seeing how easily Cookie had strayed from her own seemingly unconquerable state of purity, Morell now couldn't help but feel that perhaps this had been the wrong way to go about things. Perhaps, if left unsupervised for too long, his child-like disciples could just as easily stray from the tenets of their collective spiritual indoctrination. He started to feel rather insecure about himself. Could it be that he had inadvertently misguided his beloved devotees? Had he led astray his precious children? It was difficult to say. Whatever the case, he now sought immediately to get Princess Cookie back on the right path to spiritual purity, both for her sake and for the sake of his own assurance.

"So, he counseled her daily in the hopes of trying to pinpoint the source of her internal anguish. They spoke at great length of her unsatisfying childhood, of her father's unquenchable thirst for women, of the queens' resentment toward the attention she received from her many willing suitors, of her irritation at those prematurely ejaculating oafs in the rank and file of menservants and tutors who had the startling audacity to imagine that they should be permitted to reach climax before their royal mistress, of her isolation from others because of the insurmountable standards she kept of herself and of others, of her moral indignation at the living conditions of her father's subjects for they possessed not even the capacity to make their foul-smelling visages fit to be seen in the presence of their beloved Crown Princess, of her impatience to take over the throne and bring a new era of prosperity to Blueberry, of her bizarre propensity to pronounce the sibilant 'R' sound as a 'Yj' consonant (I shan't now get into a detailed explanation of their language's complex phonetics except to say that, to most in Blueberry, this would have been considered a serious speech impediment), and additionally they spoke of her rage at the court poets of Blueberry for taking credit for literary compositions inspired by her and her alone.

"After many weeks and months of listening, Morell was led to the opinion that Cookie's life had become extremely complex and that the quandaries in which she found herself most overwhelmingly mired were so far extended beyond the sources of her true inner conflicts as to render those very initial conflicts unrecognizable to her: a matter for which Morell found himself without any effective advice. There was clearly no hope for corrective treatment through regression therapy. The princess had already completely purged from her subconscious mind most of her behaviors and attitudes from her days as a purer, untainted youth, possibly for no other reason than that of expedience, which was, to some degree, rather understandable. This being the case, the prospect of a return to former sensibilities seemed an utter impossibility for her, since her personality had changed far too dramatically over the years and since her intense willfulness further rendered ineffective any attempts at regression through either hypnotic or hyperbolic suggestion.

"It was conceivably for these reasons that, in spite of his best intentions, the weeks and months Morell had spent with the princess began to seem for naught. The roots of her problems were too dense and too paradoxical and too complexly intertwined, even possibly extending further back than her very existence: therefore, impossible to recapture, and far beyond any hope of conquest. There was very possibly a beast which had grown inside of her—deep in her subconscious, perhaps: a territorial old rogue what had displaced her personality of previous— but was it even traceable to someone on the outside? For that matter, was it necessary to confront this brutish element? Possibly not. Maybe it wasn't even there to begin with; maybe Morell, with his own set of insecurities and compulsions, had simply projected a beastly countenance upon her character, because he lacked the intellectual wherewithal to view the problem with any greater acuity. Needless to say, there was no way to know for sure.

"Still, something had to be done. Morell felt uneasy about having taken so much time to examine the Princess only to be left with no adequate diagnosis, much less a course of treatment for that which ailed her. The situation would certainly be easier to manage, if there were a palpable and distinct demon within her which required exorcism. Of course, he couldn't be sure that there was. Nonetheless if its presence could be detected, there may have been certain actionable measures to be taken against it. But then, he had no experience with such things, so it was difficult to know what sorts of measures would suffice.

"At any rate, Morell felt that before even considering such things, Princess Cookie's cognitive pathways may have required a more comprehensive analysis. He knew that it was possible to employ certain progressive methods of neural interface, but he felt somewhat apprehensive about implementing them, for fear of the risks involved and of the limited returns such tactics might yield. For instance, it would be a particularly wasteful endeavor if, for the sake of exhausting every last option available, he were even to go so far as resorting to invasive Ontological Neurospelunkery, for this unorthodox process would only prove to be the cerebral equivalent of tracking a creature one was not even sure existed: surely one could happen upon some new species deep in the caverns somewhere and assume it to be the goal of one's trek, but then there was a certain idiocy to this notion, as one would never be sure this newfound entity should prove to be what one wished it to be; taken further, this very need to find something, to begin with, would only lead one to clamber more deeply inward along rigorous paths and over unsteady terrain, the entirety of which could only be traversed with the arrogant resolve of someone who has already determined, with a misplaced sense of pride in his own assumptions, that he was undoubtedly making headway in a direction worthwhile. And assuming still that this process was the only viable option available, and further assuming that Morell could manage to find a way to track down the beast lingering ostensibly inside of Princess Cookie, what was he then to do with it? Exorcise the thing? Reason with it? Negotiate maybe? How? Could one hope to impose terms and conditions upon the behavior of something tracked and captured in the wilds of the intellect? The thought was a bizarre one and the prospect of achieving success with it unlikely. Perhaps, it would be enough to track the beast, but also to let it live according to its own inclinations inside of her. This would seem a more agreeable proposition.

"Unfortunately, however, the possibility still remained that there was no beast at all, but that the aberration plaguing her consciousness was merely a side effect of some divine, yet misunderstood purpose with which she had been imbued by the Almighty Lord Himself. She could very well have been functioning on a spiritual plane far beyond Morell's ability to grasp, which, of course, seared any scrutiny leveled against her with the indelible brand of blasphemy. To say the least, the fear of Godly reprisal which this brand was sure to summon up only served to make the prospect of engaging in such measures as invasive Ontological Neurospelunkery seem both risky and wasteful. And thus, it was a nonstarter.

"Possibly it didn't make sense to go about things in this way. Morell now started to feel that it might have been more worthwhile to reevaluate his previously held hypotheses. He might have been overthinking the matter from the start. Maybe there was no problem at all with Princess Cookie and she was still the same lovely girl as she had been in her youth. But, of course, it was almost painful to think so after having spent so many months psychoanalyzing her.

"This back-and-forth in his mind was getting to be too much. He had driven himself to near madness contemplating the possible reasons for her errant ways, without pausing once to question his own system of beliefs. But to do so now was devastating to his sense of self-assurance. He suddenly became dizzy. It was all so confusing. Had he unwittingly been a fraud all along? How terribly embarrassing it would be for a man known throughout the civilized world as the Great Prophet to watch his own belief system crumble at its very foundations. How could he possibly recover from this? How could he regain the faith of his disciples? Was it even worth the bother to keep up the charade? Most importantly, how could he have let this happen in the first place? Perhaps he had been so hopeful for a purity greater than his own that he had pounced upon the closest observable phenomenon to it—in this case, the seraphic and ebullient Cookie— and instilled his idealizations with such austerity and such earnest self-deception that his very faith served to be a mockery of itself. It seemed he had allowed both himself and his followers to chase after an illusion. He could not imagine a situation more disastrous! What was a Great Prophet to do? Well, it seemed now that there was but one recourse left to him: vast reforms would be necessary. But before this could be done, Princess Cookie still required his immediate attention.

"And so it was that Morell came finally to the diagnosis that Cookie was probably already the sort of person she needed to be: it may not have been necessary for her to regress to a lesser stage of maturity and there was similarly no need for her to recapture that same supposed moral rectitude that she, in a simpler time, may once have exhibited. Furthermore, it was conceivably myopic to expect undiminished probity from a mind so predisposed—as was especially the case with hers— to ambiguity by mere weight of the contradictions and vicissitudes which fell upon it. Thus, given the incredible limits of complexity and psychological diversity to which the human mind found itself capable of extending, it suddenly seemed to Morell that the idea of employing, without tolerance for deviation, some human-devised scheme of moral rectitude was about as nourishing to the human spirit as concrete to a forest. He, thus, decided that the time had come to make allowances in his pronouncements for variations in character among his disciples and to craft amendments in his texts which repealed any previously determined penalties for moral non-compliance. His ideas of spiritual perfection had, thus far, been somewhat stringent and unsympathetic, as many of the fundamentals underlying these doctrines had been adamantly based on the need for regression to a state of mind less tolerant of moral ambiguities. Without this need for psychological regression to a more childish state, his ideas might otherwise seem overly austere and perhaps, in some cases, even somewhat lacking in both dimension and cohesion. That is to say, his commandments would want conceivably for more sophistication, more nuance than they possessed in their existing, unaffected embodiments. Therefore, it was necessary to revise them.

"His experience with the enigmatic and troubled Princess Cookie seemed somehow to fill him with the need to be more compassionate to the inherent differences in moral composition that existed from person to person. There was a whole range of possible character types out there that he had never acknowledged previously. The unique needs of each individual could no longer be ignored. From now on, he knew that it was crucial that both he and his disciples be more accommodating toward each other's flaws, misdemeanors, and outright atrocities. He sought now to reform his own religion into one in which any and every action, however barbarous, could be plausibly reasoned as a misunderstood act, and be, therefore, justifiable. Was this showing too much flexibility? Perhaps, but it was also inviting inclusiveness amongst his followers: something which could only dramatically increase his numbers, particularly among those who had already erroneously written themselves off as being 'sinners.' Now, surely there would be hope for them too. This was a brilliant idea! And, once again, it was Princess Cookie he had to thank for bringing him to this newfound wisdom. Upon sharing this revelation with her, Princess Cookie was greatly relieved, for she had been extremely worried by Morell's initial assessment that she had allowed herself to become a despicable person. She had even gone so far as to convince herself to mend her ways. But now, upon hearing of his epiphany, she couldn't help but feel heartened by her ability to inspire the Great Prophet, even now, in her middle age. She had not been wrong all along. All was as it should have been.

"It, thus, occurred to Princess Cookie that she should simply have trusted her instincts to begin with: the findings of the august Morell were proof positive that she had not at all been misguided, even in her most recent behaviors. And thus, with the approval of the Great Prophet himself, the recklessness of Cookie's impulses met no formidable impasse for the next 82 years.

"However, her bliss would eventually sour to bitter resentment with the birth of her half-brother, Emmanuel, and then again, but to a lesser degree, with the birth of her younger half-sister, Sepia. However, I'll get into that latter bit soon enough. Let us now move on to the tale of Emmanuel..."

### * * *

"Prince Emmanuel, the middle of the 3 children, the favorite of his father, and heir apparent to the throne of Blueberry, was conceived approximately 150 years into Baxter's reign. King Baxter had, by this point in his rule, established himself as both a vibrant and virile king, whose rule over the land was eternal and unquestionable. Yet, in spite of his reputed vibrancy and virility, it seemed that Baxter had, for many years during his early reign, been unable to produce a male heir. Therefore, it was with the birth of the apple-cheeked prince that this overjoyed sovereign was helpless but to cave in to his unbridled adulation for the boy—an adulation evidently more profound than even that with which he had once showered his now-forgotten daughter, Princess Cookie.

"For the first few years, Baxter and his beloved son spent most of their time in each other's company, often partaking together of round-the-clock feedings from the young prince's all-star team of plump-breasted wet nurses. As matters grew stark on the frontier, however, Baxter's attentions were turned again to the trifling prattle of his generals. Though he was no longer able to join in the daily breastfeedings with the boy, he could never hope to deprive the child of this singular pleasure, to say nothing of any other attention and appeasement that his heart could possibly desire. Truly, Baxter wished for the boy to have a life free from conflict, burden, or disappointment, and he saw to it personally that every measure was taken in order that this should be made possible. Therefore, within the court, it became of utmost priority among all the nursemaids, menservants, lords, ladies, counts, countesses, dukes, duchesses, and jesters that the Prince be handled in such a way as would maximize his comfort and minimize his distress. If he wished to put his hand into a bubbling cauldron, he must be allowed to do so, but those allowing him to scald his hand in the boiling water were to be as severely punished as those attempting to stop him. The best result which could be had was to divert his attention, somehow, with something else. However, this was tantamount to condescension and therefore dealt with by the severest, most painful punishment possible. Naturally, in order to prevent the Prince from physical harm, the only recourse one could hope for was to undertake this last option and hope that no one noticed. In most cases, the court servants overlooked each other's attempts at condescension, in the hopes that the favor may be returned to them at a later date. Most often it was.

"For a long time, these orders were being carried out very much to the King's satisfaction, until the boy's mother began to interfere. It seemed that she had got it into her silly little head that her son was being spoiled terribly and that this treatment should inevitably turn out to his emotional detriment. She vehemently spoke to the king of the boy's growing sensitivity, impatience, and aggression. By the age of 5, the young Prince apparently had become prone to violent mood swings, fits of inexplicable depression, and lapses of mild schizophrenia. Moreover, his habits were going beyond even those of a peculiar child, verging quite possibly on obsession, perhaps even a psychosis of the most precocious variety, for certainly his odd tendencies showed a certain maturity. There was a strange sadness to him—a sadness which even adults of an advanced age would seem too inexperienced to bear, a sadness which bespoke an ancient and wounded soul tormented by bitter regret and self-recrimination, a sadness millennia-old and otherworldly of which he seemed sometimes proud. He wept frequently, collecting his tears in a silver goblet. Upon filling the cup, he would suddenly feel impelled to throw this saline fluid down his gullet, wipe his lips with a sweep of the fingers and weep again at the wretchedness of its taste. 'How can such a crude substance be of a divine source? What a wretched effluent is this!' He would say this between childish sobs and sometimes fall into a silent and serious meditation for hours on end, only emerging occasionally for a half-hearted breastfeeding with one of his wet nurses. The young, introspective psychotic had also somehow gained access to his own fingernail and toenail clippings—even though these were typically locked away from him in the drawers of wooden cabinets by his servants. He bound the trimmed nails by twine to create necklaces, bracelets, and other odd spiritual trinkets that he hung from doorways, window sills, and lantern fixtures. Occasionally, he would call for quiet and demand that his servants bow in reverence to these calcified idols, as he entreated them all to an extemporaneous chant consisting of various animal calls. If interrupted amidst his peaceful trance, he would fly into a violent rage, but if allowed to finish without diversion, he would end his incantation by shrugging to himself with a giggle and muttering, 'What does all this matter anyway, for such moments as these will be forgotten in the infinite expanse of time with the decaying of our flesh, the extinction of our species, the explosion of our Sun, and the imminent eradication of all human knowledge and endeavor from this tiny corner of the cold and indifferent Universe? Ascribing significance to any moment's actions would seem absurd. Yes, indeed. Now, I wonder if the court jester can teach me some new coin tricks. Where is he? Court Jester!' This enigmatic moment of prophecy would be followed with another happy-go-lucky giggle and a return to the doings and goings of a normal 5-year-old child.

"Upon observing Emmanuel for himself, the king found nothing terribly wrong, but was led to conclude that the boy's needs were not being attended to adequately and that even if there were any abnormalities worth addressing, it was the negative influence of his mother that was truly exacerbating them. There was only one way, of course, to deal with such a matter: Baxter had the meddlesome young harpy clapped in chains, had her shot from a catapult and into the infamous Valley of the Randy Heisenpigs, where she would inevitably be enticed into humiliating—albeit consensual— sexual congress with the ugly, pheromone-oozing beasts. On the day of her catapulting, Emmanuel watched quietly from under a canopy by his father's side, but he raised no objections, for he was certain that the queen would be happier with the Heisenpigs. Surely her physical and emotional needs would be satisfied in a way as they had never been before. There was a certain virtue to her seemingly disastrous fate. Even at such a young age he understood this. And he could wish for no greater satisfaction for his kind and loving birthmother.

"Through all of this, Princess Cookie, being the intuitive and observant older sister that she was, understood immediately that it was Emmanuel's utter insulation from physical, mental and emotional harm that had been heightening his sensitivity, lending greater volatility to his temperament, and further fueling his obsessive tendencies. At first, she said nothing, but merely watched, taking great delight in the interminable sadness and compulsions of her younger brother. In the meantime, Baxter's commandments regarding the care of his boy became even more specific, so as to prevent any more unnecessarily embarrassing episodes. He required that the prince's every need be anticipated in advance and immediately fulfilled until the very existence of need—even as a theoretical concept— had finally withered from mind: Emmanuel was, thus, to be fed at his slightest craving, but never to a sense of fullness that may cause discomfort; he was to be brought platters topped with fatty meats, sweets, and caramel-covered rice cakes on a quarter-hourly basis; he was never to be fed spices, oily dishes or otherwise any foods that might result in anything greater than mild indigestion; he was to be bathed in milk at a specified temperature of 333 degrees Balderkat three times daily; his skin was to be continually draped in silk and he was to be carried on cushions until he was at risk for getting bedsores—at which point he was either to be flipped over, or immersed in a tank of warm gel in the fetal position; when he looked as though he might soon be impelled to express some emotion requiring tears, the servants were to weep in his stead, and in a way that he might find amusing, and the bluebird of happiness was to be summoned immediately to croon for him until the threat of minor anguish has been properly averted; whenever he looked in the mirror out of concern for getting more obese than his father, he was to be reassured by his servants that this only showed that he had the ability to surpass even the greatness of His Majesty King Baxter. Over the course of this excessively delicate treatment, Emmanuel himself became a soft and sensitive individual, both physically and emotionally, but at the same time, he grew devoid of both passion and purpose for he came to think less and less of the cosmos that existed beyond those routines which orbited around him daily. Concurrent with this process of forgetting, his mental recognition of the external world grew hazier and hazier, until there existed for him no longer any comprehension of his place in the larger order of things; he came only to perceive the Universe in terms as basic and autonomic as his own involuntary reflexes. Thus, there remained within him an intuitive recognition of something called a universe which conceivably existed _external_ to him, but also a growing inability to conceptualize it with any greater sophistication than a baby in its initial stages of cognition. In spite of this, his sensitivity to changes in environmental stimuli became uncanny. His sensory perceptions grew particularly refined, for his palate could sense the tiniest grain of salt in a pot of water. His nose could pick out the subtlest fragrance of mikan growing in the trees of a kingdom far across the sea. His eyes were particular keen too, for he was able to detect the vibrations on a spider's web in the far corner of the throne room, as a gnat made aerial impact with its surface. In complement to the precision of his senses, his memory was also exceedingly sharp, for he could remember the exact placement of hairs on the head of the royal jester enough that he would insist on arranging the scrappy little man's hair in exactly the same fashion as he remembered it previous.

"As he grew into adolescence, Emmanuel started to become extremely insecure and paranoid about a great many things. He sometimes claimed to hear whispered insults about him even when no one was present. The servants turned the room over searching for the mysterious offender, but could find no one. Upon telling this to Emmanuel, the young prince would become immediately sensitive. 'I suppose you think I made this up. Or maybe you are thinking right now that I have become so massive and obese that the perpetrator is hiding somewhere between my stomach flaps, or maybe even in my shadow. Yes, I suppose he is merely hiding in my shadows whispering insults whenever the opportunity presents itself.'

"In spite of this attempt at sarcasm, later inspections of the room proved this last assertion on the part of Emmanuel to have been the case all along. The perpetrator was, in fact, a grizzled-looking man who had an eye patch and a dusty old surcoat, and who had been hiding in Emmanuel's vast shadow for apparently quite some time. Nobody could recognize the man, much less figure out how he had gained access to a prince so tightly guarded. Whatever the case, the peculiar little man, upon being picked up by his collar out of the shadows by one of the guards, merely brushed the dust off the shoulders of his broad-collared surcoat, bowed brusquely in front of his audience and introduced himself as the Marquis de Limon. 'Frightfully sorry, old chap, just having a spot of fun at your expense. Jolly good sport you were, but must admit I feel like a bit of a tit for having a go at you like that for so long. Do forgive, gentle sir, do forgive! Dear, oh dear! What an insufferable embarrassment it is to be exposed in such a manner for my wrongdoings! Dragged right up from the depths of the shadows even! Stay your hand, wicked guardsman! Stay it, I say! I shall not raise up any further slander against your master, nor shall I inflict any harm greater than that of a bruised ego, for doing any more than this was never my intention. I must say, however, I cannot help but feel now rather ashamed of this failed attempt at stealth mockery. Rather weak-willed, I suppose. An offender must be willing to face those he seeks to offend, or at least that's what the old governess used to tell us when I was a lad. She tried to raise me right, she did, but I turned out an amoral and spineless and self-indulgent libertine. Can you blame me for having no greater aspiration than that of pure and simple recreation? I suppose others might judge the choices I've made in life unfavorably without once having been in my situation. Of course, as you can see, times have been a little tough lately on those of us with gambling debts to contend with. I took up the mockery game as a bit of a diversion as I took hiding from my creditors in the shadow of yon prince. The occasion to do so presented itself during a game of cards with some of the King's other guests. That was 7 years ago and I've not left his side since.'

"The young prince was nearly moved to tears by the unmistakable devotion of this new friend who'd stayed 7 years by his side! When his servants finished weeping for joy on his behalf, Emmanuel spoke to the Marquis de Limon in a gentle and curious tone, 'Have you never been as bored with my days as I have? The endless breastfeedings, the bland cooking, the lounging around: my routines seem dull and purposeless to me and yet, I sense that those who encourage me most enthusiastically to carry on with them are the very same who despise me most. I feel like the people around me are simply going through the motions without a sense of genuineness. They are performing their prescribed duty, without passion, without a sense of absorption in the moment, as though it is a job to be done, while their minds are Elsewhere, on other matters that concern them more greatly. Presumably, for them, their time with me is something to be gotten through. If this is so, I find it dreadful! Who wants to live such a life in which one is waiting for some moment to end in the hopes of enduring another? Perhaps I am mistaken in my assumptions, though I doubt that this is the case. Have you not sensed the same in your time with me? Do you not sense, as I do, that these people around me live not genuinely in the moment, but rather genuinely in spite of the moment?'

"'Dear Prince,' the dusty man said, replacing his erstwhile tone of urbane arrogance with a certain frankness rooted in seeming devotion to his liege, 'Your fears are possibly justified, but they are also irrelevant. It matters not what they think, nor to what ends your underlings aspire with comical impotence. The one to fear is your older sister, for her eyes view you with inextinguishable malice. She wishes for you to suffer greatly. She has watched you from afar, refusing to intercede in situations which she knew would cause you intense psychological damage, and instead she has reveled in the hollow fruits yielded of her own inaction. This sense of hollowness, surely, is something you have felt continually, thus you possess no awareness of the sort of bliss which could be nurtured by its heartening antonym. She has made it this way, has made it so that you should never experience this sensation we call _fulfillment:_ I have no doubt about this. Sire, you might have difficulty understanding what I mean, for the utter absence of purpose and fulfillment in your life has made you into a strange, inert being, a non-entity perhaps. Again, this is no fault of your own. Your father is well-intentioned, but he does not understand the depth of your emotional turmoil. She, on the other hand, empathizes with it fully, but, in her infinite betrayal, has allowed it to carry on unfettered for many years. This might come as a surprise to you, but then, you possibly do not know very much about her. I, unfortunately, have known her for a very long time; have lost both my left eye and my dignity on account of it, for, you see, I was once one of her suitors. Perhaps I should explain further...' With this, the Marquis explained to Prince Emmanuel the way things had been in Blueberry prior to his birth. The servants stood around, meanwhile, eyeing each other nervously, unsure of what the best course of action would be to avoid the wrath of their king. This disquieting alliance had great potential to bring ruin either to the king or his progeny, perhaps even to both.

"During all this time, Princess Cookie had confined her activities to a remote chamber in the south wing of the palace, where she met with her closest advisors, who reported on the general affairs of the kingdom, the most recent developments in her father's wars, and the psychological condition of her brother. Unbeknownst to the rest of the royal family, she had been forging alliances with the enemies of Blueberry and funneling money out from their treasury, in the hopes of usurping the throne by force before her younger brother could reach an age in which dispensing of him should prove a formidable task. However, upon hearing the news that one of her former suitors had become the exclusive confidante of Prince Emmanuel, she was thrown into a frenzied rage. 'A pox upon Marquis de Limon!' she proclaimed awkwardly to her advisors as she paced back and forth in front of her ruby throne. She put a finger to her chin. 'Something must be done about this. I wonder how his creditors would feel knowing that he is being given safe haven by the prince. Most likely, an example would need to be made of them both. And from what I've heard, the debt he owes is quite massive. Perhaps, we can kill two birds with one stone. A debt this large should be more than sufficient to justify an act of regicide against my sweet brother.' At the conclusion of this misplaced narration to her advisors, Princess Cookie became oddly excited, giggling delightfully as she had on the day when the Marquis had, with metal chopsticks, tossed his eye toward the lily pad and missed.

"Unfortunately, however, the princess had failed to consider just how much of a shine Emmanuel had taken to the Marquis. Upon informing the creditors of the Marquis's whereabouts, she was shocked to hear that they had already previously been granted an audience with the prince and had received full payment for the debt with interest from the Royal Treasury. She retreated back to the remote chamber in the south wing, defeated, but not completely disheartened. Admittedly, she hadn't put much thought into her plan, expecting the details to sort themselves out with very little or no effort. To think so was perhaps a little naïve. Clearly, more sophisticated measures would be necessary to eliminate this threat! Most important of all, however, was timing. She had to wait for the right moment to come...and surely it would.

"Meanwhile, ecstatic at the generous spirit of the prince, the Marquis de Limon pledged to remain by his side as his most loyal advisor. The two became great friends and it wasn't long before Emmanuel's expression achieved a similar brightness and bliss as that which had oft been evinced by Princess Cookie in the spring of her youth. The playful Marquis brought the young Emmanuel out of his shell and inspired him further with a certain delight for the mischievous. It soon became the case that whenever there was a sudden accident, explosion, poisoning or general humiliation anywhere in the vicinity of the palace, odds were generally in favor of it being a consequence of some practical joke the two had devised.

"Emmanuel once even sent a prank decree from the throne declaring that all temples, monasteries, and churches were to abandon religious affiliation with their trifling gods, in favor of declaring allegiance to a newer, more almighty god by the name of Haraguroi—the scrolls upon which the decrees were written even included an absurd four-color illustration of the roguish deity, which seemingly possessed the head of a Koalafish, the body of an anopheline Dove, wings like a Dragon and thirteen retractable legs similar in appearance to those of a Chelonian Giraffe. To carry the ridiculous farce even further, Marquis de Limon started making surprise inspections of the various religious institutions to ensure that the king's supposed decree was being carried out to their satisfaction. He insisted that all heretics of their new religion be tortured, though he didn't have the stomach to have them all killed for the sake of a joke. Surprisingly, the response to the gag was rather positive, as many of the people of Blueberry found this sham religion much more reasonable and far less severe than that with which they had been faced previously—for one thing, all thitherto heretics had been killed, their blood drained from their bodies in order to paint the mountainsides facing the palace: a holdover from the days when Princess Cookie had had her inexplicable affinity for the color red. Therefore, this ambiguous new faith unexpectedly met with terrific success. Even though this went against their original intentions, both Emmanuel and the Marquis de Limon found a kind of invigorating hilarity in the success of their deception and so they laughed and laughed endlessly in the prince's personal quarters. Emmanuel's menservants were surprised to see their prince in this new light. Never had they seen him giggle so much, never had they imagined that he should be possessed of such a pronounced sense of humor.

"Their pranks got larger in scale and more intricate as time went on. Sometimes, they were two-pronged: Emmanuel and Marquis de Limon undertook a journey by mountain louse through the snowy peaks and passes of the Roquentin-011235 range. Encountering loner mystics, cannibalistic highwaymen, and mercenary guardian angels along the way, they goaded these peculiar entities to trek with them to liberate the female sex slaves held prisoner by an Emperor Long-dong of the Republic of Bonerland. The Emperor, they claimed, was currently engaged in a battle within the borders of Blueberry against King Baxter's invincible legions. Thus, this seemed the perfect time to strike. However, the keys to the chambers imprisoning the slaves were kept on a chain around the neck of Emperor Long-dong; in order to retrieve them, it would be necessary to slay him first.

"So it was that this motley gang the jokesters had assembled snuck into the enemy camp at night, gained access to the emperor's tent, and plunged 15 razor sharp katara into Long-dong's chest. Unfortunately, and to their dismay, the man these poor rubes assumed would be Long-dong turned out to be King Baxter of Blueberry. Their liege had been on the frontier with his generals putting down a resistance within his own ranks. Possibly, the ease with which they had gained access to his tent had much to do with the fact that the sentries recognized Prince Emmanuel and let him pass through the camp unhindered. The Prince and the Marquis, having once again succeeded in their practical joke on both their fellow travelers and on the king, got a good laugh out of it. Unfortunately for the Marquis, however, Baxter survived the attempt on his life and had young Emmanuel's friend clapped in chains and imprisoned in a guard tower near the palace of Blueberry.

"Prince Emmanuel pleaded with his father to release his closest advisor, insisting that the assassination attempt had been his own idea but Baxter was unwilling to listen. Even though the 15 stabs in his chest had all somehow missed vital organs, he still could not forgive an attack against the throne by a commoner, whether or not it was done for the sake of levity. He, like his son, could appreciate a good joke, even when it emerged from the deepest pits of depravity, but it was necessary to send a message to all the practical jokers in the kingdom that this sort of behavior was unacceptable. To think that this foul anarchist had even gone so far as to manipulate the prince—well, it was evident that this inversion to the divine right had to be remedied so that the natural order of human events could be restored without godly reprisal. The only way Baxter could think to do this was by asserting authority over the Marquis's will in such a way as would induce him to commit heinous acts and atrocities beyond even his own sense of limitation. However, the king, being a wholly uncreative individual, was not at all sure how to go about doing so. If he had known that the Marquis had once been manipulated to extract his own eyeball by Princess Cookie, he might have sought her counsel. Of course, he had no such knowledge, so he merely pondered the matter fruitlessly with his advisors, pained by their collective lack of originality.

"When word got back to Princess Cookie about the recent attempt upon her father's life, she found herself wondering if Marquis de Limon had sought to manipulate her brother as a form of revenge on her. If this was the case, she couldn't help but feel slightly impressed. She had never found herself intellectually attracted to a man before, but somehow the actions of this diabolical libertine had stirred something inside. One night, she clad herself in a robe and visited the Marquis clandestinely at the guard tower, in the hopes of ascertaining his true intentions.

"'I have no time for guests. I require sleep...' the bleary-eyed Marquis muttered immediately upon seeing her face peep in through the tiny sliding window of the cell door. He was lying uncomfortably on his side in the corner of the room. Clearly his attempts at sleep, thus far, had proven unsuccessful. 'Have you no words with me?' Cookie replied to him with a wicked smile. 'After all, I can only assume that it is on my account that you are here to begin with.' The Marquis sat up lazily, put his knees to his chest and laughed tiredly at this, 'Dear princess, I have, in my many nights, seen dying stars of untold luminosity. They implode to indistinguishable blackness in a way unlikely to attract attention, and soon, they are forgotten. Their demise is imminent and no external components need be involved with it. In fact, their extinguishment could be said to have been a precondition of their existence. I can die here peacefully in this cell with this knowledge.' 'What nonsense is this?' she demanded. The Marquis laughed in response to this, leaning his head back against the stone wall of his cell. 'I have no time for guests. I require sleep...' he murmured in a voice emanating from the depths of unwieldy torpor, a monotone voice which made her feel as though he regarded her a stranger.

"In a huff, Cookie immediately sought out her father, whom she knew was still up late consulting with advisors, deciding the Marquis's penalty (apparently this had now taken precedence over the military uprising on the frontier). 'I have an idea,' Cookie cried out sharply as she burst in through the heavy doors of the throne room. The guards jumped at the shrillness of her voice. She continued to her father's side post-haste, without pausing to see if her interruptions were even welcomed, 'The uprising to our west still remains a threat. I am correct in concluding this, yes?' She was out of breath, but she proceeded to speak with greater intensity, 'It is my belief that this insurgency is receiving financial and military support from our adversaries. Do not ask me how I know this: I have my sources. Anyway, we now have a potential operative at our disposal who might be useful in disposing of some of the key military strategists behind this rebellion. I mean the Marquis de Limon, of course! I say we should make good use of this asset. All we would need to do is to get him into the general's tent with enough explosives to wipe out everyone within a 50-meter radius, and we'll have crushed the head of the snake.'

"She put up a finger emphatically and barked in stern reproach toward anyone even contemplating the possibility of raising an objection to her proposal, 'Please! May I finish? Before you say anything, just hear me out. Now I am told that you have all been brainstorming ways to coerce the Marquis de Limon to commit an atrocity beyond his own sense of limitation in order to restore balance to the divine right of the king. I trust you have not come to any decisions about this yet. This is why I bring my idea before you now.'

"She turned to Baxter and the tone of her voice, suddenly shifted from stern to suppliant, 'Dear father, I believe this would be the most effective way to do it; and, furthermore, the most heroic way to make an example of the traitorous Marquis! The plan could be easily carried out if it is well-executed. The only thing that requires consideration is how he would infiltrate the rebel camp without arousing suspicion. I have considered this as well. It would certainly seem suspicious if he went by himself. Especially being the sort of individual he is, he wouldn't fit in there. There are barely any stakes to be had through gambling among the legionaries in that camp, barely any women in their proximity worth marking for conquest. A man so addicted to the excesses of aristocratic living as the Marquis would have no motivation to be there. No...he would need a specific reason to arrive in their camp and mix with the soldiers. Perhaps, he would be seeking their protection, after having enraged the king. Perhaps he could claim to have escaped the prison tower, for the purposes of seeking asylum. This might earn their favor enough to get him into the camp, but it wouldn't get him into the general's tent where he needs to be. No...it would be necessary for him to make himself somehow valuable to the officers. But how? Well, dear father, I have thought about this. You might not like the idea I am about to propose—why it agonizes me terribly to even entertain the notion—but I was thinking that the Marquis de Limon could take along a hostage. That is to say, his story, as far as they are concerned, would be that he had escaped the prison tower and thereupon taken a member of the royal family hostage in order to ensure his own safety.'

"She paused to catch her breath, scanning her father's expression for disapproval. He looked uncertain, but not entirely against what she was saying. 'A member of the royal family as a hostage...' Baxter sighed. 'Surely you don't mean that _you_ should accompany him.'

"The princess smiled in feigned meekness, 'Oh dear me, no. I haven't the courage. As you well know, I am far too delicate for such a journey. I was thinking maybe Emmanuel could go...' She said this slowly, knowing very well the sort of response this would elicit at first. Baxter began shifting in his chair uncomfortably as sweat poured from his brow. He called out angrily for a servant in a voice so harsh and belligerent that Cookie almost felt frightened that this wrath should soon be turned upon her. Of course it wasn't. When the servant brought a towel for the king, he dabbed at his forehead and his breath expired in a halting shudder.

"'Emmanuel, you... you say. Well... the bo—the boy is... er... special. What's more, he's my successor. I fear for his... his safety.' She had expected this sort of blunt, inarticulate reply from her father.

"Stepping forward, firm in her resolve, she spoke to him in a calm, calculated voice, 'All the more reason he should go. This is how others see him as well: weak and defenseless. He will surely be seen this way by the enemy too, but I assure you he is not. He is just as courageous, just as much a man as his father, for did he not just spearhead an assassination attempt against you?' The King mumbled to himself uncertainly, but slightly less averse to the idea than before. The princess knew that a part of him liked what he was hearing about his son. It was much more agreeable to his pride to bask in the sweetness of her lies than it was to acknowledge the harsh truth that his son was truly as vulnerable as most saw him.

"Cookie knew she was making headway. And so she persisted, 'Father, Prince Emmanuel must go along with the Marquis and pretend to be his hostage. I am confident that he has the strength of will to carry this mission through to its conclusion. It would behoove us all to have faith in this. Meanwhile, once the Marquis has gained the trust of the leaders of the rebellion, he can detonate the explosives. When everyone is dead, Emmanuel will return to the palace a hero of our people. And I will be only too happy to plan the welcome ceremony, the parade, and the banquet. Young virgins shall line the streets offering themselves to the prince; there will be tanks of wine within which poets and minstrels shall be submerged so as to spark inspiration for all the impromptu sonnets and ballads which shall soon be written about the heroism of King Emmanuel the Brave; Randy Heisenpigs shall be brought in and made to entice petty criminals into performing humiliating sexual favors for them on a stage in the main square; Trumpets shall sound and snare drums and cymbals and shamisen, as the vile drunkards laugh and sing and pile on venereal disease-ridden peasant women and climb the banners hanging from the highest inner wall of the castle courtyard to emerge at the top and scream to the heavens of their good fortune at being ruled over by the wisest and fairest and bravest of sovereigns the gods, in their almighty wisdom, could possibly fashion, and then these lush ruffians shall be pulled down from their perches, lashed by silverback gorillas with whips, and finally impaled mercilessly by guardsmen with spears: it will be a delightful affair, like one of your military triumphs! At the banquet, we shall feast on special red lichen pastries in the shape of Emmanuel's pudgy little head: these will be made by chefs brought in from the Outlands; dried Gnat gizzards will be shipped in from the southern provinces and we shall eat them in milk like cereal; and our old friend the Prophet Morell shall join in the festivities, too, bringing a large variety of psychotropic substances and showering his blessings upon all. Dear father, happy times shall come to Blueberry again! The rise of Emmanuel is imminent!'

"The king rubbed his chin with some reservation, 'Interesting proposition, but let's get back to the explosion in the tent. My concern is for the prince's safety during the detonation. Surely he will be somewhere close by when the bomb goes off. I think it should be difficult to predict whether or not he will be able to break free from his captors. So, how can we ensure that he will not be wounded or killed in the blast? I cannot think of any way in which we could absolutely prevent this from happening. Surely, dear daughter, you have considered an effective countermeasure for this, as well, have you not? Please tell me you have something in mind! Because if there are no provisions that can ensure his well-being with 100% certainty...' he trailed off expectantly.

"Princess Cookie forced a saccharine smile in an attempt to offset the panic apparent in her voice, 'W-well, yes. I have considered this as well. There is a limited...blast radius, but I suppose it would... be best... to err on the side of caution. Yes, yes...' She paused for a second and took a deep breath. 'I...have consulted with my own advisors and spoken to various... explosives... experts on the matter and... it...... turns out that... rodent's fur—yes, rodent's fur— can withstand the impact of any modern explosive device. So, as long as we see to it that Emmanuel is fitted with the appropriate protective wear, this should not prove to be a problem. Or, at least, so say the experts...'

"The king looked quizzically to his advisors, 'Rodent's fur? Is that so?' The advisors looked at each other silently for a moment. The princess bit her lip, praying that her gamble would pay off. Fortunately for her, all the king's men, for fear of appearing unknowledgeable before their leader, nodded unanimously in assent and endorsed Cookie's idea with nervous applause.

"The king was pleased by this, 'Well then...' he said, 'I must say this idea does sound rather foolproof. So, all we have to do is clothe Emmanuel in rodent's fur from head-to-toe and he should be quite safe. Am I right? Well, my dear, you have thought of everything. A grand idea it is! So... we shall have a suit of rodent's fur made for our young Emmanuel. Just for Emmanuel, not this Limon character. Summon our best tailors. I want the costume firmly stitched. No mistakes are to be made!' Upon announcing this to his advisors, Baxter took Cookie's delicate hand in his own and whispered with a rejuvenated smile, 'Wonderful idea, my darling. Absolute genius...you have done me proud today. Thank you for this. I cannot imagine what I would ever do without you.' At this, Princess Cookie giggled and bowed before her father, happy again to delight in his affections.

"Upon hearing the news of his upcoming mission with Marquis de Limon, Emmanuel's concern for his own safety was overshadowed by his exhilaration at being both reunited with his friend and clad in a costume of rodent's fur. He very much liked wearing costumes, but had few opportunities to do so, as his father had no great fancy for costume balls. All the same, no matter how exciting this new adventure sounded, he also remained dimly aware of its potential hazards. The Marquis was probably putting his own life in danger for the sake of the prince. Emmanuel appreciated his friend's infinite loyalty to him, but also understood intuitively that any casualties which should come of this endeavor would inevitably be for the Greater Good. That was simply the nature of the situation. At any rate, Emmanuel was confident that his friend would not perish in this mission. Marquis de Limon, if he excelled at nothing else in this world, was a genius when it came down to a question of his own survival. This rare skill could possibly be attributed to the Marquis's seemingly uncanny ability to assess each situation and respond to it in a manner that would maximize his chances at self-preservation (the 7-years' refuge he took in Emmanuel's shadow being but one example of this). Of course, Emmanuel didn't know what to expect on this mission, but he was sure that, however things turned out, the Marquis would be fine.

"The day of departure soon came upon them, and found Prince Emmanuel clothed from head-to-toe in the guise of a squirrel. He would have preferred a hamster costume, but it seemed that the samples of hamster fur available to the tailors were not of the right colors to embroider, with any modicum of authenticity, the official royal seal of Blueberry upon the front and back of the Prince's torso section; of course, there was some talk among the tailors of using dyes on the furs to create the necessary colors, but this was more or less said in the hopes of eliciting laughter from one another, for none of them would ever dream of doing something so vulgar to an article of clothing that was meant for royalty—certainly not at the expense of their own lives, for it would surely be their lives to pay and nothing less, had they the foolish audacity to defraud any member of the royal family with regard to the materials used in the creation of any garment, irrespective of its purpose. Thus, they resorted to squirrel's fur, because of the wide range of natural colors this material afforded them.

"Disappointed by this concession, Emmanuel was adamant in his pleas to his father that the squirrel's fur be used, at the very least, to fashion a hamster costume. Unfortunately for him, his arguments were brushed aside gently and with a hearty laugh, for the king understood far better than this young successor-to-be the need for a ruler to maintain a certain faithfulness to detail in his sense of decorum, whatever the circumstances and however arbitrary said _decorum_ should prove to be. The prince failed to comprehend his father's reasoning, but, seeing that Baxter was thoroughly ensconced in his position regarding the sort of costume to be made, finally resigned himself to this disheartening outcome after a brief bout of silent glumness. It conflicted with his own intuition of what was inherently in his best interests, but he also knew that no matter how much he struggled to abide by his own sense of rightness and to proceed in a direction which sought its fulfillment, by and by his father would have his way: a squirrel costume, by every measure, it would be.

"In any case, Emmanuel's disappointment proved to be rather short-lived. Upon being reunited with Marquis de Limon at the prison complex on the morning of their departure, Emmanuel, in his excitement, almost immediately forgot about his prior protests and attempted to scurry playfully up the side of the stone wall of the prison tower as though he were actually a squirrel. Of course, his attempts at doing so were almost laughably unsuccessful: his paws scuffed furiously over the rough surface of the stone, and the center of gravity from his massive, clumsy frame pulled him forward at least two or three times, causing him to bump his elbows awkwardly against the whole structure, thereby evoking frustrated expirations of breath. Marquis de Limon laughed delightfully at this curious display, but said nothing.

"The Marquis's gaze turned to the blue skies overhead, from which cotton clouds hung: smooth and opaque at their cores, yet transparent and in white-blue wisps at extremities. He half-closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the summer sun against his face. The only sound breaking the tranquil calm was that of crows suddenly calling to each other from the spires overhead. Their caws echoed throughout the vacant spaces between the towers and the high stone walls which surrounded the prison complex to produce an effect like seeming laughter. In spite of the new commotion this created, the Marquis's odd sense of calm was sufficient to halt young Emmanuel's attempts at ascension, turn him around, and bring him solemnly back to the Marquis's side. Behind the prince, the bushy tail of his squirrel's costume—stuffed with feathers on the inside— fluttered in sporadic gusts of wind. Upon noticing, up close and for the very first time, the look of utter peace which had overtaken the Marquis's face, the boy said nothing, but instead began to look frantically around him, flailing his appendages about in jerking motions, as though he were suddenly prompted from on high to take on the mannerisms and instinctual behaviors of an actual squirrel. The squirrel-prince bounded forward on all fours, peeked at a nearby guard, and then bounded away in as jittery a fashion as his slow-moving, doughy physique would allow. The servants, guardsmen, and advisors all looked at each other quizzically. They were a peculiar pair—the Marquis and Emmanuel—and, today, both decidedly more so than usual.

"The silence forged between the two outside the prison tower prevailed throughout the journey as well. Emmanuel spoke not a word, but did his damnedest, despite alarming inconsistencies in his portrayal, to stay in character—running up to trees on the tops of the rolling green hillsides, scouring the ground around them for acorns, and scuffing his paws up against the rough bark of cedars; Marquis, meanwhile walking and leading his mountain louse by the reins, seemed distant, yet content in a way that Emmanuel had never seen him. His eyes were fixed on the Roquentin-011235 mountain range on the horizon.

"Between fits of wild franticness, the prince paused to consider the Marquis's behavior, wondering if, in his utter desperation, the prospect of being a suicide bomber brought him an unspeakable joy. Perhaps, he had grown despondent during his brief imprisonment in the tower and now looked forward to ending his life. This was possible, but it seemed unlikely. The Marquis had never been the sort who would contemplate suicide: he was, in his very nature, a survivalist. No, there must have been another reason.

"Perhaps if it wasn't suicidal bliss, then it was because the Marquis was at peace with the punishment being enacted upon him by the king. Yes, he could have surrendered himself to the will of his sovereign in penance for having inverted the Divine Right. Again, this was possible, but it did not befit the Marquis to resign himself blissfully to this judgment without attempting to take flight. After all, this—again— was the same man who had once hid from his creditors for many years in Emmanuel's massive shadow! Thus, if this penalty of retribution left him no leeway for appeal, he would certainly have tried to escape by now.

"Still, there remained a third possibility: the prospect that his cheerful acquiescence to these circumstances was his way of settling his personal debt of obligation to Emmanuel. Emmanuel had used money from the Royal Treasury and paid off all the Marquis's financial debts in one fell swoop. In spite of this, he had never, in the years since, asked for anything in return save for the Marquis's undying comradeship. And it seemed likely that even someone with as heinous a moral character as the Marquis would, over the course of years, find himself overwhelmed by his own guilt after having had so much done for him, yet having been asked so little in return. Thus, perhaps this strange contentment he possessed now was derived from his soon-to-come freedom from the shame of obligation, the weight of which had hung heavily upon him these many years as an amoral libertine.

"Of all these, this third possibility seemed the fairest and most virtuous to the prince. Emmanuel did not know what truly lay beneath the amiable face of his companion, but decided in his heart that this third and last possibility was the most heroic, and thus, the best he could hope for from his long-time friend.

"On the fifth evening of their trek, they stopped at a countryside inn. The owner was a tall lanky man with black hair and a thick mustache. He was clad in an oversized white frilly apron which wrapped loosely around his waist. Apart from this, he wore nothing else: no shirt, no footwear. What's more, his apron appeared drenched in sweat and he gave off a pungent body odor, the likes of which neither the Marquis, nor the boy had ever experienced. Was this how the commoners lived?

"Sitting silently at their table, the Marquis de Limon caught the eye of a peculiar little man with an amused expression. The man wore chainmail over his chest, but his arms were completely uncovered aside from the thick forests of black hair which adorned them. Hair also extended up from the under the chainmail to his neck and ended abruptly at the tip of a sharp, angular chin, from whose vertex the skin of his face descended again towards his mouth to take on a smoothness, uninterrupted by even a single follicle of hair. His face and the top of his head were completely hairless, but the side of his head was wrapped in braids of hair which surrounded his cranium at least a half a dozen times, but not enough to conceal the bald portion which projected out at the top. He had a provincial accent when he spoke, 'Boy o'er der go'im de Royal Seal, I rek'n.' Across from him sat a boorish-looking man who held a bowl to his face and gnawed at the cartilage of the bird bones within. 'Me uncle ee-is,' the chainmail man said, 'Awlays gin'n me bad advice, 'im. Don' need me nun'o dat meddlin', spesh nun wit'is brand o' nunsenscal musing. Pain'n de ars, really! Awlays dishin it wit'unwavering certitude.' His gaze fell on Emmanuel, 'Oy lad, yon Royal Seal's metinks only f'royalty. Y'bring yon Royal Guard 'pon'us.'

"The man's uncle added between grunts and crunches in a much clearer tone, 'My nephew... _crunch_... believes... _ahhhh_...the Royal Seal you bear... _slurp_...will bring the Royal Guard upon us... _crunch._ But he is concerned... _mmmm_... unnecessarily, for... _slurp slurp_...in spite of his diminutive size, he... _smack smack_... has been trained in every martial art known to man and has the most effective weapons training... _crunch crunch...ahhhh_...ever imparted upon any human being... _crunch crunch_...He is, in fact, the most dangerous man in the world... _crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch_...' The sounds of the uncle's eating became quicker and more intense in that latter bit.

"Marquis de Limon looked briefly at Emmanuel, who seemed uninterested in this exchange, before finally speaking up after these three days of silence, 'The boy is Prince Emmanuel of Blueberry, and I am accompanying him on a diplomatic mission. We will not bring the guard upon you and there is no need for you, good sir, to showcase your martial arts training in our midst. We have simply come for a place to eat and rest, and we shall soon be on our way without bringing hindrance upon you or this establishment.'

"'Hah! D'prince. Likely storeeeee...' the most dangerous man in the world cackled, 'D'prince's a bloody mental case, fr'mwat I'ear! D'boy 'ere luks paaaaaaaarfactly nurmul.'

"The boorish uncle lowered his bowl and wiped chunks of bone from his thick gray beard. He had a big belly and curly, greasy hair. He said in a clear and intelligent voice, 'Pardon my intrusion, but perhaps it would behoove you to take my nephew along on your diplomatic mission for protection. It might be an educational experience for him, and you will undoubtedly find him a most loyal bodyguard, Sire. Pardon his mannerisms. His upbringing was incredibly ignorant. I advised him often to study the common tongue of Blueberry, but he and his father were not easily sidetracked from their obsessions with the martial arts. He would have made a fine tradesman like myself, if he had put his mind to studying accounting, but sadly all we can do now is use this poor imbecile as muscle to collect on outstanding debts. Regardless, I will be only too happy to hire him out to your Majesty for a modest sum. Or, for none at all, if it so pleases the Crown.'

"The most dangerous man in the world shook his fist at his uncle, 'Thetswut ahm tuuukin'bout. Awlays meddlin!'

"The innkeeper arrived with bowls of an indistinguishable blue meat, putting each in front of the prince and the Marquis. Emmanuel looked helplessly at bowl and then at the Marquis, who understood, without having to be asked, that the boy still sought to stay in character. 'The prince would like a bowl of chestnuts. Crack them for him, if you could. His teeth are a little tender from this day's foraging.' He then turned to the meddling uncle and said, 'Let us speak about this in the kitchen.' So, they made for the kitchen, already speaking in whispers, while the squirrel prince and the most dangerous man in the world remained seated at their respective tables, not terribly interested in the prospect of interacting with one another.

"When the two men returned an hour later, they were laughing and patting each other on the backs like old friends. Even the lanky owner of the restaurant accompanied them, as though the trio were in on some inside joke that only existed between them. Looking upon this cachinnating triad of conspirators, the most dangerous man in the world uttered to the wide-eyed boy, 'This's de weh de wurl waaaarks me laddie. We each seek t'haf our own by sum measure, yet it's na ourz t'haf.'

"The laughter continued through the evening and the night, as the three men drank mead together, clinked mugs, but never quite went so far as to speak. In fact, no words passed between them at all: just brief grunts or utterances, followed by sporadic waves of hysterical laughter, as though some new information or stimulus had made itself present in the grunts themselves, or in the subtle pauses that lingered between each grunt. Emmanuel soon grew tired of this display and decided to make his way to the bedroom they had reserved for the night. Somewhere amidst the intermittent deluges of boffola which sloshed back and forth in the main room, challenging the wooden support beams, soaking even through the walls of the bedroom itself to drip inanely to the floors below, the boy finally drifted to sleep.

"Early the next morning, the prince, Marquis de Limon, and the most dangerous man in the world set out for the Roquentin-011235 mountain range. The Marquis continued giggling to himself, though he said nothing to Emmanuel or the dangerous man about what was prompting this behavior. The most dangerous man in the world became immediately very sensitive, 'Me smell gettin' t'yu, cap'n?" He sniffed at his arm hair and then from the long beard which hung down solely from his jowls. Despite being a tough and unrelenting individual, the most dangerous man in the world was also incredibly self-conscious about his body odor, so he often tried his best to avoid letting others be anywhere downwind of him. On this day, however, it seemed the wind direction changed frequently and he was helpless to prevent his stench from reaching the noses of his new employers. 'Means t'do sumtin bout it I do. Means t'do...Duna wut'is bes'tho.'

"At this, the Marquis suddenly ceased giggling and his face became vicious, 'Your uncle did not hire out the use of your big stupid goddamn mouth. You'll keep it shut if you know what's good for you!' Emmanuel, who had been ready to scurry towards another tree, suddenly jerked to attention. He expected that the most dangerous man in the world would not like being spoken to in this way and should, thus, have no choice but to react violently. However, there was no blowback from this sudden verbal assault; instead, the man's face looked suddenly dejected, as though he had been scolded for doing something wrong, or more appropriately, as though he had been bullied for doing nothing at all wrong. In lieu of pity, Emmanuel laughed joyfully at this and gave Marquis a look of approval. In the short-term this sort of behavior might have seemed wretched, but one did not know what its long-term effects would be. Conceivably, the Marquis's belligerent attitude toward the most dangerous man in the world would be purposeful in this mission.

"The boy's assumptions were confirmed when the three of them finally arrived in the tent of General Shintaro, the leader of the resistance. 'What we have here, gentlemen,' the Marquis claimed with undiminished confidence, 'is a stunning piece of ironic malevolence. A fierce, yet vulnerable beast—instinctually wicked, yet easily controlled—in short, an entity which can single-handedly shatter any Empire to its foundations. I have spent only a few days' time with the man, but time enough to recognize his lethal prowess. At times, potent venom spews from the hairs of his jowls and breast, infusing all, trapped in the mist of its confidence-reducing droplets, with an unshakable sense of self-loathing. Occasionally, it is him who is immediately wrought with an irrational sense of inferiority and whose movements become lethargic and dejected, for any thoughts of courage soon effervesce away in tiny bubbles of fear. He has known not of his effects upon others or himself, but has always assumed his victory in all aggressive interactions to come about due to his laughable martial arts skills. His uncle has been his handler, until now, but that small-minded old goat has not been perceptive enough to see the far-reaching capabilities of this scrawny scrap of menace. I see his potential and am not afraid to talk in front of him about what he is capable of doing, for he remains still within our control. I would like very much to hand him over to you in return for your guarantee of safety, but I would advise you to immediately charge your military technologists with the task of containing him, so that he does not pose an unnecessary threat.'

"Through all this, General Shintaro sat in his chair with a fist against his chin, looking at Emmanuel with confused suspicion, 'What of the prince?' he said with a hint of caution.

"'Well, yes...' the Marquis began impatiently. 'There was another plan that initially brought us to you, but the situation has since changed. We were to bring harm upon you, but I assure you that this is no longer the case. Allow me to show you what I mean...' He opened his vest slowly to expose the small burlap-sack explosives strapped loosely over his waist. The guards immediately began to advance toward him, until Shintaro put up a hand signaling them to stop. Marquis continued, 'The King, presumably with his daughter's help, had this impractical and tired idea of sending me into your camp as a suicide bomber. I don't know what he had in mind for the boy, but I can only assume he was to be seen as an acceptable loss. Anyway, I am not keen on dying so soon. An opportunity came to us along the way in the form of this most dangerous man, and it seems that dying is no longer an immediate necessity. On the contrary, we may both find this new situation mutually beneficial. If you like, I shall leave the boy with you as collateral. Something tells me he's safer here than he ever was in Blueberry...and certainly, he would enjoy the adventure. Am I right, your Majesty?' At this, Emmanuel began jumping up and down with excitement, beaming brightly but saying nothing. 'So you see? Just let me go and treat the boy well. That's all I ask.'

"Shintaro stroked his chin and nodded his head. 'So...where do you intend to go?' he asked.

"The Marquis laughed effortlessly in response, 'Back to Blueberry of course! I'm quite possibly heading to my death, but that's never stopped me before. Now that I have successfully passed this bothersome turd off on you lot, no doubt the princess awaits my return. I imagine I will need to take hiding for some time—a few years possibly—until the king forgets my face. Then, when the right moment comes along, I shall resume my courtship with my dearest Cookie...if she'll have me. I suppose you look at my eye patch and think I am hopeless. Indeed I am! But dear, dear gentlemen, is this not the very substance of living—to risk one's life, one's dignity, one's integrity in the pursuit of an ostensibly hopeless venture? If a fool learns not from his mistakes, then a romantic knows not of even their existence. Why I should already be dead 1,000 times over! For what passionate sweetness could I proclaim life worth living, if I were suddenly too afraid to take any chances that thousand-and-first time? Providence has brought me another opportunity to claim this glory and I shall have it. Only the sad and defeated would balk at this chance, but I am no such man. But before I take my leave, if I could make just one humble request of you: I beg that you give fair warning before you storm the castle. My darling Cookie and I will need to decide a wedding day. Of course, the king and his soothsayers will attempt to interfere by expecting we should pick an auspicious day, but I've never been superstitious enough to attribute anything in my life to fortune, whether good or bad. Fortune, after all, is simply a human-derived construct for observing and obscuring the truth in order to satiate our most self-significant appetites. But I digress. In any case, we need to know your plans in advance if we wish to choose the right day for our wedding. Try to avoid the springtime if you can. If your assault absolutely must happen on our wedding day, I would understand, but only ask that you come bearing Red Violets. Tie them to the handles of your axes and swords, adorn your catapults with them, spray your armor with their essence: I'm told that she likes their smell. I quite agree, actually: they are lovely in the springtime, yes? Anyway, I take it we have a deal, gentlemen? Yes? Well, then I shall be on my way. I bid you all adieu and wish you the best in your upcoming bloody massacre!'

"Emmanuel smiled as he bore witness to that air of rejuvenated excitement which had overtaken the Marquis's features. It was the look of a man who sought to kindle (or possibly rekindle), lost (or possibly misplaced) affections. The boy prince wanted very much for these marriage plans to come to fruition, though he still knew little about his older sister, aside from the fact that she detested him greatly. He wasn't sure whether or not he should bear a similar resentment for her. But then, to do so seemed rather unfair. She was always so occupied with some matter or another in the south wing of the castle that their paths never crossed; and thus, he could pass no severe judgment upon her. In fact, he felt nothing with regard to her, in spite of their blood relation. He lamented that such a distance should be kept between siblings, but also knew that there was very little he could have done to bridge this gap. Instead, he basked in the wondrous friendship between himself and the Marquis, whom he saw as equal to a sibling. Emmanuel desired for his friend to be happy, even if said happiness was neither in the best interests of his physical health nor his human dignity. If there was something he respected and admired about the Marquis, it was his cavalier attitude toward all that threatened to bring forth his demise; he defied fortune, fate, and the Greater Good, seeking to forge his own path in spite of even the will of the gods above. And thus, irrespective of what truly was for the Greater Good, Emmanuel hoped that the courtship came off well, for he greatly anticipated his first chance to attend a royal wedding. Unfortunately for him, however, this hope would never be realized. Little did poor Emmanuel know that when the Marquis finally took his leave of Shintaro's tent, mounted his louse, and departed from the rebel camp, half-turned and waving a brief, but unsentimental goodbye, this would be the last time they would ever see one another.

"Eh?" remarked Bunnu as he straightened up in his chair. He had now given up on the prospect of sleep. He looked over at Bhakti, who was watching mon seigneur-Q silently. "Then what happened to the Marquis? Was he put to death? Did he run off somewhere?"

"Returned to the shadows whence he came, I suppose..." mon seigneur-Q muttered with a sigh, "To be honest, I do not know what happened to him. It pains me to say so, but this somewhat significant detail continues to elude me. I cannot even be sure that Rat Man Miyazaki knows the truth of the Marquis's fate. I can only tell you that he never showed up at the castle. It remains unclear whether this was his intention, or whether circumstances prevented him from doing so. Naturally, whatever became of him, his absence was sure to be felt by those in Blueberry who knew him well: by Emmanuel, by the chambermaids, even by Cookie—but, in telling you all this, I'm already getting ahead of myself. Let us stay with Emmanuel for the moment. I'll come back to the Marquis's absence later. No doubt, you can guess that there is still much to tell."

"Yes...yes. I offer humbly my profoundest and sincerest and most unctuous of apologies for the undue interruption which has momentarily unthreaded this fabric of your weaving." Bunnu said, biting his lip with restraint as he exhaled loudly through his nose. He would not make the same mistake he had made earlier by allowing his interruptions to achieve any discernible level of rudeness.

"Your obliging deference masks a violence most exquisite, my boy. I would like very much to know what is there underneath that appeasing glacial stillness which has just now crept across your face. Quite different from the Yamian brand of stoicism, I should say: crude and excessively contrived, as though the intricate and complex machinations inside of you had closed, over your true features, fleshy doors which bear a striking resemblance with you, but doors which nevertheless radiate a light from their adornments diametrically opposite from the natural inclinations befitting of your persona. This whole forced process is such a wondrous feat of treachery by which I cannot help but be transfixed. Still, I shall not allow myself to be side-tracked, just now. Let us get back to it, yes?"

"Certainly."

"So, Emmanuel stayed in the rebel camp for the next 15 years, becoming quite well-acquainted with all the major heads of the resistance. He still maintained his inclination for mischief and strikingly cruel practical jokes, but carried them off with such feverish playfulness that, in spite of their pronounced effects, they brought no consequences upon him. Of course, this seeming impermeable bubble of safety which surrounded him might also have been attributable to the strict guard that Shintaro kept around the boy at all times, so as to prevent any of the men in the general infantry from devising any nefarious abduction schemes or anything of the like. Unfortunately, this afforded Emmanuel absolute impunity with respect to the severity of his jokes and further magnified their perceived implications: meaning that the victims of said jokes, upon becoming aware that no retaliation, no justice was to be had for them, could only infer that the maledictions visited upon them were actually committed on behalf of Shintaro himself, as a mechanism for control. Perhaps, they thought, he had sanctioned these sick, often juvenile-seeming humiliations as a means of devastating at the core the innate drives of each individual. Being largely an army of mercenaries, they were not accustomed to such methods of demoralization. Some grew outraged, threatening to unleash their most primal acts of vengeance upon those with the least modestly decorated uniforms, for no man was to have the effrontery to strip them completely of the precious individuality they had already chosen, in small measure, to relinquish. For a time, cooler heads prevailed. However, with each passing prank from Emmanuel, the men's discontent escalated further and further, and dissention in the ranks became a seemingly natural and involuntary reaction to these unprovoked attacks on their dignity. Shintaro was warned by his closest associates that the situation was getting out of control and that he would have an insurrection on his hands if he didn't act soon. However, he remained too busy painstakingly plotting his offensive on the castle to bother about such seemingly petty matters.

"Finally, it was with the unfortunate incident at the infirmary that Shintaro decided that the presence of the boy prince was getting to be bad for the morale of his men. Apparently, Emmanuel had come to master a crude technique for Hyperbolic Suggestion which he had learned from a printed book written by the Prophet Morell.

"I know I keep referring to it, but do you lads actually know what I mean when I say 'hyperbolic suggestion?'" mon seigneur-Q paused for a second to peer at the blank faces that stared back him.

"No? Well, _hyperbolic suggestion_ is—as one might infer from the term's literal interpretation—a method of suggestion induced upon the subject (or subjects), in question, through the blatant and immoderate invocation of hyperbole. Simply stated, excessive exaggeration induces a trance upon the recipient, rendering him or her remarkably susceptible to suggestion. Thus, through the use of a multitude of descriptive adjectives and superlatives, neural mechanisms and pathways are overloaded, as canals and bypasses are burrowed into the thick of the gray matter. The dendrites are, through this process, tuned to a predetermined frequency by which the seeds of suggestion can be sown. When this occurs, the subject becomes incredibly compliant to any orders given at a certain tone of voice. In some cases, orders need not be given. The subject's attitudes might well be so affected by the hyperbole as to affect his natural tendencies.

"In this particular case, that's precisely what happened. The boy overwhelmed the levees of the chief medic's modesty by flooding them over with his own cumbersome hyperbolic flattery. He achieved this breach of societal conditioning by appealing persistently to the Ego, overloading the poor man with so much praise that this medic, while in the act of shrugging off as much as he could, soon suffered from an acute case of fatigue due to overshrugging. The process started off rather innocently when the lad said to the medic one day: 'My, oh my! This is the cleanest surgical equipment I have ever seen!' The medic smiled politely and attempted to shrug this off, but Emmanuel was not soon to be dissuaded. He came back the next day, and the day after that, and everyday thereafter, persisting with his exaggerated compliments until the medic slowly started to grow weary of feigning modesty. Over time, the relative sycophancy of these compliments increased by degrees. 'Why...you must be the most intelligent physician in all of Blueberry!' the boy would say, for example. At this, the medic would laugh nervously. But the prince was still not satisfied, so he pushed this shameless exaltation further and further as time went by. One day he said to the medic: 'It seems like you know exactly the best course of action for every patient you encounter. I have never seen you make a mistake once. I would even venture to say that your judgment is completely unimpeachable!' Upon hearing this, the medic became feverish and his ears began to ring, but he was also extremely delighted at the young prince's affirmations. He laughed merrily, as he admired his own likeness in the reflection of his metal operating knife. At first, the flattery had been a little too overwhelming for him, but now the medic didn't seem to mind it anymore. In fact, he was starting to crave it. It was clear to the prince that this poor man was starting to believe everything that was being said to him. For the sake of preserving his dignity, it was probably best not to proceed any further with this dizzying praise. However, this mischievous prince would not relent. After some time, he began bombarding the now-swaggering physician with more speculative praise. This seemed to have a much greater impact than before. For example, when he said to the medic, 'I'll bet you are so efficient at performing surgeries that you could get away with doing so without bothering to use anesthetic, stitches or bandages,' the medic felt somehow persuaded to lend truth to these speculations, so as not to have been complemented erroneously. Unfortunately, his attempts to do so resulted in 13 deaths over a period of 3 days, mostly due to patients bleeding to death. Agonized by his own incompetence, the medic lost utter confidence in his abilities as a man and regressed to the uninhibited, ego-driven days of his babyhood—devolving, through this process, back into a flatulent slobbering mess. It seemed that the hyperbolic suggestion had jellied his brain, rendering it extremely sensitive and further plunging him to the depths of utter diffidence after that brief 3-day stint of god-like cocksureness. But this did not come as a surprise to young Emmanuel: the young prankster was aware that Hyperbolic suggestion could do that to people. This was why the Prophet Morell soon came to abandon the practice in his later years. Flattery, after all, is veiled poison.

"In any case, the incident with the medic impelled Shintaro to take greater caution in his care for their captive. It was time, he felt, to provide the boy with a necessary diversion—one which might just have the possibility of utilizing his endless and misdirected energy of youth for the sake of their cause. He spoke with his chief military technology strategist, a Dr. Narciss, and asked him to take on the boy as an assistant in his underground laboratory facility in the caverns some miles off from the camp. Dr. Narciss reluctantly accepted and it was soon thereafter that the boy found himself entering the vast complex that the genius scientist had constructed for his research.

"Inside the facility, Emmanuel was immediately reunited with the most dangerous man in the world, who stood with his hands gripping the bars of a cage in the middle of a vast white-walled room with stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Apparently, for these 15 years, he had been Narciss's test subject. 'Y'geh a loada da' hyuuuuge cranium, laddie?' Emmanuel's friend barked excitedly at him (he was referring to the top of Dr. Narciss's head which was clearly larger than the cranium of a typical human being). 'Bitcha coh krakanut wit't!' Emmanuel nodded sadly. 'Wutz d'mater laddie?' Emmanuel looked down at his white lab coat. 'Oh, I see. Yon squaaaarral c'stume's na gud 'ere. D'big-edded manza tyrant right right? I feel ye laddie. Buh nary a ways t'scape dis bleak fate I'fear. D'big-edded manza sadistic authoritarian ee'is! Maaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhrrrr dangeraaas dan e'en I metinks...'

"Suddenly, Dr. Narciss came from behind the dangerous man, fitted him with a muzzle, and handed Emmanuel, between the cage's bars, a 377-page handwritten experimental protocol entitled 'Methodologies for Fear-enhanced Pheromone Extraction through Periodic Nociceptor - Pain Receptor Stimulation.' The most dangerous man in the world began screaming wildly; conceivably aware that another intensely painful torture session was soon to follow.

"Emmanuel, meanwhile, looked up at Dr. Narciss, who nodded at him blankly and motioned quietly for him to climb up to the observation area, while he fitted the test subject's head and torso with the metallic extraction apparatus: inserting pins here, tightening knobs there, and occasionally searing the soft, hairless tissue of the subject's skin with a glowing hot metal rod in the hopes of eliciting a certain desired biochemical response. Looking down from the stalactite-encrusted observation window and into the experimentation room, young Emmanuel giggled to himself melodically at the womanish squeals emanating from his former friend, thoroughly amused by the fact that this short-sighted wailer failed to see the remarkable role he would eventually come to play for the Greater Good.

"Over the next couple decades, as he grew into young adulthood in the laboratory, Emmanuel took to giggling more often, which now seemed peculiar and childish for a young man of his years. He also completely stopped talking at anything above a mere whisper. The silent, brooding mannerisms of Dr. Narciss did nothing to discourage this behavior. In fact, even though the two never spoke, they both started to feel rather comfortable in one another's presence. From Emmanuel's perspective, this was the most comfortable he had ever been in his lifetime. There was no longer anyone around him who was simply going through the motions, and there were no motions for him to go through either in order to placate others. It was just him and Dr. Narciss, both allowed to follow their natural inclinations and, thereby, to evolve distinctly and without hindrance to one another. They were solitary souls that respected each other's privacy. He began to enjoy this seclusion from the outside world: it was just them and the rats now.

"Them and the rats only: that is to say that the most dangerous man was soon no longer with them. After he had outlived his utility, he was quickly dispensed with, and in the most clinical manner possible. Dr. Narciss subsequently began the process of synthesizing a substance which could be ingested by an ordinary human in order to stimulate the production of similar fear pheromones to the ones extracted. The first few trials were abysmally unsuccessful. However, with time, Narciss started to make greater headway. Unfortunately, there remained one unsolvable problem. As Marquis de Limon had mentioned, the most dangerous man often became a victim of his own fear pheromones whenever he was taken by surprise and reduced immediately to a role of subservience. Dr. Narciss seemed unable to find a solution that would allow people secreting these pheromones to be immune to the fear induced by them. Yet, it was evident that if he could find a way to do so, it would be a step in the direction of creating the perfect soldier: one whose chief weapon was fear, one who was indomitable by dint of his very chemistry. Therefore, he worked tirelessly, devising new substances on a weekly basis which were then tested on rodents.

"Narciss entrusted Emmanuel with the duty of catching rats outside the complex for the purpose of these experiments. As Emmanuel seemed very eager to make himself useful, he took great joy in the trapping of these rodents, believing wholeheartedly that they would enjoy a greater quality of life in captivity than out in the wild. Soon, he was given more responsibilities. This started with the breeding, care and nourishment of the rodents and then proceeded to the administration of the experimental substances synthesized by Narciss.

"Since this was meant to be an experiment measuring emotional response, Emmanuel only administered the substance to rats who voluntarily partook of the trials. Doling it out by force or by threats thereof was only going to set the experiment up for failure. What was most essential in measuring the onset of fear and fear-inducing properties was an initial positive attitude on the part of the subjects. With this in mind, all unwilling parties were set loose, and all others who gave anything less than absolute affirmation were allowed 5 days to reach a final decision before otherwise being released back into the wild. Unfortunately, it seemed that at least 80% of rats in this latter category were afflicted with an intractable strain of indecision, so, of course, it was up to Emmanuel to persuade these fence-sitters to consent to the study.

"At first, he attempted to do so by making appeals to their sense of altruism: as this was a scientific endeavor, they had the ability to participate in something which was to advance human knowledge—a knowledge most accessible to any other species who wished to share in its bounty. However, this tactic proved terribly ineffective, possibly because the rats could only infer from the suspiciously high-minded nature of this appeal that they were expected to do something unpleasant or harmful to themselves, to surrender themselves to the whims of the experimenter without any remuneration, and without any guarantee of material or physical gain; inevitably this method of entreaty only impelled them to view experimental participation as engendering self-sacrifice for a cause they might not necessarily believe in: more specifically, that of human advancement. In the hopes of allaying such fears, Emmanuel tried to appear more casual about the concoction, as though it were no big deal, and as though its potential risks were secondary to its taste and ability to slake one's deepest thirsts. He even took a small sip of the beverage and remarked eagerly about its berry flavor and how its sharp sparkling fizz bit his tongue in all the right places with maximum refreshment. Again, this seemed labored to them, for, alas, Emmanuel was too earnest in his expression of emotions to be a very good actor, and his face would often betray, through a pronounced wince, the true rancidity of the concoction. Thus, they rejected this appeal immediately, eliciting from him a dispirited sigh. Frustrated and left with no other recourse, he finally attempted to appeal to the rats' sense of tradition, asserting that their forefathers had been ingesting these laboratory concoctions since time immemorial; it had become a rite of passage for their society. This last tactic surprisingly earned Emmanuel some minor success among the more duty-bound rodents, especially among those who were the first-born of their litter, but with others it failed.

"Dejected at these results, Emmanuel silently wondered if there existed a perfect combination of words or phrases that could somehow—as in the case of Hyperbolic Suggestion—subvert even the most stubborn of wills. Then again, maybe it wasn't so much the words as it was how they were spoken: if he achieved exactly the most desirable intonation, rhythm, timing, pitch and pronunciation in his speaking, would his verbal appeals somehow make greater inroads in garnering their consent? There had to be some optimal combination of aspirated consonants, diphthongs, facial expressions and inflection he could somehow affect in order to persuade them effectively. But it seemed that to search for this elusive mixture of ingredients would only prove an onerous task, conceivably of little benefit. In view of this sobering reality, he decided instead to try out a completely different approach from those previous: it occurred to him that his attempts at persuasion might be slightly more effective if he carried them out as dialogues, rather than as monologues. Of course, there was no way of knowing for sure, but it didn't seem like injecting a bit of friendly small talk into the mix would be terribly harmful to the rats, or, in any way, detrimental to the experimental process—and certainly it would be less arduous than any attempts he might have undertaken in the search for the right pairing of aspirated consonants and facial expressions! So, for a little while, he would work on establishing a rapport with the rodents, would schmooze with them and see where it went. Unfortunately, the way he was feeling at this point, he could only assume this would go nowhere at all.

"Upon trying out this new methodology, however, he found to his great surprise that this very simple initiative of conversing casually with them was a good deal more effective than his previous attempts at persuasion had been. They responded more positively to being talked to on the same level. There also seemed to be less resistance to whatever he had to say, possibly because he wasn't constantly attempting to persuade them. In fact, the rats seemed to find their chats with him rather delightful; Emmanuel did as well. Some of the rats, on their own, even started to show genuine interest in the experimental concoction: they would bring it up in conversation without Emmanuel having to say anything about it. Soon enough, caught up in the flow of discussion, he found himself uttering things like, 'Oh, let's not worry about that tired old experiment.' Or, 'You mean that silly concoction? Oh, it's nothing special. A little risky, if you ask me!' However, this newly adopted indifference to the experiment was not entirely contrived, as he became so wrapped up in his interactions with the rats that he often forgot he had other responsibilities which required his attention. At the same time, by behaving this way, he also inadvertently filled the rats with a greater curiosity about the concoction, thereby increasing the number of willing participants in the experiments. 'Yah...well, if you insist!' he would respond with a lazy shrug, whenever one of the rodents would vehemently argue for his or her right to participate. Truly for the rats, it was this exploratory journey into unknown territory which appeared thrilling, in spite of the risks. After all, just as a bruised and beaten torture victim would seem more gracious in partaking of such masochistic rituals when doing so voluntarily and for the thrill of exploring his or her own thresholds, so would these rats undergo the perils of experimentation: partly, because there was a certain taboo surrounding it, but, to a larger extent, because to exempt oneself from doing so was, in effect, to leave one's innate potential untapped. They, like humans, were addicted to the achievement of futile extremes.

"And so it was in this way that Emmanuel found over time that it mattered little what he could have said to convince the rats, as they were not a kind strongly affected by linguistic appeals, but instead by lasting intuitive relationships and by their own self-derived motivations. Thus, his success in inspiring them to ingest the agents was dependent simultaneously on his ability to gain their trust, and his ability to make it seem as though he were absolutely unconcerned whether or not they partook of the experiment.

"Obviously, by now, it was clear that the persuasive condescension he had adopted previously had been the wrong way to go about things. He could see that this was not to be treated as a zero-sum negotiation, for whenever he had approached it this way in the past, the rats had invariably reacted with a mixture of contempt and distrust to his appeals, assuming that he simply sought to exploit them. Furthermore, in maintaining that cold and clinical distance typically required of an experimenter, he had been viewed by them as an authority figure and, thus, feared, causing any experimental results yielded to be irreversibly tainted by those negative emotions associated with their own unwilling subordination. In any case, it now seemed that such concerns were behind him, for he had found a reasonable solution, a way to get them to imbibe the substances purely as a result of their own intrinsic motivations: a simple and straightforward methodology, on account of which he would eventually manage, over time, to increase participation in the experiments threefold. Instead of rejoicing at this achievement, however, he grew pensive: he knew that there was still some room for improvement. He was getting close, but he was not close enough.

"After further refining his methods of interacting with the rats, Emmanuel began to notice that the less psychological distance he maintained from them, the better his ability to motivate them to participate of their own volition. Mutual familiarity and trust were certainly key elements in making this a possibility, but more impactful than these was his ability to demonstrate empathy. The more compassionate he appeared to the metaphysical ails of Rodentkind, the easier it was to win their loyalties. Soon, he was able to gain close to 95% participation from the lab rats, and with each succeeding generation, it started taking less and less time and effort to obtain their consent. Emmanuel was beside himself with joy. There was something marvelously simple about the solutions he had uncovered; he couldn't help but feel a certain sense of pride. And these revelations had seemed to come to him, over time, almost magically, as though gifts from the divine.

"Upon explaining these recent epiphanies to Narciss, however, the big-headed professor seemed underwhelmed, implying in his own way that Emmanuel had taken far too long to reach such mindlessly obvious conclusions. Perplexed by his reaction (or rather his lack thereof), the young prince began to wonder if the reason he had been entrusted to deal with the rats in the first place was because of his natural talent for empathizing with such lesser species. If this was the case, then Narciss had truly come to understand his proclivities well and had, thusly, given him responsibilities in which they could be optimally utilized. And instead of giving him clear instructions on what to do, he left him to pursue these inclinations, in the hopes that they would lead him to find solutions on his own. And that's precisely what had been happening! Clearly, this Dr. Narciss was a forward-thinking genius!

"Emmanuel felt heartened: the job was starting to become much simpler than he had originally envisioned. But he knew in his heart that he could still do better. He had not yet quite reached his potential. It seemed to him that the next natural step was to learn to deal with the rats on their level: to empathize with them, to be like them. They wished to be treated as equals, so that is what he would attempt to do next. He set forth immediately with what would become a most ingenious and bold strategy: a strategy which would be, for him, life-changing.

"The first step of this plan required him to dress the part. His squirrel costume was now too small for him, so he decided to make a newer rodent costume. He hastily sewed one by patching together the hides of the deceased rats from previous generations. He knew that the fur would retain the unique scents of their original owners and thus seem familiar to the surviving relatives in a way they would not quite be able to grasp immediately. They would recognize the smell, and it would activate a memory in their minds of someone who had been dear to them, though they would not be able to understand why, and this would cause them to project their warmest and most sentimental feelings upon the wearer of these fragrances. This air of familiarity with which he imbued himself by commandeering the aromas of their progenitors would eventually go a long way in similarly commandeering their affections.

"But with this new skin came similarly a new part that he had to play: this would be the second step of his plan. He could no longer be Emmanuel, the Crown-Prince and heir-apparent to the throne of Blueberry, nor Emmanuel the laboratory assistant. He required a new identity to suit the physiognomy of this costume. He remembered from his early youth a skilled puppeteer who came to the court of Blueberry from a far away land to perform folk tales from his own country. The main protagonist in these was a giant red-eyed rat by the name of Miyazaki, who would teach harsh lessons in virtue to incestuous siblings, lecherous clergy, and smug pedants. Emmanuel had been so impressed by the rigid and implacable tone of this character that he wished to meet this righteous rodent in real life and watch as he declared his divine judgment on all who befouled Virtue. He questioned the puppeteer with great persistence, but the man only said that he was reenacting a story which he had been told as a child. The story had been passed down through the generations, but as far as he knew, this Miyazaki was only a creature of fable. Emmanuel was severely dissatisfied with this answer and soon began to cry (this was back in the days when he was still in the habit of collecting his tears in a silver goblet). King Baxter was enraged upon hearing of this and had the puppeteer eviscerated publicly. Nevertheless, Miyazaki had made an impression on the young boy. So much so that now, as a young adult, he decided to appropriate the mannerisms of this fabled character—at least to the best of his memory—and, accordingly, to take on a similar moniker: Rat Man Miyazaki."

"Remarkable! How very interesting!" Bunnu said with a clap of the hands, "But I suppose there is still more to tell?"

"Oh yes. Much indeed!"

"Undoubtedly!"

"But as you can surely surmise, simply dressing up as a rat and taking on the odd foibles of the fabled Paragon of Virtue was not enough. Gaining the implicit trust of the rodents required not only the proper attire and demeanor, but also the soundness of spirit to giggle endlessly for the sake of their comfort: something he managed to do with great aplomb. Appearing good-natured and gentle, regardless of the atrocities he was required to commit: this was the third and final step of his strategy.

"And so it came to pass that after caring for countless generations of rats, Rat Man Miyazaki managed to build for himself a reputation as a friend and benefactor to their kind. The rats, naturally, were not remotely aware of the tens of thousands of deaths which had been at their benefactor's hands, for he seemed so gentle and unassuming to them. In actuality, however, he and Narciss together, through the toxicity of certain administered substances, had managed to become, over the years, the two single greatest threats to rodentkind that this particular species of rat would ever encounter.

"In spite of this, Emmanuel—the true Emmanuel beneath the costume— had started to develop quite an affinity for the little creatures. He admired their tenacity, and more importantly, their lack of concern regarding their place in the ecosystem. They had no qualms about how they were viewed. They didn't go about their everyday routines wishing they were doing something else, or at least they didn't seem to. They simply existed, and they appeared neither enthralled by nor indifferent to this unique act of existing. There was something otherworldly about them that possibly only he could understand (but then, again, maybe this was just him projecting his own feelings upon them). After all, he, too, had been misunderstood most of this lifetime that he had spent surrounded by humans. He could not deny his own humanity, but also couldn't help but think that there was another aspect to his Self with which only the rats could identify. Whether this had developed over time or whether it was intrinsic, he could not be sure, but he felt an unmistakable bond with them. He adored them for everything they were and felt a certain responsibility to preside over their lives. Without him, perhaps they would have no guidance, no purpose. Whether or not his intrusions in their lives were for their ultimate betterment, he saw it as his duty to ensure that things would remain this way forever.

"He sensed that they wanted it that way too. They depended on him, loved him—perhaps even more than the human subjects of Blueberry could possibly love their King. It was a deeper affection, a more sincere allegiance, for his every breath fed and sustained their lives. This heartfelt loyalty, this loving devotion they had for him was almost too great to fathom. And thus, he couldn't help but feel a fresh flush of meaning with this new role he had found for himself, a kind of invigoration he had never experienced in his life! Perhaps, this was that sense of _fulfillment_ that Marquis de Limon had said was lacking in his life during their first conversation many years earlier. Moreover, there could be no doubt that his newfound purpose gave the rats purpose too. And so it was with an unconquerable sense of pride that he reigned over them with sincere fastidiousness: he hovered constantly, learning their names and using them as much as possible, whispering reassuringly and giggling; he ate with them at every mealtime, insisting that each finish his or her portions before he took the food away; he soon even began sleeping on a bed of rocks in the corner of the room, ready to awaken at a moment's notice in case his assistance was suddenly required. And through all this, he never once removed his costume. This new alter ego was starting to feel extremely comfortable for him.

"Dr. Narciss had taken notice of his assistant's new identity, but did not seem to care greatly how he went about his business, so long as he produced willing test subjects for the experiments. When the time came for experimentation, Emmanuel was always extremely methodical in the way he sequestered the selected subjects, administered the treatment, and handed them off to Dr. Narciss for further observation. He never once interfered with or compromised the experiments. In spite of the young man's idiosyncrasies, Narciss couldn't help but admit to himself that he had never had such a capable and professional lab assistant in his life. Nonetheless, in their dealings, the two men never spoke, although Emmanuel could notice what appeared to be a growing sense of excitement in Narciss's face, seemingly with regard to the progress of his experimentation. He wondered if the professor was on the edge of a breakthrough.

"His suspicions were confirmed when, one day, a group of officers from the rebel army camp visited the lab in response to an urgent communiqué Narciss had sent them by carrier pigeon. Emmanuel recognized some, but not all of the faces. The officers walked up and down the corridors, staring blankly at stalactites, then at the various metallic contraptions, then at the glass flasks, the tubes, the extraction vessels; they walked through the experimentation rooms, observing the mice in their many phases of treatment: mice who cowered from other mice, mice who cowered from their own reflections, mice who suddenly fell listless for a few brief moments before slaying and cannibalizing their companions in the cages; the officers then moved on to inspect the breeding areas and nurseries where Emmanuel spent most of his time—one officer, upon passing through, inadvertently stepped on the assortment of rocks that Rat Man Miyazaki used as a bed, twisted his ankle and cursed loudly as he kicked at the infernal impediments; the officers soon arrived at Narciss's roller desk, where they paged uninterestedly through the extensive notes, lab protocols and journals that Narciss had meticulously kept over the years. 'So,' their general finally said with a yawn, after perusing these last items with an expression of bored disappointment, 'we have seen everything?'

"As Narciss explained the details of his breakthrough in layman's terms for the general, the other officers continued wandering curiously about the caverns like tourists. It seemed that they had all only recently learned of this facility's existence, and exploring it became a bit of a lark to them. Some gawked at everything in wide-eyed disbelief; others pointed apishly at the various laboratory instruments, especially those phallic in appearance, and chattered out in loutish witticisms and banal drolleries. A few of the more astute individuals among them seemed greatly inquisitive about the lab set-up and approached Emmanuel with a series of reasonably insightful questions. Now and again, they glanced briefly at the floppy ears of his rat costume, but said nothing, perhaps out of that sense of gentility expected of officers of their rank.

"As he spoke with them, Emmanuel came to realize that some of the men here had been mercenary troops in general infantry back when he had first arrived in their camp, but now they had been promoted to the ranks of Majors or Commodores. General Shintaro, it seemed, was no longer in command, though no one seemed to remember quite what had become of him. Most of the men Emmanuel spoke with didn't even recognize the name, as Shintaro had been there long before their time. And those who did recognize it seemed to confuse him with more recent generals under whom they had served as mercenary soldiers—apparently there had been many leaders over the years. Administration over this rebellion against Baxter changed hands fairly frequently, and from the soldiers' perspective, they were only doing their job: they cared not whose orders they were taking so long as they were paid adequately and dealt their fair share of the spoils. It also mattered to them that the taste of their food remained better than that of the opposing armies: if its quality slipped or their rations became smaller, there would be a mass exodus to the other side (it was rumored that this had actually happened once or twice before when Baxter had commissioned teams of trained chefs to oversee the improvement of troop rations for his armies, during a costly campaign known as his Gastronomic Offensive).

"Narciss, upon overhearing this exchange between the officers and his assistant, looked over and caught Emmanuel's eye. Silently, they shared a certain human sadness at the realization that this man Shintaro's existence mattered little to those who'd served under him and to those who'd succeeded him. They wondered where old Shintaro could have been: he probably wasn't old enough to retire yet, or die from natural causes, so quite possibly he had perished at some point during the war. Unfortunately, his absence now relegated him to the fate of being forgotten in favor of those more immediate. His name remained his name, but it fell flat to the ground whenever mentioned—the persona which had once inhabited it and all its aspirations and glories had faded from this world. Now, all that remained of him was this empty name and a title he once occupied; now all the ideals, passions, and loyalties for which he once fought were minor details against the simple fact of his fighting, and against all the accoutrements of military life: his was a vacuous existence indeed. But one can only suppose this sort of fate is neither exceptional nor unfair: we are each also aware of it before it happens to us. And though on the surface it may seem oddly noble to feign surprise at such reminders of our mortality and of our evaporation from this soil of human living, it would also seem foolish and self-deceptive.

"Dr. Narciss, being the pragmatic scientist that he was, understood this reality thoroughly, but also acknowledging its inevitability, deemed it best not to dwell unnecessarily on matters beyond his control. And so, upon emerging from his brief, but sorrowful reverie, he proceeded to press the general and his officers for concrete details about the current political landscape. According to the men, much had changed while Emmanuel and Narciss had coexisted in safety and oblivion these 20 years: two wars had already started and ended aboveground and now a third one was just underway; in this current war, the respective advantage had already changed hands countless times; the battles were fierce and the casualties heavy; whatever the result, Blueberry would never be the same place it once was. The scale of the war had also grown to include the surrounding kingdoms. King Baxter, it appeared, was still the recognized sovereign of Blueberry, but he had recently fallen ill; and in the absence of an heir apparent, the timing couldn't be better, they believed, for their long anticipated assault on the Castle Blueberry.

"'We'll soon have that cruel tyrant deposed and our leader in his place,' the general said matter-of-factly to Dr. Narciss. The general was a small, but stocky man who went by the name of Pangloss; and the leader to whom he was referring was apparently King Baxter's younger brother, Duke Boniface of Asperger: the exiled visionary who had masterminded this rebellion with the financial backing of his niece Princess Cookie. General Pangloss maintained proudly that the advantage was still theirs (both militarily and gastronomically) but that they had held off on storming the castle all these years for fear of endangering the Princess during the initial bombardment. Fortunately for them, upon learning that Baxter was on his deathbed, the Princess had recently decided to flee for safety to the island of Asperger, cognizant of the chaos which was sure to ensue among those relatives who wished to make plays for the throne, and who would spare none in their acts of murderous betrayal. Now that the princess was finally out of harm's way, Boniface's armies could move forward with their final assault. In a fortnight, they, alongside allied troops from the lesser kingdoms of Banana, Guava, and Mango, would begin their march on the Castle Blueberry. The preparations were already underway. But now, there was a new development to consider! Now, thanks to the timely communiqué he had received via carrier pigeon, General Pangloss had finally come to learn of the weapons research that was being undertaken by _Mister Narciss_ and his young costumed assistant. He had not been told about this secret project by his predecessors, but now that he had heard about the fear-inducing effects which could be brought forth by imbibing Narciss's concoction, he was greatly enthusiastic to utilize this new weapon in the upcoming offensive. Yet, time was of the essence. With King Baxter on his deathbed, and the Crown Prince of Blueberry presumed dead, Blueberry was likely to descend into anarchy soon enough. If other political rivals suddenly came out of the woodwork and raised their own armies, the assault would surely fail. And the last thing Boniface wanted was some unknown half-sibling or distant cousin ascending to the throne because he'd waited too long.

"As he listened to Pangloss explain all of this, Narciss glanced briefly at Emmanuel, but said nothing. It seemed that everyone aboveground had lost track of the boy during his 35-year absence from the Castle Blueberry and now they presumed him dead, but there seemed to be no benefit in calling attention to this fact right now. Emmanuel, meanwhile, seemed to be completely unaffected by this news. He assumed they were talking about someone else when they mentioned the Crown Prince. He had completely forgotten that he had had any claim to the crown, and even if he had known, he possibly wouldn't have cared.

"As Narciss continued speaking with Pangloss, Emmanuel kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure the mice were not being molested in any way by the other officers. He did not appreciate this intrusion anymore. Yes, he had been distracted and momentarily saddened by the absence of General Shintaro; and naturally, he had also been surprised by the developments which had taken place since he had left the world aboveground, but now all of this seemed minor and distant to him again like some sort of dream. He wished these officers would leave soon, so that he could get back to preparing meals for the rats. Feeding time was in two hours. The petty strife and plays for power in the outside world seemed laughable and trivial in comparison to the great work he and Narciss were doing here. The way he saw it, any number of wars could start and end while they remained down here and they would not be able to see, upon emerging from the caverns, the distinction between one war and the next. The effects would more or less be the same, regardless of any shifts in power, regardless of any casualties, any cultural or technological advancements derived from it. Whether these effects of war would, somewhere on the vast horizon, end up being for the Greater Good of humankind and the general ecosystem remained something that could not possibly be determined in the time in which they were fought, which only made the whole exercise of engaging in them seem all the more arbitrary and frustrating and small-minded. And yet, to be a part of the world aboveground required active participation, willing or unwilling, in these myopic, greed-orchestrated movements.

"Emmanuel mused quietly on the notion of a human society guided with greater compassion, but also with greater ambition and clarity in the direction of its absolute potential; a human society in which wars (however destructive and violent) were declared more out of big-picture necessity than out of self-serving greed; a human society which retained as its virtue the overall betterment and progress of its kind, in addition to the betterment of those other species with which it coexisted. Emmanuel wondered quietly if it were possible for a benevolent entity to micromanage man's endeavors in a very similar way to how Rat Man Miyazaki had come to micromanage the lives and wills of the rodents. With this sort of strict guidance, the effects could be far-reaching.

"Emmanuel's thoughts were soon interrupted by the hurried movements of the officers out of the laboratory. Narciss had just finished explaining to General Pangloss that human trials of the experimental substance had not yet begun and that these would be necessary in order to ensure that there would be no health or safety risks to the soldiers. Concerned greatly by the timeline of their operation, Pangloss and his men quickly took their leave, vowing that they would be back soon with the 50 volunteers Narciss required for the clinical testing of this new weapon.

"As soon as they left, Dr. Narciss turned around and hastily set about dismantling his laboratory equipment, motioning, as he did so for Emmanuel to liberate the rats. Emmanuel simply stood there for a moment, looking at his friend blankly. He did not understand what Narciss sought to do, or why he wished to disband Rat Man Miyazaki's vast civilization of rats. The professor explained to him with a hint of uncharacteristic agitation, 'We can afford no more time to experiment on the rodents. It is now imperative that you assert the divine authority vested in you. With this experimental substance in our possession, this should be no problem. I shall assist you, so long as you can assure me someplace to continue my research unhindered.'

"Emmanuel shrieked with affirmative enthusiasm upon hearing this, seeming somehow to miss the fact that it was possibly being said less out of altruism than out of self-interest. In fact, he misunderstood the professor's meaning completely, taking his words to imply that it was time for Rat Man Miyazaki to assume his place as the benevolent ruler over all Mankind. Of course, this was not at all what Narciss was trying to say, for he had no knowledge of Rat Man Miyazaki's aspirations to reign over humanity. Anyway, in spite of this simple misapprehension, their immediate goals were one and the same for the moment: to escape before the troops returned.

"Upon emerging from the caverns, Narciss was pleased to find that the sun had already set. Still, he was worried about what would happen when General Pangloss found them missing. Surely, he would send his legions in pursuit. And without any line of defense available to them, they would probably be captured by sundown. Dr. Narciss scratched his head for a moment and whispered to himself, 'I wonder if it'll work as a repellent.' He immediately turned to Emmanuel and handed him a gourd containing the experimental substance, telling him to drink it, which the young prince did, only to erupt into a deafening chorus of high-pitched, frantic giggles. Narciss cringed in fright at the sound. He was suddenly filled with an awful impulse to run away, but managed to resist it, in spite of his shaking hands. The intensity of this fear was worse than anything he had ever experienced, worse even than the sort he'd encountered with the world's most dangerous man. More horrifying than this was the realization that these fear pheromones were being secreted constantly, not simply at times of intense emotion, as had been the case with the most dangerous man. It seemed that the professor had outdone himself, had outdone Nature even. His chest sunk as a dull pain reached the back of his head: tears began streaming down his face. He had not expected anything like this; the voyage would be difficult if he did not learn to adapt to this new situation. Thus, taking a moment to regain a sense of calm, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt slightly better, but the panic wouldn't settle. Nevertheless, he summoned all the bravery his heart could muster and motioned for the now-fearsome prince to follow his lead.

"For the moment, Rat Man Miyazaki offered no protest to Dr. Narciss's commands. There was no direction in particular in which He wished to walk: any direction would do. For that matter, He did not yet have any idea where His services would best be rendered, but He would go wherever His fate took him to impart the highest-minded virtue upon both Man and Nature. And so, He plodded after the scientist on foot through the Roquentin-011235 range, giggling and pointing at the passing birds, as though willing them to fly in the directions that they flew.

"After traversing the mountains, they came upon a hilly field dotted with red violets, the petals of which the Rat Man started rubbing vigorously against His fur—this scent together with the fear pheromones seemed to have a psychotropic effect on Narciss and he immediately passed out. The scientist returned to consciousness, some hours later, to find Rat Man Miyazaki, frolicking in the distance, pulling weeds out of the ground and packing them into a little pouch He carried with him. Invigorated by the knowledge that He had now gained a spectator, Rat Man immediately swiveled around, and whispered gently to the professor, conceivably intent on informing him of the fundamental issues existing in this particular ecosystem, and on explaining how His seeming incursions would eventually prove to be for its overall benefit.

"His whispers, however, seemed to echo in Narciss's ears and the professor suddenly felt confused, and slightly paralyzed. The urge slowly crept into him to breed a shark with a butterfly though it wouldn't have made much scientific sense to do so. The Rat Man resumed his duties, walking further away, and continuing to pick and collect weeds. When He'd reached a distance of roughly 50 meters, the scientist started to regain his senses. Could it be that the experimental substance, when combined with the fragrance of these violets, had intense hallucinogenic effects on those in the subject's proximity? He wished very much to experiment more with this phenomenon, but something in the back of his mind would only allow him to do this after he had successfully crossbred a shark with a butterfly: it seemed that now that he had been infected with this germ of an idea, he couldn't seem to get it out of his head.

"Nonetheless, there could be no doubt: the effects he had been experiencing with Emmanuel were much more pronounced than those yielded through experimentation on the world's most dangerous man. Had he made a mistake in the development of the experimental concoction—perhaps in the concentrations? This didn't seem likely: the chemistry was sound. If that wasn't the reason, then was the prince possessed of a unique and divine chemistry all his own which allowed for this unusual phenomenon? This was not completely out of the realm of possibility, but the only way to determine so was to test the concoction on a different subject and ascertain whether the results were repeatable. Dr. Narciss suddenly wondered what would happen if he himself imbibed the experimental substance, but stopped himself from doing so, as he wished to remain in the role of the experimenter.

"After Rat Man Miyazaki had sufficiently satisfied Himself in meddling with the ecosystem of this hilly field, they proceeded again in the general direction of the castle. Dr. Narciss was careful to maintain a distance of at least 50 meters, as he wrote extensive notes on Emmanuel's strange behavior and his effect on the various flora and fauna he encountered. It seemed that the young prince was remarkably absorbed with everything around him, unconcerned by Dr. Narciss and not at all worried about whether they should encounter any enemy troops. Narciss, however, was unable to determine if, in behaving this way, the boy was being naïve, psychotic, or if he otherwise comprehended his new powers well enough to use them commandingly and in whatever way he saw fit. For his own safety, the professor decided it best to assume that this third possibility was the case. Therefore, he was careful not to do anything that would cause him to get on the Crown Prince's bad side. Occasionally, he would point in the general direction of the castle, but he would not insist too firmly that they follow his lead, for fear of any consequences doing so might bring upon him. However, his gentle advice did not go ignored and the two slowly made a winding path, full of lasting detours, toward the palace.

"After an uneventful week of doing so, they finally reached the front gates. Dr. Narciss let the boy walk ahead of him, knowing that they would otherwise meet with an unfriendly welcome from the guards of the castle. This proved to be a wise strategy, as the psychotropic effects of the Prince's aura impelled one of the sentries, high up on the turrets, to stop paying attention to any oncoming danger and, instead, to pursue his latent and unknown talent for studying entomology, which he set about doing immediately by scrutinizing the cockroaches adjacent his foot. The guards, in front of the gates, were similarly confused: one began singing children's songs in falsetto, while the other stripped out of his own armor, arranged its pieces neatly before him and sat with this legs crossed, polishing the silver plating with his own urine-soaked undergarments.

"As they proceeded through the bailey, the general reception was similar and chaos ensued as the townspeople's erraticisms rivaled those of the guards. Dr. Narciss took the lead again and bid Prince Emmanuel to follow him through the maze of corridors and passageways of the castle, attempting in vain to find the throne room. Unfortunately, this did not prove to be an easy task. After walking down the same corridor for the fifth time, Dr. Narciss finally turned around and called to the Prince who had been following at a distance: 'Your Majesty, I know it has been quite some time since you were here, but if you know where the throne room is-' Without a word, the Prince immediately turned around and began sprinting in the other direction. 'Your Majesty!' Dr. Narciss called out after him, before running after him. They crossed over into the East Wing, then to the South, then the East again, and then to some area neither east nor south, as they entered an extremely long corridor. 'Your Majesty!' Dr. Narciss called out with a tone of deference and courtesy. Rat Man Miyazaki stopped immediately in his tracks and turned around. 'Would it not be a grand idea for you to visit with your father out of costume?' Narciss was panting heavily as he said this.

"Rat Man Miyazaki shrieked affirmatively and, in a friendly manner, immediately disrobed. Narciss quickly closed the distance between them, shut his eyes and held his nose as he grabbed the costume and tossed it out a nearby window and into the main square, before expelling his breath again. He was still frightened of the Prince, but the hallucinogenic effects were gone with the violet-scented costume. He produced another gourd from his pocket. 'This is an antidote. Drink this, otherwise the fear pheromones might have an adverse effect on your father's health.' Emmanuel drank it quickly and, almost immediately, Dr. Narciss's fear dissipated. 'Powerful stuff that was,' he remarked happily to Emmanuel, who was now only clad in the same soiled and torn undergarments he had been wearing these 35 years.

"Emmanuel peered with some concern out the window. The costume lay in the middle of a shadowy cobblestone alleyway which was generally closed off from the public due to its close proximity to the throne room. In fact, this rarely-used thoroughfare was no more than 2 and half meters wide as this was the distance separating the main building from the thick stone curtain which protected it from potential bombardment. Emmanuel watched with some consternation as a pair of guards patrolling this walkway happened upon the costume, but knowing not what exactly to do about it, simply stood there, neither daring touch it, as they were fully cognizant of the possibility that it could have belonged to a member of the Royal Family. Satisfied by their implicit veneration for the property of royals, the prince smiled and proceeded to walk again in the direction of the throne room, sure that his suit would still be there for him to pick up later. Upon reaching the main doors, the prince and the professor were scrutinized by the two men guarding it. 'Good sirs,' Dr. Narciss explained awkwardly, 'Well...how about that? Behold: Crown Prince Emmanuel has returned! W-well, yes...he does not look very princely at the moment, but he has suffered great hardship while he has been away from the palace. And...well...M-my name is Dr. Narciss: I am his traveling companion and personal physician. The prince wishes to see his ailing father.' The two men looked at each other for a few moments of dumbfounded indecision, before finally opening the doors and walking carefully alongside the two visitors.

"The space opened up from the minimal, narrow corridor to a stunningly opulent chamber with an extremely high ceiling possessing, as its platinum crown, eight intricately-carved, octagonal domes, each of whose innermost sides met in the room's center to frame the foundation of a vast eight-angled golden spike of at least five meters, which extended down to a sharp point ten meters above the center of the floor. Immediately beneath the treacherous spike, the surface of the floors were of a simple limestone, but were painted with alternating black and yellow concentric rings, which would, on most other days, have at its center the imposingly huge throne of the king. However, today was different. The throne, though not in its usual place, was nothing to be scoffed at, as the crest on its back rose to the height of 5 meters; the seat, too, was a meter and a half above the ground, requiring a small staircase by which the patriarch could ascend; the plush of its cushions had been stuffed excessively so as to make the king appear taller when he sat in its seat: their soft material was of a honeybee yellow and the armrests were black, matching of course the colors of the floors; the arm rests were set so wide that they required a king of enormous girth to be of any relevant utility: at their widest point, they measured 3 meters across. Of course, Baxter's predecessors had all labored most of their lives to reach a massive enough build to allow them to sit commandingly and comfortably in this throne: having a wide enough frame to use the arm rests naturally was truly a challenge that only the greatest of patriarchs found themselves fit enough to overcome. Unfortunately, today, there would be no opportunity to see how King Baxter measured up against his forebears, as this throne had been pushed aside from its usual place under the huge golden spike to make space for the bed where he now lay sick.

"Standing around his bed were about 30 different dukes, earls, counts, and priests, each taking turns posturing for favor with the king in his final moments. As the guards and visitors approached, the courtiers surrounding the bed moved to the side, none of them recognizing the strangers in their midst. The first the visitors saw of the king was his ghostly visage: it was white as a sheet and had swollen so much that he now looked like a completely different person from the Baxter whose face adorned their currency. The guards stood to attention, as one formally announced with a hint of uncertainty, 'Erm...Crown Prince...Emmanuel, your Majesty?' The noblemen began muttering amongst themselves, some chortling with derision. King Baxter's eyes flickered for a moment, as he attempted to focus his eyes on the faces before him. He spoke in a weak voice, 'My son...could...not be so...thin.' Dr. Narciss responded for Emmanuel. 'The prince has been away for many years, Your Majesty. He lived in the caverns near Roquentin-011235 with me. We had little food, and only subsisted on the meat of rats.' One of the earls spoke up, 'This man is an imposter! Everyone knows the Crown Prince was killed by Shintaro and his resistance! Otherwise would we not have found him when we stormed the camp?' The other men cried out in agreement. 'I am aware of the rumors regarding the prince's death,' Narciss persisted, 'I am not in possession of enough facts to put these sufficiently to rest. B-but I pray that you should all cast your eyes upon his princely countenance: does the son not resemble his father?'

"The king replied weakly, 'He does... not... look... so much like... me. This young man... does... however... seem...to resemble... a... stable boy... we once... had here... maybe 40 or 50 years ago...' An uncomfortable silence fell over the men; the King took no notice. 'But... now... that you mention it... this boy does look a bit like... the mother. The Queen of the... (cough)... Randy Heisenpigs... and that... dreamy look in his eye... why... yes...he does seem to...look a bit like my... dear, dear... son... yes!' the king's voice grew stronger suddenly, '... and that... fiendishly mischievous smirk. The smile of a prankster! Yes, it is you, isn't it, dear Emmanuel!' The color rapidly came back to the King's face, 'All these years, thinking you were dead!' He sat up suddenly and looked into his boy's eyes. 'I got myself into such a condition worrying over you, but now seeing you back again, I feel my strength returning to me! My strength returning tenfold even!' Emmanuel smiled, but said nothing as the dumbstruck men around him watched the king put his feet back on the floor and stand. He took a few frail steps toward his son, 'My boy...I have missed you so, so—ew... good Lord have mercy—y-you smell like a latrine!'

"The king suddenly became enraged, his immense power evident to all around him. 'Who is responsible for his disgraceful appearance?!!' His eyes fell on Dr. Narciss, who backed away slowly with a nervous smile on his face. 'YOU! I take it you are responsible for my son's emaciated appearance, his being dressed in these torn, soiled undergarments, his being reduced to the depths of animalism with that...that wild, unshorn hair of his! You, rapscallion, shall never know a wrath as great as mine!'

"'Father!' Emmanuel suddenly interceded in a whisper, 'This man has gained the favor of Rat Man Miyazaki. He cannot be harmed.' A silence fell over the room again. Nobody knew what the Crown Prince was talking about, but clearly he was speaking out against his father. 'My boy...' the king said to him with soft, tear-filled eyes, 'the meaning of what you just said eludes me, but because I have missed you so much, I shall allow you to speak out against the will of the king just this one time. I will spare your friend, perhaps even reward him for your safe return. But remember what I have often told you about the importance of decorum: you are never to question me publicly until the day you wear this crown. Never!' He said this once firmly before stopping to take a deep breath. A calmness came over him, 'Anyway, let us not worry about such petty matters right now. With my strength returning to me now, it would seem that I shall be king for many more years. I have never felt so ALIVE!' He screamed this last part out, erupting into cathartic laughter.  The courtiers all applauded and cheered loudly upon hearing this. 'Long live King Baxter!' they cried in chorus. King Baxter nodded affirmatively and gestured at them with a wave of the hand, 'That'll be all, gentlemen!' With this, the nobles began to disperse.

"'Your Majesty!' Narciss suddenly remembered, 'The rebel army is going to march on the castle within the next few days!' One of the noblemen stopped mid-step and said, 'Don't be daft! His Highness crushed the resistance years ago! Now the splinter factions are merely warring among themselves. No matter to us! Sure we do hear about minor acts of terrorism from time-to-time; villages now and again being raided by bands of aging mercenaries brandishing obsolete weaponry; on rare occasion, there's word about some clash or another between one of our patrols and a rundown detachment of pot-bellied belligerents, but...' the nobleman trailed off as though having lost interest in his own words. 'But what about Duke Boniface of Asperger and his army?' Dr. Narciss persisted.

"'My younger brother has an army?' the king sniggered, 'Nonsense! He's out at his estate on the island of Asperger, running his own spa retreat. In fact, our dear Princess Cookie's out there visiting him as we speak. Delightful springs from what I hear!' This dismissive attitude on the part of the king did nothing to quell Dr. Narciss's concerns. He was worried that the court of Blueberry was not fully apprised of the situation on the ground, so he took it upon himself to recount for the men his own involvement with the resistance, in addition to any other details he felt were pertinent to the current state-of-affairs as he understood it. So, the men listened for the next twenty minutes as Narciss talked about his initial involvement with General Shintaro's rebellion, his experimentation on the most dangerous man in the world, the arrival of Prince Emmanuel, their 20 years working together in the caverns of Roquentin-011235, the visit by General Pangloss and his officers, and the version of current events of which these men in the resistance seemed so utterly convinced. As he spoke, some of the nobles and priests, no longer seeing the benefit of their presence, made their surreptitious exit. The king, the guards, and the other nobles who remained, however, listened with raw amusement, laughing, nudging and looking at one another knowingly at certain points in the story, as though being in possession of certain bits of privileged information that Narciss and Emmanuel lacked. In fact, the king started laughing so loudly at times, it was nearly impossible to imagine that he had been deathly ill only moments earlier.

"When Narciss had finished debriefing the men, the few people who were left in the room erupted into raucous laughter and applause. One of the nobles came up to Narciss and clapped him on the back. 'Dear Professor,' he said between guffaws, 'we have not been so entertained since the king fell ill. We thank you for this remarkable performance. You have a knack for deadpan humor, I must say.' Another noble followed the first with a second clap on the back, 'My, oh my, dear chap! It seems you have some notorious affiliations. Either that or a wondrous imagination!' 'Oh yes...yes!' a third back-clapper said, 'We should commission this chap as a librettist. Our greatest composer, Maestro Spider, would be ever so pleased to meet you. You'd like him: he's quite a head of hair on him.' A fourth man, an aged priest, added another bony-handed clap to the mix: 'That was a good one, that was: Boniface the Aspiring Statesman! I suppose you'd only find that funny if you knew him as I do. I've never met a man filled with so much snot and tears!' The first man returned for an additional clap on the back: 'Ha ha...sorry to bug you again, chap, but I forget...how many wars did you say we'd had these twenty years? Three? Eighteen? Fifty? Fifty-one, I reckon, if you include the one that's ongoing. Ongoing is what you said, right? Ha ha...I suppose to the losers, wars never end. But, of course, I should not be so jocular, for there still remains the threat of an all-out assault against the castle, yes?' 'Oh yes! Wooo—Scary...a ha ha!' others assented joyfully.

"'This may all sound far-fetched to you, but I am only telling you what I have been told.' Narciss maintained. The king immediately stopped laughing and said with sudden solemnity, 'Mister Narciss, I am thankful for the safe return of my son, but I shall hear no more of this hullabaloo. My younger brother is beyond reproach. Certainly, he bears some bitterness and jealousy against me, but this is no concern of yours, or of anyone else in the kingdom.' The king looked around as he said this, as though this had possibly been an issue before. 'I apologize if I spoke out of turn, your Majesty,' Dr. Narciss said with restraint. 'Do not worry yourself, good Mister Narciss,' the king replied, 'You have gained my favor and I seek to reward you with an estate of your choosing. We have recently established a new settlement in a far away land called Morell (so named, of course, for the great prophet). Much of it remains undeveloped, and even the developed portions are subject to attack by displaced savages. In spite of its dangers, this land has great potential for those who work it: I would be happy to grant you a charter there, if this repays the debt.' Dr. Narciss's face could not hold back his elation at hearing this. 'Your Majesty,' he responded, 'I only seek a place to continue my experimentation unfettered.' The King nodded affirmatively, 'And so you shall have it in the settlement of Morell, along with any money, manpower, or resources you require for its initial set-up. Of course, this is all providing that your discoveries would belong to the throne of Blueberry and none other.' Dr. Narciss paused at this before saying, 'If it so pleases His Majesty, it surely will.' The King smiled at this and nodded to one of his advisors, who immediately took Dr. Narciss by the arm and said, 'Right this way, Mister Narciss. We shall have your ship ready to sail by nightfall.' The professor walked out the door excitedly with the king's advisor, without bothering to pause to say goodbye: thus ended Emmanuel's 20-year-long association with the genius scientist and his friend, Dr. Narciss.

"As soon as Dr. Narciss was out of the room, King Baxter motioned for his sick bed to be removed and for his throne to be restored to its original position below the hanging golden spike. He did not climb the stairs to the seat just yet, but stood there looking up at the gargantuan chair with a mixture of reverence and hesitation. He turned and looked again at Emmanuel. The boy whispered something inaudible and the king's eyes immediately filled with terror, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The few noblemen remaining in the throne room stepped forward out of concern for the health of their king, but soon found themselves suddenly in the grip of a similar dread. Emmanuel rejoiced at the sight of their faces, knowing that the antidote was wearing off and that his godly powers were coming back to him. It was thoroughly enjoyable to engage in these pleasantries with his father and these men, but he was now itching to retrieve his costume from the alleyway. The work of Rat Man Miyazaki could wait for no one. He wondered if it wouldn't be best to go fetch it now. Or perhaps, one of these men would be good enough to fetch it for him.

"The king opened his mouth to speak, but his voice failed him. His mouth was dry. He closed it, allowing it to regain its moisture before he tried again, 'Perhaps, I should explain a little about your uncle, the Duke of Asperger,' he said, his voice suddenly sounded somewhat whiny and childish, as though he had regressed in years to his princely youth: 'We have certainly had no shortage of disagreements over the years, but I have always done my best to keep the peace between us. I thought the fresh sea air of Asperger would do him some good, so I granted him an estate there and recommended he go there on holiday, but he took it to mean I was banishing him. He has always been so sensitive: carrying on and crying all the time as he always does. Envious too: I could never quite understand what he was always on about, calling me a tyrant and such. But to be truthful, the real head-scratcher for me is why your sister, Cookie, has taken such a fancy to him! She's always running off to Asperger with half the Royal Treasury. Rather disappointing, it is. Anyway, I'm glad your younger sister, Sepia didn't follow in her footsteps. I don't think my heart could bear the...' He covered his face for a moment and sighed, perhaps having realized that he had been talking endlessly like a foolish young boy. 'Forgive me,' he said, regaining a semblance of his kingly tone 'I am not quite myself at the moment.' There was a growing tension in the room. The guards and the noblemen looked mortified, yet none dared to meet Emmanuel's imposing gaze. They all stared at their feet submissively. The king, too, seemed momentarily unable to look at his son. His hands shook and his breathing faltered as tears streamed down his cheek. He looked up at the immense golden spike which hung down from the ceiling, then mustered up the courage to look again at Emmanuel. His son's eyes suddenly met his and the boy whispered quietly, 'Younger... sister?' The sound of each word pounded on every eardrum in the room, resulting in a collective cringe. Their wave of panic reached a sharp crescendo to unleash an echoing chorus of nervous man-giggles: the noblemen, the guards, and the King all tittered frenetically, and in spite of themselves, as though engulfed in this most demented of hellfires, succumbing to its oppressive dread, writhing in ludicrous torment at its fury as young Emmanuel's questioning eyes pierced uneven holes through Baxter's numb, meaty noggin. The air grew prickly with static. Something frightening was about to happen: or, so they all thought.

"But in fact, they were mistaken. 'Father?' a new voice said, its sound was sweet and angelic, the freshness of its youthful efflorescence seemed to deflate the heretofore swelling madness. All eyes fell upon the owner of this call: a gorgeous, shapely woman who now stood at the doorway. She seemed completely unaware of the fear pheromones persisting in air. 'Standing in your condition?' she continued in a loving and untroubled tone, 'Dear...oh dear, what nature of poison do these ridiculous doctors have you on now?' 'H-hello, Princess Sepia!' one of the counts sputtered at her nervously. 'A-and h-how are you this fine morning?' The princess gave him a brief look of disgust and proceeded to glide elegantly in her father's direction. Her voice grew in exuberance, 'Dear father, you certainly look well. Perhaps, it's not the medication at all. I do believe I see more color in your cheeks. Could it be that you're recovering?' 'Dearest Sepia! Ha ha...' King Baxter exclaimed with relief as she came to his side. It seemed as though his good spirits returned immediately with her presence. The faces of the nobles were similarly overtaken with an immense joy: they seemed to be recovering too. The happy-go-lucky presence of Sepia in the room had somehow counteracted the fear in the air. Baxter resumed his kingly tone as though nothing odd had transpired, 'Why I was just talking about you, my dear. I am feeling a good deal better, thanks very much to the return of your older brother. This whole experience of being reunited with him has overwhelmed my age-addled mind though. I am so filled with a strange exuberance that it is difficult for me to resist the urge to talk endlessly, perhaps because there is so much to say, so much to catch up on after all these years apart. I never imagined this day would come and here it is: your brother back and the whole family together. Well, almost everyone. I suppose we should send word to your older sister in Asperger. If she absolutely must, she can bring that bitter old uncle of yours and we can have a proper reunion feast!' 'Father!' she said, kissing him on the cheek with her thin, delicate lips, 'you shall tire yourself out again if you keep up this speaking pace. You may feel better now, but you still need your rest. We want to be sure you make a full recovery!' She, then, turned to Emmanuel, her eyes sparkling with curious ebullience, 'As for my dearest brother, the handsome Crown Prince of Blueberry, I have waited all 25 years of my life to meet you. I have stared at your portrait longingly every night before bedtime and have dreamt of you endlessly. And now, here you are: right before my very eyes. I... am...so...' She sobbed as a tear came to her eyes. A crease appeared in her forehead and one in her cheek, just below her left eye as she wept: she looked more beautiful when she cried; there was something striking about those creases in her skin, that trauma in her delicate wince. Emmanuel wished that she could be continually in a state of mental anguish, so that she would keep up this lovely crying face of hers eternally!

"Unfortunately, for the moment, this was not to be: she soon regained her composure and said, 'Father, we shall leave you to rest. Prince Emmanuel and I require some time to get acquainted. I will see to it that word is sent out to my sister and our uncle and that the preparations get underway for the reunion feast.' Her slim fingers stroked Emmanuel's arm smoothly and he felt a strange glowing sensation inside of him. She pulled him in the direction of the door, saying with a sly smile, 'But first my brother requires a thorough washing. I shall see to this as well.'"

### * * *

"Unfortunately, at some point during this bizarre reunion, Emmanuel's rat costume had either been stolen or discarded by the guards who had encountered it in the darkened alleyway. The prince's distress at this was so profound that he was helpless but to mutter endlessly about the loss of his treasured article for days.

"Soon the vociferousness of his rants was sufficient to gain the sympathy of his younger sister, who, concerned that his inner tumult should cast a dark cloud over the bliss surrounding his return, secretly set about sewing a new suit together using the genuine hides of rats trapped and skinned in Blueberry. She still did not comprehend fully from his unintelligible tirades what sort of significance he actually derived from this costume (she could only assume it served as a security blanket for him). Nonetheless, she recognized the importance of having a new one ready for him in time for next month's grand feast, if for no other reason, than for the sake of seeing him happy before his guests. She, therefore, labored tirelessly day and night in her own room, sometimes even falling asleep as she sewed. Her sleep deprivation resulted in no shortage of needle pricks over the course of those days, but this was a small price to pay for the utter bliss this would bring forth from her dear brother.

"Meanwhile, plagued by melancholia, the still-griping Emmanuel was immediately forced back into his old routines. King Baxter had decreed that Emmanuel's prior schedule was to resume immediately: complete with its round-the-clock breast-feedings, and with the occasional summoning of the Bluebird of Happiness. Greatly concerned by the condition that his son had been reduced to in his 35-year absence from Blueberry, Baxter wanted to do everything possible to keep the prince well-fed and comfortable. More importantly, it was necessary for the sake of decorum that Emmanuel appeared robust and in good spirits at the feast. Despite Baxter's intentions, however, the resumption of this excessively careful treatment only served to annoy Emmanuel: he no longer possessed the patience to undergo this kind of coddling.

"To make matters worse, the prince's irritation only exacerbated the effect of his fear pheromones on the surrounding servants, causing them to freeze in panic, unsure of what to do. Standing stiffly and sweating profusely, the servants became frustrated that their bodies had ceased to comply with their intentions. In their minds, they sincerely wished to continue performing their duties unhindered, and yet being in the presence of their master was so intimidating that they found themselves fumbling around, capable of doing nothing. Their bodies became heavy and their appendages clumsy with fright and whenever they made the slightest mistake, their master's annoyance would swell and so would their terror. Soon the scrawny tyrant, being of an increasingly impatient and irascible disposition, began grumbling angrily at every minor slip-up, and so great became their dread that the only dreams which came to comfort these poor drudges at night were those of their imminent death. And yet, they all knew that, apart from suicide, there had to be some other way to cope with this situation. There had to be some way to serve their master without fear becoming a barrier. After all, is one not ultimately in control over the attitude with which he views any situation? This would seem true to those of us who have never lived in utter servitude to a wielder of such agony. In the case of the servants, however, it seemed that they were so overwhelmed by their fear of this gaunt menace that they were now completely bereft of such attitudinal controls. And so, in the earnest hope of bringing their emotions to balance, the servants did whatever they could to vent their common anguish. Some would fall to their knees, howl tearfully, and begin writhing on the floor moments after leaving the presence of their master: this became a common enough sight in the corridors outside the prince's chambers that onlookers soon ceased to take notice. Other servants would resist acknowledging their suffering publicly, and instead maintained their resolve long enough to return to their quarters, at which point they would proceed to squeal like infants and bash their heads repeatedly against the walls until the physical pain became excruciating: the sight of servants with bandaged foreheads soon also raised few eyebrows. And then there were those who would keep their anguish pent up until nightfall, when they would leave the palace and head for the nearby villages to commit acts of indiscriminate violence against peasants; they would return to the palace, hours later, their tunics soaked in the blood of men, women and children, but this, too, was not an unusual sight in Blueberry, or at least, had not been since Princess Cookie's childhood. Unfortunately for the servants, all of these attempts at venting did little to lessen the collective torment felt all around. The fear was unconquerable, and the aftereffects of being in the presence of their master were becoming more pronounced. So much so that it soon became the case that whenever even the most formidable of manservant arose from his bed after another night of tossing and turning and longing for dreams of his own demise, a tightness was sure to form in his chest: his master did not even have to be present for this to occur, for the mere anticipation of sharing the space his master occupied, of breathing the same air his master breathed became, on its own, an ineradicable source of fear. Naturally, there was some idle talk of murder, but it was merely that— _idle talk_ —as his presence had become so ominous to them that none were brave enough to follow through with it. The more pragmatic among the servants whispered about escape, knowing full well that this only meant sure death for those who were captured. In spite of its seeming risks, the idea seemed to catch on and the prince soon began to notice that the number of servants attending to him had dwindled by half. This only annoyed him further, giving way to a more emphatic grumbling, which only intensified the servants' fear ad infinitum. However, not all of the servants fled; somehow, through all of this fear, there still remained a small group who were unswerving in their dedication to their master. Not allowing even the notion of desertion to enter their minds, these poor souls, however, would eventually suffer greatly for their allegiance, as the hairs on their heads soon went white with depigmentation. But all this went unnoticed by the prince, for wrapped in his personal cocoon of self-pity, he was too busy looking emphatically inward at his private miseries to behold the profound metamorphoses which transpired beyond him, and which were themselves begot of the ripple effects of his agitation.

"But it wasn't just the endless routines which contributed to Emmanuel's growingly foul temperament. Frequent visits from his 13,214 mothers also served to annoy him as he never had a moment's peace when they were around. Some of these mothers, whom he had only just met, were even younger than him and stood about in nervous meekness as they watched him eat fatty unflavored meats from his tray. Once again, when he grew tired of receiving guests, the fear pheromone secretion would increase, rendering them all horror-stricken. Fortunately for him, this did wonders to prevent return visits.

"Word soon got back to Baxter about Emmanuel's newly fearsome nature, and remembering how he, too, had felt that day in the throne room, he wondered what he could possibly do to cure the boy of this strange malady. To obtain advice, he summoned young Sepia, who had never once experienced fear toward her brother. The princess seemed perplexed at the reactions of other people towards her dearest Emmanuel. 'They are all just selfish fools!' she proclaimed with tears in her eyes, 'They know not of the horrors he must have experienced during his time away from the castle. Have they no compassion?' She began to weep profusely, prompting a tired sigh from Baxter. He thereupon decreed that Sepia alone was to look after her brother. This proclamation excited her greatly. As she had just put the finishing touches on Emmanuel's costume, the timing was impeccable. She decided she would start her new duties off by surprising her brother with his new suit.

"Upon showing her creation to Emmanuel, he was delighted at first, and then disappointed, for it didn't bear that same Red Violet smell that his previous one had had. The sight of his disappointed face brought forth tears from Sepia, which then, contrastingly brought forth a reversal of emotion from Emmanuel, who delighted at the sight of those beautiful creases in her forehead and cheek. This only impelled her to smile again, eliciting a frown from him, and then more tears from her.

"After this minor drama had satisfactorily played itself out to equilibrium, Sepia immediately sent for the sweetest smelling Red Violets to be found in all of Blueberry: as it turned out, the best specimens that could be located were growing in Princess Cookie's personal greenhouse. Assuming her often-absent sister would fail to notice, Sepia gave the servants permission to take half of these flowers from the greenhouse. Once she received them, she returned to Emmanuel's bedroom to find him already in full costume. Her mouth fell agape as she said, 'Why, Rat Man Miyazaki!' without having been told, she somehow knew that He wished to be addressed by this name. 'Your Eminence...you look so...so...godly!' Her face blushed until she was as red as the violets. She was more enamored with her brother than she had ever been before. Meanwhile, Rat Man Miyazaki squeaked exuberantly at the sight of the Red Violets, whose petals he immediately scrubbed against His fur. He whispered quietly, as His sweet fragrance returned and Sepia found herself suddenly compelled to weep. She wept uncontrollably for hours, bringing forth great joy from the Paragon of Virtue, who reveled in the untold beauty of her miserably beautiful expression.

"The crying continued for days on end. Sepia made sure to stay as hydrated as possible and to keep the necessary foods available to replenish any nutrients lost through her tears. The stress of crying continually, however, soon started to take its physical toll. After a week of crying, the creases in her face had deepened and her skin no longer looked young. It was leathery and rough like the skin of a woman who had seen lifetimes of misfortune. Her hair began to fall out too, though there seemed to be no logical explanation for this: conceivably it was due to stress. Her body grew emaciated, and she looked so frail that she might shatter to pieces at the slightest fall. Nevertheless, she almost never left her brother's side, and when she did, she remained as tearful as she could. In His presence or out of it, it now felt unnatural not to cry. Rat Man Miyazaki, meanwhile, watched carefully and smiled, His eyes were dreamy and deep, but He said nothing. Young Sepia's beauty was incomparable: she grew more beautiful with every tear, with every deepening of her creases, with every disappointment hardening her heart, with every physical disfigurement reaped of her sadness. And in her tears, Rat Man Miyazaki could smell again the fragrance of His undeniable fate and He knew what He must do. It would soon be time to cast aside this old life belonging to Prince Emmanuel of Blueberry and commit its body and soul to the achievement of the Greater Good. The tears of this prophetic muse had reminded Him thus. He had spent too long in this place, pretending to be someone He once was. There was much work to be done in the Universe for this Paragon of Virtue, many things to micromanage, and of course He could not do all of it from Blueberry.

"Sepia seemed to understand what was going on in His mind, for when she finally had no more tears to shed, she looked up at Him and said, 'Rat Man Miyazaki, I fear you will be gone soon. Does my presence displease you?' The Paragon of Virtue whispered again and she heard her voice saying, 'Forever? Then, will I never see you again? Perhaps I can come with you.' He giggled and whispered again, as Princess Sepia jumped for joy. 'We shall leave after the feast, then. Yes?'

"On the day of the feast, Princess Cookie arrived in a coach with her uncle, Duke Boniface. Both seemed in fouler moods than usual, though no one seemed to ask why. Princess Cookie carried with her a small marionette of a man with an eye patch and a surcoat. Upon exiting the coach, she made immediately for her greenhouse and threw a loud shouting fit about her stolen violets. She looked up at the window of her brother's personal quarters and saw him at the window, looking down with a smile. As she was still quite far from him, she was not yet affected by his scent. She screamed to him, holding up the marionette: 'Look at your precious Marquis now, boy! I had a diviner squeeze the soul free from his body as one might spirits from a wineskin. Surely, his physical form collapsed on the spot, wherever he happened to be, and by now his skeleton has probably been picked clean by every scavenging bird and cannibalistic highwayman that happened upon his rotting carcass. Now, his soul occupies this shell, but he moves not of his own volition, as you can see. It is none other than I whose whims determine his survival! He shall never be free of the torture I visit upon him endlessly!' She laughed viciously and shook her fist at her brother in defiance. Three nearby chambermaids fainted upon hearing of the sad fate of their beloved Marquis, and a nearby Randy Heisenpig squealed with grief. Rat Man Miyazaki, meanwhile, giggled at this proclamation, delighted to hear of the sacred and spiritual union that now existed between His sister and His old friend. He had long hoped for a marital bond to be forged between Marquis de Limon and his sister. And now, unless this claim had been averred from the depths of Cookie's own hopeless delusion, it seemed that the two would be united in their own enigmatic bliss from here on out."

"Well...that explains what happened with the Marquis. But then again, as you say, the old bird could have been batty." Bunnu said, scratching his head.

"I fear no one will ever know the truth of the Marquis's fate," mon seigneur-Q responded. "Unless he's still alive, that is. I cannot help but feel a terrible lack of closure about this aspect of the story as well." Q wiped a tear from his eye as though distressed by this greatly.

"In any case, let us continue: There was nothing more glorious on heaven or elsewhere than this remarkable feast which took up the entirety of the bailey. A cake was baked as high as Blueberry's tallest spire; roast pigs were stuffed with vulpine crab, which were stuffed beforehand with corvine ponies, which had been force fed meat from whales who had subsisted only on pig meat for the duration of their captivity; dried Gnat gizzards had been brought in from the southern provinces and Man-telope Eggs were collected in bulk to make table-sized omelets; casks of distilled mud lined the inner walls, stacked three-high and nucleotide cocktails were mixed by chemists to produce tastes custom-made for the unique taste buds of each guest imbibing them.

"The number of people attending the feast was staggering. The guest list was so large that there was no room for everyone. Therefore, tables and chairs had to be suspended by helium balloons above the courtyard and held in place by ropes. Naturally, the guests occupying such tables had to ascend with rope ladders and have their food and drink sent up by a system of ropes, trays and pulleys connected to the edge of each table. Outside the outer walls of the castle, 300,000 soldiers marched to the song of cicadas and shamisen. Over one thousand peasants from all over Blueberry had been tied in contorted positions and placed upon the ramparts, made to scream at pitches predetermined by their whip-wielding choirmasters.

"Looking out His bedroom window at the pandemonium, Rat Man Miyazaki paused to look at Sepia, who knew that He wished for her to cry again. She did her best, but was so overwhelmed with the happiness of seeing her brother in the midst of these festivities that she could not comply with His request naturally. Rat Man Miyazaki looked somewhat disappointed, but was not surprised. It seemed that she had developed a resistance to His pheromones. From here on out it would take more and more effort to evoke tears from her. He sighed and shrugged His shoulders: part of Him knew this wouldn't last forever. Sepia was sad to see His disappointment, but still seemed unable to cry. She just couldn't feel strongly enough to do it, no matter how hard she tried; and to try any harder would lack genuineness. 'If tears of pain will suffice,' she said after some hesitation, 'I shall agree to any torture you see fit. I know the chemical composition of my tears would be different, but I believe my facial expressions should be similar. For your happiness, I would even undergo a death by a thousand cuts: a _Ling Chi,_ I mean. I know now that it is futile for me to accompany you on your trek, for I can no longer produce the tears which inspire you. So, let today, this grandest of days, be a fete worthy of my most tearful display of devotion. It is the only and last ecstasy my minor existence could hope to bring you, my Lord.' Rat Man said nothing in response and resumed watching the guests arrive in the courtyard. She understood this to mean that she had gained His silent approval."

"Please pardon the interruption,' Bunnu said suddenly. "But please tell me He didn't go through with it. I do not think I can stomach a description of her torture. I apologize for my delicate constitution."

mon seigneur-Q smiled at this. "My, my...if yours isn't a generation of softies. Fine...I can spare you those details if you do not wish to hear them."

"I wish to hear them," Bhakti, the bearded accordionist suddenly said. It was the first time he had spoken up this whole evening. "However, I do not wish to put out our gracious host any more than we already have." He said this nervously and looked at Bunnu with a pathetic look that awakened in him a milder form of that same violent irrationality that had flushed through him that day when he had visited Bhakti's flat, that day that he had fantasized about tearing off his face. Bunnu took a deep breath and found within himself an unexpected reservoir of calm which doused the fires of his furious irritation.

"Not at all," Bunnu finally replied through his teeth.

"Well, in the interests of time, perhaps I should skip ahead in the story," mon seigneur said contemplatively. "I could go on for days if I didn't. Let's see...long story short: Rat Man Miyazaki made his grand entrance which engendered the sort of chaos you can imagine. The fear pheromones mixed with the scent of the Red Violets brought forth some shocking atrocities from the guests and a bloodbath ensued. As for Sepia's torture, well...that was performed in front of the guests by King Baxter himself: a pheromone-induced betrayal which somehow made the ritual all the more bittersweet for Sepia, thus educing genuine tears of sadness. And finally, Rat Man took his leave of Blueberry, never to return again. Soon thereafter, the kingdom of Blueberry vanished from existence. Nobody knows what happened to it, nor are there any artifacts which remain of it. It exists now only in the myths we tell on cold, wintry nights as these. That's about all there is to say."

"Well..." Bunnu remarked, "Wasn't that easy!"

### * * *

Bunnu refilled their cups of Spiced Soma. Bhakti, the Bittersweet Melodist, sipped from his cup with a brooding look on his face, whilst the elder industrialist, mon seigneur-Q, continued with his story:

"But of course I am not finished: this only brings us back to the field where I stood with Rat Man Miyazaki and the dead _Lynx Bos_ on the day of my first encounter with Him. I stood there, having learned in a mere matter of moments all which I have just told you and I felt within myself a palpable change: one which has never since left me.

"I looked now at the Rat Man, understanding fully the reason for the dizzying effect his presence had on me. He watched me silently. Again, the only sound I could hear was the flickering of the flames in the middle of the field.

"And so I spoke unto him: 'O Rat Man Miyazaki. You, who are the masterful weaver of webs more sinister than even the fiendish spider, You who has been more industrious than even I in my maximum exertions of human ambition upon the world around me, You who has had the insight to see past the abstruse paradoxes of nature, past even humankind's overblown sense of self-significance, to behold the comical impotence of our own self-awareness, You who has seen the futility of aspiring to peaceful non-involvement, You who has instead embraced the genius of calculating malice, You who proclaims Himself the Paragon of Virtue and the Infinite Embodiment of the Greater Good, all the while glaringly redefining the premises each embodies, You, most noble and deviant destroyer: I am humbled by your mere presence. Disillusioned though I may be by your humanity, it is the power you wield ruthlessly over both man and beast that has gained my awe. If there is anything that you desire of-' Before I had a chance to finish this sentence, the Rat Man giggled hysterically. 'He suffers from terrible constipation.' A raspy female voice suddenly said from behind me. I wheeled around, but could find no one. 'It is time for him to have his medicine. He is not as young as he looks.' There was a shadow squatting amongst the tall blades of grass about 20 meters from me. I turned around to find that Rat Man Miyazaki was already walking in the other direction.

"I walked toward the squatting shadow. 'Mind the Lynx,' she said. But it was too late. I tripped over the animal which had been lying at my feet. 'Do not worry about me. Pick up the stomachs and return to your home. Your wife is waiting for you.' I paused and looked down at the dead animal for a moment. 'I'll get it later,' I called back at the shadow. So I approached her, looking back over my shoulder as Rat Man Miyazaki disappeared into the darkness of the woods behind me. I could feel the effects of his presence diminishing the further He got from me. However, as I got closer, I realized that no one was squatting there. The shadow faded into the surrounding darkness. Had I imagined it? I had distinctly heard a voice. I thought for a moment that this was maybe yet another side effect of Rat Man Miyazaki's presence. Perhaps, He wanted me to stop aggrandizing Him and acknowledge His human frailty: He was indeed a mentally ill and constipated old man in a patchwork rat costume that His sister had woven for Him—remember my saying so before? Conceivably, He simply wanted me to know that—but why? More importantly, why did He want me to have the stomachs of the lynx-bovine hybrid? Was this simply some irrational compulsion of His? Was this whole episode rooted in insanity, and now that I was a party to it, had the insanity spread?

"I cut open the _Lynx Bos_ , gathered its stomachs and went home. Durga wasn't there, but I found a note on the table asking where I had been and telling me that there had been a fire on her family estate. Apparently, the Akbar twins, who had just bought it—if you remember—had pounded on our door in the middle of the night, proclaiming us as arsonists and frauds. Durga went to check out the damage, but told me not to come, as my presence would only complicate matters more. She was probably right about that. So I put the lynx stomachs in a fruit basket in the middle of our dinner table and went straight to bed, my hands still caked with their blood.

"I dreamt of nothing, but was soon awakened amidst my slumbers by the heat of a light which shone upon me. I opened my eyes to see floating above me an apparition of the most radiant woman I have ever seen. Her smooth black hair flowed down from her head and over an elegant and lustrous silver gown as incorporeal, in the moonlight which shone in from the tall windows next to my bed, as the form which filled it. That is to say, the form itself was without material, or so it seemed from its translucence and from the way that gown fluttered in ethereal gusts of air imperceptible—lacking, more precisely, in both audibility and tactility—to those of us whose awareness was constrained by this crude weight of tangibility. This transcendent wind also blew through her black hair, which also emitted its own gleam to cancel the darkness of its hue with a blinding glare, and so I could not yet see her face, though I already understood to whom it belonged. The rays of moonlight peeking in through the tall windows seemed to hold her suspended above me, and though I could visually perceive her full form hovering above my own body, I got the sense that this sublime entity and the tactilely impalpable wind which swept over it were both emanating from a locus beyond my conscious understanding, or rather they were being projected from some realm of intangibility, conceivably in another dimension of space-time, hitherto disregarded by all but the most impugned of mathematicians and theoretical cosmologists. I was unable to move or to speak, and so I lay there helplessly for some time, wondering if it was simply sleep paralysis, or something more. Soon my eyes adjusted to the intense brilliance and I could see, through her gown, the curving, pointed silhouettes of the brass light fixtures suspended from my bedroom ceiling. Additionally, in the hollow space within the billowing folds of her gown swirled tiny glowing dots which resembled fireflies, and which conceivably contributed to her ghostly luminescence. As these burning orbs came into focus, I realized from their corona that they were infinitesimal stars. From what indeed must an intangible entity, as a ghost, achieve its glow if not from starlight, for are we not similarly, as tangible entities, composed of granules of dust from exploding suns?

"Suddenly a drop of moisture reached my forehead, or at least that is what I sensed for a split second. The hair which still covered her eyes parted briefly in a flurry of wind and immediately I could discern a deep crease upon this glowing white cheek. There was something about the smoothness of its declination in contrast to the sharp angles of her cheekbones that rendered unto it an aesthetic quality I could not define. It was this crease that confirmed for me the identity of this apparition as being that of Princess Sepia, though I found myself appalled by how much more striking her features were when observed with the naked eye than when recalled in my most vivid of memories. Perhaps it is because of our lack of contrast in memory that it becomes an inadequate substitute for momentary experiences, for the brain is only capable of storing so much information, lending it to flaws in integrity. Once each moment has been exhausted, its withered frame can only be exhumed and its features scraped as one might an ancient skeleton to give us an idea of what it might have been like in its fullness. Yet, we cannot trust these approximations, for they would frustrate us if we chanced to realize, as I did in this very moment, those nuanced aspects we failed to register. However, I still do not know if I could blame those lacking elements in my memory of Sepia's beauty on my own flawed brain, or on the inadequate recollection of Rat Man Miyazaki, from whom these memories had been transferred. In either case, I realized something very important as I laid there: never trust the things you remember, never trust the things anyone remembers. I stand by that epiphanic postulate to this very day, though I cannot wholly trust my memory of how I arrived at it.

"In any case, having freed myself of the burdens of buying into the seeming exaggerations and obfuscations imparted upon me this evening by the purported Paragon of Virtue, I felt enough at peace finally to find my voice again. I heard a groan leave my mouth, and in this same expiration of breath, I made it a point to move my lips and tongue accordingly to frame the syllables manufactured in my cortex. The sounds came out breathy, each starting with an 'h' sound: 'H-wh-y H-ha-ve H-you Kh-come H-here?' This was all I could manage to say.

"A melodious sound echoed and muddled itself in its own reverberations: I understood this to be her voice reaching me from a faraway place. I listened carefully. In a mellifluous tone she spoke unto me: 'It is better we speak here than in the field. My brother, though he may not seem it is insanely jealous. Surely, he has told you his own version of events past, but I assure you that there are some glaring omissions and half-truths interwoven in this story. I do not doubt him in his capacities as the Paragon of Virtue, but I do understand his limitations better now after many years watching him from this place where I dwell. I cannot explain this place to you, for it is far beyond your imagination. However, I can tell you that my brother has chosen you for reasons I cannot at this time disclose. I must advise that he is not the infallible entity he presents himself to be: perhaps you have realized this already, though I feel it necessary to say so as this is only the first of many encounters you are set to have with him. He has given you the lynx stomachs, because he knows of your potential and your endless ambition. He believes that there is something in the Greater Good that you will be able to achieve, though the bounty reaped of the lynx's stomach acids need not be a component of your yet undefined accomplishments. Perhaps you can take them as a token of his admiration. He has been watching you from behind rocks and trees and from under manholes for quite some time and has developed a unique fondness for you. I have tried to reason with him, but when it comes to his compulsions, he is utterly insensible to my words.'

"The feeling returned to the top half of my torso: I tried to sit up, but could only raise my head uncomfortably from the pillow. I felt my neck straining, so I lowered it again and rested against the pillow. 'What is it that I am expected to do?' I asked. 'I am not allowed to tell you,' she said, 'You may never actually know what it is he had in mind for you, and why—perhaps not even after the desired feat has been accomplished. This is not an unreasonable phenomenon. My brother has repeated this pattern many times before. He delights in weaving illusions. I assure you that he will tell you many tales regarding his origins. Regard them all with equal weight for each of them have equal measures of truth and mistruth. Share these accounts with all who will listen, for this may help you determine which aspects of which accounts you wish to believe if any.' I thought for a second and replied, 'And supposing I choose to believe none of them?' She smiled as her hair blew back revealing her face. She looked as beautiful as she had when Emmanuel had first encountered her. 'Your arriving at such a notion may very well also be linked to his intentions. The best you can hope to do is follow your natural inclinations with regard to everything you hear, but question your own assumptions from time to time.' I sighed in assent, 'Yes, I think that would be the best way to proceed.' Her face became tearful again and I looked adoringly at the creases on her forehead and cheek. 'My brother is sometimes in such torment. He giggles constantly, but he is very much troubled by his own mood swings. Adding to this is his terrible constipation: there is little I can do for him in this far off place but watch helplessly. Perhaps, you would concoct a remedy?' I was surprised at this. Perhaps this is why she had come to see me in the first place. 'I will try if you can promise to give me any guidance and insight that should help me steer clear of any danger with regard to your brother's intentions.' Shame crept like ivy up her face. 'I fear there is nothing I can do for you, but I can see a moment in the future: a critical moment. There will be a most discourteous host who invites you to imbibe spirits late one night. He will be from a foreign land. If the subject of Rat Man Miyazaki should come up in conversation with him, you are to impart upon him everything you know about him. You are to tell every account in as much detail as possible. The more he resists, the more you are to proceed until you become the most imposing guest he could possibly have. You are also to tell him of my visit to you this very night and relay to him exactly these words I speak to you now. Unfortunately I cannot tell you why, but I assure you that if you do not, you should invariably meet your demise.'"

"Just a moment..." Bunnu interrupted again. "She did not really say that, did she? I mean...you are making this up right?"

"Young man," mon seigneur-Q's eyes pierced through him. "Everything I tell you is exactly as I remember it. If you must doubt anything, doubt only the accuracy of my memory."

### * * *

"What happened to Sepia then?" Bhakti spoke up. Bunnu and mon seigneur-Q were looking at each other with such bitter expressions that they failed to notice that the bearded accordionist had spoken up.

"I apologize for my lack of cordiality," Bunnu said coldly.

"And I for not being more forthcoming," mon seigneur said back with equal contempt. "The prophecy of this apparition obviously did not come true until this very night. I am just as surprised as you."

"It is no longer night," Bunnu retorted, "In any case, I have had just as many dreams which later turned out to be self-fulfilling prophecies. So, you will have to pardon me for being a tad skeptical."

"Then, was Sepia really dead, or-" Bhakti began again.

"I have been sitting patiently through your sarcasm all night, but enough is enough. If you do not wish to have me again, I shall not come!" mon seigneur screamed.

The three froze at this outburst. They were all so accustomed to the gentle, soft-spoken aspects of Yamian discourse that they had all forgotten how to deal with such aggressive directness. Bunnu, having recently allowed his usual mechanisms for coping with confrontation to wither with disuse, felt an utter lack of control as a heat rose in him which wouldn't cool. Bhakti began laughing nervously again in the same manner as he had that day in his flat. This only caused Bunnu's eyes to tear and a pain to reach the back of his head, until a waterfall of man-giggles sprung from his mouth as well. He tried desperately to stretch both his right _serratus anterior_ muscle and then his left _extensor digitorum longus,_ as he had done in Bhakti's flat that day, in the hopes of thwarting the murderous bile which was building in his disposition. Fortunately, his conscious attempt to do so also allowed him to breathe more easily and his mood began to cool in spite of the pressure which still bubbled within him. Soon his man-giggles ceased and he was at peace. "Stop laughing in that stupid way!" he heard himself say bluntly to Bhakti. mon seigneur-Q looked slightly taken aback by this, but only sighed, rather than address this affront on his stepchild. "I apologize for my rudeness," Q proffered. "It is my fault that the dawn has arrived to find us all in such foul temperament. I tell you with all earnestness that I was only attempting to abide with what I had been asked to do, for no other reason than to see what happens. I admit that this experimentation on my part is in poor form, but you must understand that I am in my heart of hearts, a man of science. I am greatly bothered by the mysteries surrounding the phenomenon of Rat Man Miyazaki the Paragon of Virtue. I told you before that I would give you all three accounts that I knew and impart them with equal weight, but I fear that I have given this last account the most importance. I do hope you will forgive this misjudgment on my part. But I suppose, this does not bother you so much as my imposition upon you at this late hour. I will offer up one of my workers to attend to your tasks at the inn today, if you are too tired to perform them. Naturally, I will beg the landlord's approval first."

Bunnu nodded quietly and looked at Bhakti, who was wide awake now, as the dawn light filtered in from the semi-circular glass of the window next to the front door. "You look as though you would like to hear more about Rat Man Miyazaki." He said to the accordionist with a smile. "I've had my fill, but perhaps the good mon seigneur-Q could tell us more about it another time."

"I care not for this Rat Man character," Bhakti said with uncharacteristic bluntness. A darkness grew over his face and his eyes burned with a rage the like of which Bunnu had never encountered. A tear came to his eye, "I am greatly saddened by his treatment of his dear sister Sepia. He is not deserving of her affections. As you told your story, I closed my eyes—perhaps I was dreaming—but I saw her. She was hovering in a field of black grasses. The sky was gray and the wind blew heavily. She was far away and the wind was loud, so I could not hear her voice as she spoke to me. The grasses became rocks and we were on the cliffs facing the sea. The waves crashed down below and she sat facing an approaching cloud with eyes tearing. Still, she spoke to me, but I could not hear. A flash of lightning struck and I awoke, but her face remains still in my mind. I have never seen anyone as stunning as she."

"My boy..." mon seigneur warned, "It is not how you see it. You are projecting an image upon this woman of something that you have devised yourself."

Bhakti objected strongly, "No! It is something more! I cannot imagine such grandeur, such beauty on my own. I tell you that it is her that appeared to me. I do not know what she was saying, but when I remember it now, the imperfection of my memory fills the emptiness of her voice with the melodies of my song. But these melodies only detract from her beauty. Nothing I could create would ever achieve the wondrous and divine perfection with which she had been instilled! I must know it! I wish to touch that sublime skin!"

Bunnu yawned and said with a light-hearted laugh. "Please...we must treat this as a story, whatever we wish to think. Certainly there is no shortage of unexplained phenomenon all about us. It would behoove us to make mention of them, but it would be irresponsible to focus in on one and ruminate on it too seriously. In seeking meaning in this Universe of contradictions, the mind craves speculation, but when our notions cross that line from uncertainty to certainty, they immediately become dangerous. Do not allow this specter which you believe to have seen to bring about your ruin."

"What the young man says is true!" mon seigneur assented. "We are too often betrayed by our own idealizations. I am no less guilty of this than most. Inevitably, the choice is yours, but do not allow yourself to pursue this illusion too adamantly. You have spent much of your life pursuing illusions. This one may surely lead you to ruin. There are many such men who have lost themselves in such searches and I am afraid to tell you what became of them. In any case, as I said, you are your own person. I only ask that you do not allow this to become an obsession, but I fear that it should."

Bhakti was quiet at this. Rays of dawn light reached his eyes; he did not move a muscle to shield them. He would not even blink. Tears made trails down his cheeks before passing into the rough wilderness of his thick beard, whereupon each drop became imperceptible to all, but to the face which shed them.

The clock on the wall chimed the hour: it was morning and the darkness of night already seemed a distant memory.

### IX.

About two years and some months thereafter, Bunnu chanced to meet Bhakti on the main boulevard of Yami during the peak tourist season. They hadn't seen each other since that night at the inn, and Bunnu had not thought about him in quite some time.

The weather was uncharacteristically hot and stifling on that day, the sun blindingly bright, and the town was packed with overweight foreigners whose stubby, angled shadows passed through each other on the cobbled streets with greater ease and fluidity than the bumping oafish frames attached to them would suggest to the eye-level observer. The crowds were inevitable: the town had grown in popularity in the past couple years and the number of visiting tourists had tripled from the usual number. Now it wasn't just plump families anymore, but also fat young lovers who had made the trip in spite of their parents' wishes. Young corpulent ruffians and podgy tramps also began to litter the public spaces, causing some concern for an increase in crime. With this came a veritable invasion of fleshy dancers, musicians, and acrobats from many a land. In viewing the new transition which had so rapidly overtaken the town, there came to be this feeling all around, particularly among the long-time residents, that Yami was yet again undergoing an incredible metamorphosis.

This sudden change in the demographics of the town was easily explainable: the economy of the Republic, it seemed, was flourishing. The decades of recession which came from the too-quick expansion and the pervasive corruption surrounding their public works projects in the provinces were finally behind them. In spite of the earlier losses, the extensive investments of public funds into the transportation and communications infrastructure, even in areas of lesser resources, were finally starting to pay for themselves through increased trade, and every corner of the Republic was finally reaching full bloom. There was hope in the air and glee and excitement and self-indulgence and excess and debauchery and lust. People in this corner of the world were feeling pretty good about themselves and the future looked bright. And abidingly, the only instinctive recourse for a nouveau riche in such an economy was to celebrate himself and his own successes to the most preposterous extreme of elation, as though his fortune had less to do with those macro external factors of which he was a negligible component, and more to do with his exceptional and intrinsic talents at whatever it was he happened to declare as his occupation.

And here on the street, among these emboldened and excessive people, the music seemed louder and more vivacious, the colors seemed brighter, the sounds of laughter seemed to reach an enigmatic pitch which made them seem lighter and larger, the aromas of the street food were more fragrant, more appetizing. There were no limits to how good this all could be, or at least that's how they felt at the moment.

With one hand shielding his eyes from the intensity of the sunlight, Bunnu used his other arm to elbow his way through the crowd of mirthful pedestrians on his way to the vegetable market. Foot traffic had been squeezed into a narrow lane against the wall which overlooked the river, as half of the main avenue had now been sectioned off as a thruway for passing stagecoaches, which themselves were backed up due to heavy traffic congestion. Sounds of chattering gentlemen and tittering ladies sometimes overwhelmed the clacks of hooves against cobblestone; the voyage to Yami was a delightful, drunken and often debauched affair for those of the aristocracy who could afford travel in the coziness of carriages. One young socialite, whose grandiosity of coiffure was only exceeded by the grandiosity of her bosom, parted the window curtains separating the civilized purity of her private compartment from the venal decay of the rabble hotfooting it mere inches away in the pedestrian lane. Her tits were hanging out and she was sloshed beyond any measure of decency. At the sight of her meaty chest, the crowd on the street erupted into applause in celebration of sheer wretchedness. She nodded her head in affirmation and opened her mouth just long enough for a squadron of attack butterflies to emerge from her tiny trachea. These winged vermin landed on random faces and necks to inject lethal poisons, evoking derisive chortles from within the carriage and whinnies of amused condescension from the purebreds which drew it.

Bunnu viewed this brief scene with delight, but failed to partake in the revelry which unfolded before him, for there were other matters which required his attention. In spite of these times of prosperity, he had experienced no greater share of the collective wealth and elation which pervaded all about him; his tasks were as mundane as always. On this particular afternoon, he had been asked by the landlord's wife to pick up some onions and coriander for the evening's feasts. The inn had taken to hosting five feasts a day, as there was an endless demand for parties and merrymaking and no shortage of moneyed patrons willing to finance it. Unfortunately for him, this new era of good feeling had had absolutely no impact on his wages. He stopped momentarily to wipe sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, only to spy Bhakti standing in the audience of a foreign street musician, watching but showing no delight in the music being played. The crowd was gathered at the intersection of this thoroughfare and a footbridge which extended at an upward incline over the river toward Xami, and which thereupon branched outward in spider web formation to a series of elevated walkways and raised platforms occupied by female mystics and blind itako shamans who screamed down from their pulpits at the throngs of manic street gamblers admonitions of the terrible illness to which they would soon succumb. The disapprobatory wails of these clairvoyants sounded like the yowls of fornicating cats from across the river, perhaps worse: shamans were a joyless breed.

The accordionist Bhakti looked different now: he was dressed in plain canvas garb, had a clean-shaven face and neatly parted hair, which possibly rendered him unrecognizable to those who didn't know him well. The skin along his cheek and above his lips seemed smooth and fresh as though he had rid himself of the beard recently enough that stubble had not yet started to grow back. He looked boyish from afar, but as Bunnu approached him through the throngs of meandering impediments, this boyishness gradually drained from his form—a man pushed his way through Bunnu's path and he lost sight of Bhakti for a moment and then regained it, only to notice that his friend's skin now appeared rough as tree's bark; his gaze harder, more callous-seeming.

It was this last point which caused Bunnu to sense that he had mistaken someone else for Bhakti, but then the face turned in his direction and he could see the hardness of that expression melting away to a look of recognition, those eyes engendering the soft meekness of that Bhakti he once knew. At first, the conversation was awkward between the two and Bunnu found himself staring at the pallid skin surrounding his counterpart's mouth—how naked and out of place it seemed, how difficult it must have been for him now to mask his expression without a hint of nervousness making itself evident in a nuanced twitch of the muscles in his cheeks. Bhakti looked weaker, less assured and less manly than Bunnu had remembered him. Bunnu couldn't help but wonder if the impetus for taking on this new appearance was a desire for self-discipline: perhaps this hairless visage was Bhakti's way of exercising cessation at the follicle for the purposes of spiritual growth. Such an action was not uncommon among penitent priests, but would otherwise seem unusual and out of place for those who sought to live among the worldly. But conceivably, in the hopes of challenging himself to be stronger, Bhakti had taken to stripping himself of all those devices he had often used in the past to conceal his emotions for the sake of affecting politeness. Possibly, the true test of character for him was to maintain this appearance without growing overly conscious about how others viewed him. Of course, Bunnu had no chance to confirm whether or not his theories about Bhakti were correct, as the accordionist—sans accordion and standoffish as always—remained just as closed off as he had in the past; he was quiet and attentive through Bunnu's loquacious explanations of his current circumstances; but then, when asked about himself, kept his responses brief and evasive, but in as polite a tone as possible; and when Bunnu pressed him for details, he responded simply by apologizing with a jittery smile and taking sudden leave for a destination he failed to disclose.

Taken aback by this artless attempt at avoidance, Bunnu watched in astonishment as the accordionist rounded a corner and passed out of sight. What a peculiar man he was! The whole awkward affair left a bad taste in his mouth. And so, left on the street, scratching his head in silence, Bunnu wondered if any of this had happened at all, or if the intensity of the summer heat had caused his mind to play tricks on him. He came away from this encounter with only two bits of new knowledge about the accordionist Bhakti: the accordionist no longer played the accordion, and Bhakti was no longer Bhakti.

He now called himself Bucky, though he didn't explain why.

Upon telling mon seigneur of this queer encounter, the old man did not seem the least bit surprised, as even he did not see Bhakti as often as before. And whenever he hoped to visit with Bucky, the young man always seemed to be on his way out to do one thing or another. This even seemed to be in the case in winter, when it would otherwise be safe to assume he'd have but few places to go. However, apparently he actually did always have some sort of business to attend to in the Under City—the dark, hidden metropolis which existed beneath the stilt-supported streets of Yami. He never elaborated on his business there and would grow stony-faced the moment anyone asked about it.

His mysterious behavior was not lost on those who knew him well. mon seigneur-Q, when asked by Bunnu for his take on the emergence of the hairless, accordion-less Bucky, merely shrugged uncertainly as though having reconciled himself with the choices made by his stepson. He seemed too perplexed to comment and, for once, Bunnu found himself craving anything but silence from the otherwise churlish mon seigneur. Aunty Durga, standing behind Q as the old man became lost in his own thoughts, was not quite so reticent about the boy's peculiar behavior; without any further prompting, she launched into an embittered tirade about how she had predicted Bhakti's devolution years earlier and how no one had paid heed to her warnings. However, she, not unlike mon seigneur, seemed plagued by an utter dearth of facts regarding the specifics of his situation, only causing her to resort to all kinds of fearful speculation about the criminality of his actions. Finally, upon recognizing through Bunnu's dubious expression the seemingly theoretical nature of her claims, she took a half-step back into the realm of rationality: "Anyway, I don't know really what he's up to. It's hard to get two words out of him. And when he's not in the Under City, he's back in his room with the curtains drawn and the doors locked. He refuses to respond when anyone knocks. I don't know if he is depressed, tired, guilty, or annoyed by our intrusions. Either way, I find it troubling! Perhaps, I am assuming the worst. But I can't help it. I have this feeling that he is mixed up in something treacherous. I can't tell you in detail what it is about his behavior that tells me this, but I can surely say that if he is involved with those reprobates in the Under City—which he surely must be—then he can't be up to anything good. Still, he's been acting like this for quite some time, Bunnu. Over a year, at least. I'm surprised you only noticed now. You are one of the few people who have maintained a friendship with him over the years." Bunnu took this comment as an implicit chastisement for his negligence in maintaining relations with his friend. But then, he paused, wondering if either he or Bhakti knew each other well enough for their association to constitute a friendship. Bunnu took his leave of the elderly couple, but not before noticing that mon seigneur-Q's eyes had grown teary.

### * * *

A month later, Bunnu spotted Bucky again, as he looked down from the promenade of the main avenue to the docks hundreds of meters below. It was close to sunset and Bucky was conversing intently with one of the longshoremen. Both of them looked around for a second before disappearing into a small brick building. A few minutes later, Bucky emerged again with a wrapped parcel cradled to his chest. He immediately made for the blue netting which led into the Under City and disappeared. Bunnu continued about his errands, but encountered Bhakti again a couple hours later. This time, the debristled delinquent was sitting on the stairs which led down to the docks. Darkness had descended over the town and Bhakti was looking across at the river in the direction of the lantern-lit riverboats along the banks of Xami.

"It's been some time since we talked, old friend," Bunnu proffered in a friendly manner. As these words left his lips, he winced slightly at their artificiality. They both knew that few words save for politeness and niceties ever passed between them. There was rarely any real conversation, rarely any meaningful or insightful moments. What they knew of each other only came through the help of mon seigneur-Q. Unless Q was available to facilitate communication, all conversations between the two always seemed forced and flat. It could hardly be called a friendship.

Bucky seemed to make a greater effort at conversation than usual, and for once, even seemed somewhat more forthcoming than Bunnu had remembered him. The two still talked of very few meaningful things, certainly nothing that either of them would be able to recall later, but in the way Bucky expressed himself, Bunnu couldn't help but notice that he was different now than how he had seemed on the day when they'd met in the street. There were no more pretenses: he seemed more natural, and yet more forceful and aggressive in the way he expressed himself. All the same, this assertiveness manifested itself in so subtle a way that the casual observer might otherwise have missed it. Still, there was a negativity inherent in everything he said that seemed to break with the overly optimistic tone of Yamian politeness. Bunnu was only able to notice these subtle changes in him, before being interrupted by two sinister looking characters in velvet jumpsuits ascending the stairs from the docks.

One of the men was tall and pale, his orange hair slicked back, the sides of his head shaven, his face covered in convex pimples and equally concave dimples; his name was T.P. Johnson—the T.P., he claimed, stood for Time Paradox. The other man was much shorter and more unassuming. He dressed in gray and had an utterly forgettable face. His name, too, was T.P. Johnson—he offered an explanation as to how his _T.P._ stood for something entirely different from that of his compatriot, but his explanation was so tedious from the outset that it was immediately painful to listen to, and thus, far easier to ignore. After these brief introductions were made, the shorter, more unassuming T.P. Johnson invited Bunnu along to an all-night Salad Bar to which the three were headed in the Under City, only to draw scornful glances from his associates. The Lesser T.P., however, seemed unaffected by their disapproval, nodding to himself as though greatly satisfied by his own decision.

### * * *

The skies above were purple and the clouds pink, or so it appeared when looking from the Under City up through the gaps between the streets of Yami. It was difficult to know what caused this colorful effect in the night sky from below, unless there now existed some heretofore non-existent orb in the sky—a second newborn Sun perhaps— more luminous than the minimal gleams of moonlight and starlight. If this were the case, it would seem that the natural darkness of night would now become a phenomenon confined the realm of nevermore: the mere myth of something which once was and shall never be again, an unlikely entity whose existence future generations of yet unborn humans would eventually come to doubt. "I was surprised by that too, when I first ventured down here at night," the Lesser T.P. mumbled at Bunnu's side. "No one really knows why the night sky looks that way from here. Some believe that a massive telescopic lens is hanging over us, magnifying the light of the distant Wigged Spider Nebula, so that it might become our amorphous nighttime sun. I cannot be sure if this is true, but it sounds reasonable. The Wigged Spider Nebula is known for its pronounced Magenta luminescence." Bunnu did not bother to look at T.P.'s face as he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Come along then!" the taller Time Paradox Johnson said impatiently as he ran a hand through his greasy slicked-back hair. He had the seeming qualities of a leader, though it was difficult to discern what those were exactly. Whatever the case, Bunnu and the unassuming T.P. both found themselves immediately scampering in the direction of Bucky and Time Paradox without even the thought of protest crossing their minds. "So help me, if we arrive too late for..."

"Yes, yes...it won't happen again..." the Lesser T.P. said with an obligatory bow, clearly not in the least bit apologetic, but cognizant enough of the power dynamic that existed between them to avoid having the situation deteriorate to the point in which it should unnecessarily provoke a row. After this lethargic surrender, the small-statured T.P. walked by Bunnu's side with his hands in his pockets, "Time Paradox hates it when we get there and all the broccoli is gone. Fresh broccoli comes in every day from where he grew up in the provinces. He looks forward to the salad bar, if for no other reason, than to taste the greens from home. Rather pathetic, this childlike attachment to home. Surely what it was that once constituted _home_ has already changed many times over: all those memorable images, those time-worn and empty signifiers, now relegated to the realm of nostalgia, only serve as vessels for his idealized and self-serving projections of what was. One must learn to rid oneself of all which cannot be reclaimed if one wishes to be truly content; one must shed this weight of glorified expectation, don't you think?"

Bunnu said nothing, but looked ahead at Time Paradox and Bucky who walked side-by-side through the darkness. The two muttered secretively between them, occasionally looking around, seemingly to make sure they weren't heard.

All around them in the Under City, what had been an assortment of sparsely scattered shacks and huts adjacent to support beams immediately became systematic rows of two-story structures, though some of these dared to push the limits of their shaky, primitive architecture to three or four floors. The streets, though still unpaved and no more solid than the muddy ground on any riverbank, were laid out in a grid pattern in much more meticulous alignment than might be found in the surface city above. Makeshift lanterns were tied by twine to the support beams to make streetlights. Still there were pockets of darkness where shouts and screams could occasionally be heard, sometimes snarls. In some areas, there would be a large patch of darkness and they would have to guide themselves along the streets slowly by the light of the Wigged Spider Nebula above.

Soon, however, a solitary light, or a focused beam from a large luminous torch would pierce through the black to find a spot on the street; and in its spotlight would often be standing a gap-toothed man leaning on a cane with a wicked smile and a patch-riddled brown hat. Men such as these were not uncommon in the Under City; they were typically brokers in shares for companies selling black market medicines, and often times distributors of the bunk remedies themselves. When these tricksters were absent, the light beam would otherwise be filled with the desirable forms of fortune-telling prostitutes, who grabbed passersby by the arms, pulling them close to whisper in their ears. Often they were selling tonight, at other times the future.

Silhouettes of other skulkers, some solitary, others in pairs or small groups, passed discreetly through this underdeveloped Shadow Metropolis. The clacking sound from the claws of Crab-clawed Scavengers pervaded at times, but soon fell silent at their approach. There was a solemnity in the darkness that rendered unto this place, in spite of its seeming pervasiveness of iniquity, a holy and tranquil quality, as though all the deceptions of the surface had been stripped away and shredded, bringing one verily to bear up with the neglected horrors of his own naked aspect. Bunnu watched Bucky speaking intently with Time Paradox Johnson. There was a confidence in his stride and in his body language that seemed almost alien to his nature.

Bunnu took a deep breath and lost his gaze in the dark distance, for he, not unlike Bhakti, had also entrenched himself in necessary deception these few years. He found himself wondering if he could retrace his own steps and find again whom he had once been, or whether such a trek was necessary at all. Perhaps it wasn't. _Regression_ was simply a word, a conjecture and nothing more. It was a mythic beast which only existed in the realm of academic inquiry—no such creature as _regression_ could truly exist. However, it was not worth his time to consider this: more pressing to him was his own proclivity at self-deception. He had failed to recognize this in himself, caught up in the routines of everyday life. This was not the first time this sort of thing had happened. In fact, he had reached a similar realization in his previous life when he had been living in the company dorm on the isle of Dhritarashtra. Back then, he had been working 10 years in raw materials procurement in the 133rd Regiment of the RavanAlloy Mining Limited Liability Corporation. Caught up in those circumstances too, it had been easy for illusion to get a foothold. In that specific case, however, certain betrayals of confidence were required before he could see himself for the instrument of failed mechanics that he was. This time there was no drama accompanying his realization; this time, the insight came gradually and more subtly, but it was there. All around him in the darkness, there was now a reality pressing against him that he had, for years, stood over unknowingly as he went about his daily errands in the Surface City.

Bunnu's face deflated as the wind of a crestfallen sigh escaped his mouth: this prompted a knowing giggle from Lesser T.P. Johnson.

From somewhere suddenly came the sound of galloping horses. There was shouting and the fierce noises of bloody combat ensued though it was enshrouded by darkness. Warm drops of sweat, or possibly blood spattered over Bunnu's cheek and he realized that this was all happening quite close to him, though he was unable to see it in this light. "We should make our way quickly or the Horsemen will find us!" Time Paradox said emphatically to the group.

"No...no...they are not after us," Bucky said calmly. "It is the coprophagous bodybuilders they are after. Apparently, a couple weeks ago, a few of them had been lifting weights along the shoulder of the Under City Beltway. As the horsemen passed in procession, one of the neophyte bodybuilders happened to catch his eye and acknowledge the Horseman General with a nod and a smile. The Horseman General took this smile as an effeminate gesture of supplication and commanded his troops to trample the shit-munchers until they were at their final breath. Retaliatory crap-tossing was the only natural response on the part of the bodybuilders, but this only added more fuel to the fire. Since then, the conflict has grown in scale, but more recently, it seems that the bodybuilders are running scared."

"How could you possibly know about that?" Time Paradox retorted with a hint of dubiety.

"A few of those foul-smelling weightlifters approached me recently about seeking asylum in the Surface City. They know as well as we do that they are heavily outnumbered. So, they thought mon seigneur-Q might allow them to rent out one of his buildings as a safe house."

"What'd you say to that?" Time Paradox said in a less challenging tone, suddenly amused by the situation.

"I told them Aunty Durga would rather die than allow a group of malodorous fiends occupy any of their properties. As you know, she has an intense aversion to unpleasant odors. She used to be more sensitive when she was younger, but she still has a very keen sense of smell."

"So, what'd the bodybuilders have to say about that?"

"Nothing really. They just muttered amongst themselves despondently for a while. I think they planned on seeking an alliance with the sensory-deprived word-fetishists, but first they required a legal dictionary in order for their negotiations to go more smoothly. I doubt they've made much headway though. There's scarcely a book much less a dictionary in the Under City that hasn't already been hoarded by those pedantic word-fetishists for the purposes of strict editing. They see themselves as infinitely superior to others at lexicographically accurate word usage; somehow their excessive command over language imbues them with a sense of pride regarding their effectiveness in the use of rhetorical codes—and yet, their syntactical nitpickery only seems to flummox the intuitive and mutual empathy that is necessary in the actual conveyance of any critical message. Therefore it remains impossible to enter into any kind of extensive discourse with them without ultimately being judged harshly and further dismissed as both inarticulate and ineffective: this overemphasis on form over content is the unalterable outcome, is what gives way to that ineluctable breakdown in communication, even if what one has to say is inherently purposeful and in the best interests of all."

"Yes, yes...I see where you are going with this. Of course, I agree that it is frighteningly easy, as in the case of the word-fetishists, to lose one's way in the navigation of codes: easy enough that, if one were not otherwise careful, he might conceive, in forgetfulness of context, the most monstrous of realities, legalistic and otherwise. It can be said that the word-fetishists' efforts are often contradictory to their best interests. There is little doubt about that." Time Paradox mused. He paused for a moment before continuing, "But this is all common knowledge: let's forget about the word-fetishists for now and stay with the bodybuilders. Have they no potential allies?"

"Oh, they most certainly do..." Bucky said with a snigger. He seemed to delight in being more knowledgeable about such matters than Time Paradox. "I'm told the Sleepwalking Hermaphrodites and the Reanimated Exhibitionist Corpses already have long-standing feuds with the Horsemen. Dominant though they may be, the Horsemen may well lose the upper hand if these three gangs can manage to forge an alliance with, say, for example the Obsolete Doppelgangers. One of the Doppelgangers once bragged to me of their massive weapons arsenal in a storage area somewhere deep in the Razorweed Marshes of the Southwestern District. And I know they've been plagued with a number of raids by the Horsemen. There're whispers of a full-scale war."

"I've heard something to that effect too. I think that's just rhetoric though. Nothing to be taken seriously."

"I have it on good authority," Bucky replied with unshakable confidence. Bunnu, listening to this exchange was beside himself with amazement at how connected Bucky had become to the workings of the Under City, and how, in spite of this, he remained more or less unscathed, but rather stronger-willed and more capable than he had ever seemed, except when playing the accordion. This was a much different man from the Bhakti he had known, different even from the person he had run into on the street only a month earlier. Could it be that the Under City awakened within him a strength of spirit he didn't know he had? Then again, had this strength been there all along, channeled only into his music? If so, the phenomenon was something to be marveled at, but then, there was also something disappointing about the possibility that his spirit had been diverted from music and into the arena of extroversion, conceivably because it seemed that music was no longer a part of that which constituted Bhakti—it seemed that he had lost it, or that it had departed from him. .

The affirming acceptance which this shadow before Bunnu now received from all around him was palpable, but brought with it a strange disconcertment, for Bucky, whether organically or inorganically, had finally rendered himself completely unrecognizable from the person he had once been: the soft-spoken, polite accordionist with a beard. It seemed odd that his past self and present self should each have been connected to the same frame and that this frame should somehow retain the memories and emotions of both incongruous entities, while still remaining as one individual; it was somehow saddening that a person should transform so dramatically and still continue to bear those immutable traits characteristic of that person, as though to taunt those who knew him prior to the transformation. With or without this moniker, he still looked like the same Bhakti that Bunnu had known. Bunnu, in spite of his growing reverence for the capable organism before him, at the same time found himself trying to remember unsuccessfully the intriguing melodies it had composed before this necessary metamorphosis. He longed for that indescribable element of Bhakti which had been lost. He longed for the enigmatic and the unexplainable.

But, _regression,_ he remembered again, was simply a word, a conjecture and nothing more. There was no hope of reclaiming that which had been lost. Bhakti had evolved into a _normal_ person now: a socially relevant being with a different name and a different personality that came with it. But in contending with his new extroversion, he allowed himself somehow to shed those indefinable aspects of him which had once made him special and possibly misunderstood, those very same aspects, which at the same time caused him to appear awkward and peculiar and standoffish in the eyes of others. Now, he was more contributive and likeable and affable to the dynamics of the groups surrounding him than he had been before. He seemed more natural in a group and more active, and yet surely he had lost a certain purity of essence in the process of this evolution—either lost it, or yielded to its contamination by those alien infections from which he had once successfully guarded it. It would seem like he had compromised himself for the sake of others, like he had ceased to trust his own natural inclinations. However, perhaps doing so was not a conscious act, but rather an involuntary response to a new stimulus or to new surroundings. A response to what though? Maybe it was the changing times, the changing circumstances. Or, maybe his compromise was one steeped in the process of maturity which, in bringing surefooted cynicism upon him, had also succeeded in draining him of the hopefulness of his youth. On the other hand, this change may have, in fact, been a conscious one, for certainly he could have reinvented himself out of necessity: the surface city of Yami was a far different place from what it had been two years earlier. The new booming economy brought wealth and prosperity, but it also made the town into a city: there was greater diversity and greater complexity to it than ever before. The scale of this place had grown vast and now it was a thriving metropolis: a condition which muddled any connection it had had with its simpler past. With the pronounced change in the demographics of his surroundings, perhaps Bhakti no longer had his unique niche in that specific ecosystem; perhaps he too had lost connection with his prior self.

_Adaptation!_ Bunnu found himself thinking: _The accordionist has learned to adapt to his changing environment. He has shifted to a different habitat, and shifted his role accordingly._ He was no longer the socially inept, pensive artist, who masked his complexities with such aplomb. He appeared more basic now, simpler in his perceived desires, less conflicted, but more comfortable and contented around people than before. He certainly seemed happier, but for some reason, this brightened and more assertive persona didn't suit him.

Bunnu suddenly missed the forced nature of his polite smile. He missed the tightness of his cheek muscles and the lack of muscle contraction around the eyes that gave it such falseness as to appear as a wince. He missed the strange anxiety that pervaded his aura, as he, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions he sought to hide, giggled nervously at those around him. He missed the utter lack of confidence Bhakti seemed to have in himself, because there was something more genuine and compassionate about his timidity than his calculated confidence of present. Bunnu now remembered the near-violent reaction he had had that day in Bhakti's apartment, that day he wished to tear his head off, and he now understood why he had had it. He felt betrayed by Bhakti's lack of confidence in him, but also envious of that indescribable magnificence the accordionist seemed to conceal from the world around him. There was a light he held within him, gentle and divine and vulnerable and curious all at once that he was afraid to let out for others to see, for fear it should be extinguished. And now, it seemed that the light had grown faint. It wasn't gone, but had dimmed.

Bunnu looked at the shadow swaggering arrogantly before him and felt infinite pity, for perhaps it knew not what it had lost. It was easy to forget something so minuscule, yet so important—all too easy.

And as though in response to this sentiment, Bucky half-turned and looked at Bunnu. "You've been quiet," these words, in a tone bereft of all irony, trickled out instead with an undercurrent of contempt: "Cat got your tongue?"

### * * *

"I'm told the variety of broccoli they serve here, when eaten, has a strange effect on the temporal lobe of the brain."

"I have heard this too. That's not terribly surprising. Where I'm from, broccoli is said to have a sacred quality. In fact, we often accept it as prasad during prayers and religious rites. Scientists from the University of Berber in the Republic have recently found that some varieties of broccoli, grown using the traditional farming and fertilization techniques of my region, are believed to contain certain chemicals, which, when consumed in large amounts, can activate unexplainable mechanisms within the temporal lobe of the eater, allowing him to experience feelings of profound spirituality and humility in the presence of a given stimulus. Of course, the extent of this feeling depends greatly on the stimulus in question and on one's existing recognition of its inherent cultural or philosophical value to others. Certainly, a prominent religious image would evoke a different sensation, even in the non-believer, than a ball of lint—although there have been well-documented cases of the latter exceeding the former, depending on the color, shape, texture, and softness of said specimen—the lint I mean, not the religious emblem. In truth, this short-lived increase in spiritual awe is merely a biochemical mechanism caused by greater electrical activity in the temporal lobe. Sad but true."

"Does it give way to greater sexual arousal too, because that bird standing over there by the cauliflower really sends me?"

"It might be the celery she's eating. Depends on the variety—if it's Hybrid Octavian-APV Blue, certainly her personal magnetism will have intensified by leaps and bounds. However, I would also warn that she might be highly excitable. If I'm not mistaken, those are Mansa Beets on her plate. Surely they are acting on her nucleus amygdalæ and could trigger an arbitrary and irrational fear in her, thereby rendering her a flight risk."

"I don't know about that...."

"Are you doubting what I say?"

"No, no...not at all. Ease down, T.P. There aren't any Mansa Beets on her plate."

"Maybe I'm looking at the wrong one. Which one is she?"

"By the cauliflower."

"Oh, now I see her. That one's mine. Understand?"

"I get her friend though?"

"If you want her...but she doesn't look...er...well."

"That could just be a natural deformity. You're just spooked by all this talk of a new bug going around."

"With good reason. A pestilence will soon be upon us. Just you watch, this town is ripe for another population bottleneck."

"I hope you're wrong. Hey, what's with these two? Space cadets them. We're the only one's been talking all this time, T.P.."

"Shut up and eat your vegetables, T.P."

The all-night salad bar was brighter than the heavens, or at least so it seemed to the dilated pupils of its night-adjusted occupants. Nonetheless, there was certainly a luminescence to the candles in the fixtures hanging above which gave the room more than a glow, but rather a shocking intensity that was almost blinding. Bunnu couldn't help but be reminded of how taken aback he had been by the piercing light of a candle in his room at the inn when he had awakened from that bad entheogenic strawberry trip. In his addled state, he had wondered then if a tiny star had descended upon the wick. But now, confronting a light of even greater luminosity, he wondered instead if the wax of these candles was collected from the hives of some sacred insect—hallowed bees perhaps.

The salad bar complex was, on its exterior, a vast gray rectangular prism. It was labeled with no signs, but was so well-known to the inhabitants of the Under City that it didn't need any. The outside was crafted of a drab concrete; the structure itself had no windows, but was composed of a row of 13 separate one-room cubical stone units. Each of these units was distinct in its interior decor, but was otherwise laid out in the same uniform fashion as the others. An arched opening on the south wall of each unit was aligned with an opening of the same dimensions on the north wall of the next, creating the illusion that all the units were adjoined by thick arching doorways, when in fact they remained as distinct structures, painstakingly lined up with one another. Upon venturing into the complex from the north entrance, one might be struck by the 12 arching equidistant doorways which repeated all the way down to the southernmost unit. Through these doorways stretched a very long table of 100 meters (although, it was, more precisely, a series of shorter tables laid out end-to-end) lined with food. Aside from these details, there was almost nothing else to the place except for its basement kitchen beneath Units 6 & 7. Frequently servers clad in greased whites would open a hinged wooden door in the restaurant floor and ascend dark wooden stairs carrying baskets of vegetables, stacks of crude wooden plates and trays of rusty dining utensils (this, of course, made for a diminished seating capacity in both units 6 & 7, but there was plenty of seating in the other rooms). Each of the cubical units was 9 meters in length, width and height, but only contained 4 dining tables—one in each corner—seating between four and twelve people.

In spite of the building's uniform design, the walls were fresh with the vibrant colors of murals, surely not the work of any respected or well-known artist, but more likely a specimen of an ilk not readily accepted by the surface world, one who was probably scorned or mocked for his (or her) inadequacies in abiding by certain set conventions of aesthetics, but one who had nonetheless found a forum of expression here among the reprobates and philistines who exchanged banalities and acerbic banter and some of whom occasionally looked upon some detail or that on the wall, fell catatonic, forgot what he had been talking about and found awakening within him a dormant yearning for a different universe he might occupy if only for a short time. Discombobulated by this momentary sensation, the viewer would be filled with a contentment and a dread all at once which may ultimately lead him to despise the paintings for reminding him of all these emotions he wished to suppress. And soon, he would engage the others in mockery of this very piece which had affected him so profoundly, for this was the only way left to him to alleviate the pain of recognizing his genuine emotions.

Bucky and Bunnu both found themselves in one such moment, albeit transfixed by different details, as they silently stared at a painting depicting the eroded face of a cliff overlooking the frantic sea. Close to the edge of this cliff stood in profile a lonesome golden-haired woman who wore a white fluttering gown, and whose windblown hair concealed her visage. She held one arm outstretched before her, the fingers of its hand curling indefinitely, as the arm opposite fell loosely behind her waist, its hand formed into a gentle fist; she stepped in a long straight-legged stride as though venturing forward into the insubstantial which loomed perilously over the unrelenting sea, and in spite of her imminent demise, there appeared in her form an elegant and noble air, her regal posture possessed of a certain grace and contentment; there was nary a hint of fear, nor of desperation, nor of sadness: her momentary juxtaposition one of only solemn commitment; she proceeded forward uninhibited by this mere line she would cross no differently than she would perhaps any arbitrary line sliced into the sand by the whims of a child at play, she proceeded forward in defiance of those jagged rocks below against which the violent waves seethed and frothed white as might saliva against the fangs of a rabid carnivore. The light from the sky was grayish and subtle but rays erupted from the sea even brighter than the heavens above.

It was this last detail which mystified Bunnu most: this enhanced brightness of reflection; Bucky, on the other hand, missed this detail in favor of the sacrificial virgin; as he looked upon her, his eyes were wanting, but not lustful. His face flashed with a firm recognition not of what truly was, but of what he _wished_ was truly: the woman of this picture a principal character in a narrative bubbling again in his imagination. It was _her:_ that specter he had viewed briefly from afar among the black grasses, and then upon rocky cliffs, that beautiful creature who wept in unfathomable pain and excruciating melancholy. Now she could be viewed up close in this painting; he knew her, yes—even closer in his mind: his musing emblazoning her with features, with attributes of his idealization, emblazoning her with a guise to whom he felt infinitely connected and for whom he felt infinitely responsible: this half-existing, half-mutated reverie of what comprised her persona merged seamlessly now with the image he saw before him in this painting—there could be no doubt, none at all that he and this young blossom were inextricably linked. But how could he know her so profoundly without having met her in the physical form? Perhaps they had met, but in a different realm. There was even room to entertain the possibility of having met through astral projection. Yes! They both knew each other intimately, and in a way that neither would be able remember upon waking: they knew each other as pure consciousnesses, as luminous beings unshackled from the distractions of ego or identity, undulled by the weight of substance. Maybe she was still out there, maybe they would meet again: either in their waking states or in their sleeping states. It was heartening to think so. He found himself imagining what it would be like if they met in their physical states, if he could be there with her inside of that picture. His eyes focused in and the image grew larger before him until the room around him—the noises, the food, the people—had vanished.

And as the two T.P. Johnson's bantered and ate their green vegetables, Bunnu's eyes fell upon Bucky's engrossed countenance and for the first time, that evening, he felt he could recognize him as the Bhakti he once knew: the person who didn't seek to escape from himself, the dreamy introvert who, by his very inclination, would otherwise deign to make a show of being gregarious. Bhakti was back momentarily: how Bunnu had missed him, for this attempt of his at being an extrovert was most unbecoming. Bunnu watched in admiration of a madness rekindled as Bhakti fell into a meditative trance with a full, untouched plate before him. The accordionist's elbow was on the table and his chin rested in his hands and he stared at the lines of her white fluttering dress, at the forlorn tilt of her head as she stood perched over the rocks below, questions presumably swirling about in his mind. Who was this artist who painted her? Did the artist know her? Was it the prescribed duty of this painter to transmit a message only Bucky could see? Who was she really and where did she come from?

"Bussaba Lek," a gruff voice said from behind. Bunnu and Bucky turned around to find that it came from a somewhat muscular elderly gentleman wearing a malodorous tank top yellowed with sweat. Loosely pinned to the right strap of this tank top was a name tag which bore the words _Night Manager_ in red ink; above the low-rounded neck of this shirt, it appeared that the man's chest had sporadic patches of gray wooly hair, separated by bare, pallid deserts whither follicular vegetation was sparse. One could assume the hairs in these desert patches were shorn for some reason, conceivably out of faith to some religion, allegiance to some criminal syndicate, or loyalty to some arcane fashion trend of prior decades that had now fallen out of favor with the general public, but that still resonated with certain throwback pariahs; however, it appeared that there was no stubble in these smooth, barren fields, conceivably no roots had formed; and although one might be tempted to attribute this phenomenon to cessation at the follicle, this was most likely not the case as noted medical experts had asserted publicly time-and-time-again with unquestionable certainty that there had been no documented cases of any sort of condition in which the subject in question had been consciously able to prevent hair growth in certain regions while allowing fertile growth in others; nay, this strange pattern of chest baldness may conceivably have arisen by way of some fungal invasion somewhere either in the dermis or in the subcutaneous layers of his skin. That nature of fungi which had a tendency for inhabiting skin was known to grow its civilizations in secret, its host completely unbeknownst to its achievements, its longings, its fanciful derivations of meaning from the surrounding Universe. Conceivably, this elderly night manager was, in a similar fashion, unaware of what was actually occurring beneath his own skin.

"Pardon?" said Bunnu.

"I see you have an eye for that mural. It is a _Bussaba Lek._ Just this one. The murals in the other rooms are by other painters, mostly part-timers here, but this one's surely a Lek."

Time Paradox ran his fingers through his orange slicked back hair. "You can't mean _THE_ Bussaba Lek?"

"One and the same. He worked here years ago, before I even came to Yami. He had been the son of a longshoreman, but you probably knew that already, right?"

"You must be joking...Sir Bussaba Lek, the Silver Thread laureate?" the little T.P. sputtered with a hint of blind, yet obligatory reverence for this name. "He painted that old thing? Come now! What do you take us for?"

"Who's Bussaba Lek?" Bucky asked. The two T.P.'s and the elderly night manager jumped at this, their jaws dropping open in utterance of a collective _"WHAAAAAAAAA-?"_

Bunnu feigned surprise, though he had only heard the name and knew little more about it. It was a famous name, a household name. He knew that much. He had only first come to hear it a few years earlier when he was still on the isle of Dhritarashtra. In the brief period which had passed between its utter obscurity and its utter eminence, the prospect of not being acquainted with it suddenly became an odd phenomenon reserved only for those worthy of contempt. This being the case, Bucky's lack of recognition here instantly rendered him, once again, socially inept (though he had otherwise been doing so well at socializing this entire evening). It was only with such moving charity of spirit and loyalty to their compatriot that any attempt was made by those present to diffuse the situation; they all began to speak at once and at once fell silent again, until finally, little T.P. raised a finger politely. He had elected to shoulder, for the sake of all present, the burden of explaining to this ignoramus of an ex-accordionist the universally-recognized magnificence of the great Sir Bussaba Lek.

Bussaba Lek, as it turns out, was seven-years earlier the recipient of the Republic's most cherished honor, an award typically reserved for statesman, poets, gluttons, scientists, cosmologists, cosmetologists, theologians, bureaucrats, scam artists, anal retentives, inventors, cacophonists, artists and nymphomaniacs for leading lives of remarkable achievement: the Silver Thread. In keeping with tradition, it was generally expected that those receiving the Silver Thread be largely unknown to most of the general populace until the honor had actually been bestowed. As only one Silver Thread was given each year for the categories of politics, fornication, literature, punctuality, science, personal hygiene, hairstyling, spirituality, gluttony, ingenuity, fraud, cacophony, art, and bureaucracy, it was considered the highest and most esteemed honor that any individual of the Republic, whether of high or low standing, could ever hope to achieve. Therefore, those charged with the responsibility of compiling the short list of nominees were often plagued with insomnia at the plethora of candidates, some more deserving and some better connected, whom they had to sort through in order to determine those most suitable. The criteria by which candidates were selected were not easy to hammer down; in fact they were quite inconsistent and based largely on the personal feelings of the judges on the committee, in addition to any estimations which could be made regarding the amount of influence the selected awardees would thereupon have over the daily lives of the Republic's people. Generally, in order for the selections of the judges on the Silver Thread committee to be well-received, it was best to confer this distinction upon someone who was either nearing the end of his or her life, or who had already passed on.

The latter was the case for Bussaba Lek, who was said to have died upon the completion of his final, most awe-inducing work, a painting called _The Fingers of Cat-a-mazoo,_ which depicted in portrait style a housecat gripping the bars of a cage with human digits and looking forlornly out of the two-dimensional painting at his voyeur in the three-dimensional world. The work was presumably meant to voice the artist's opposition to the domestication of cats: Bussaba Lek had a fierce dislike for the concept of a pet, for he found the whole notion condescending and idiotic. His saying so used to infuriate the pet owners around him, but in spite of the discomfort his opinions inflicted upon others, he saw no flaw in seeking to spurn any lasting relationships with the sort of people who could selfishly justify depriving a dog (for example) of her instinctual drives, her spirit even, for the sake of rendering her a silly plaything, their doll to dress up and feed, their surrogate for a child; a surrogate who, in fact, never lost her dependence on her master and who would never eventually go forth into the world, as might a child, to seek her own destiny. Of course, due to the severity of his opinions, Bussaba died friendless and alone, but not before committing his anti-pet rants to paper.

In the weeks before his death, he wrote numerous letters to a daily rag called _The Plebian,_ most of which went unpublished, except for one which was especially peculiar, primarily because it was composed in the style of a formal announcement written on his own behalf (as opposed to the format of a letter he had written himself). The incongruity and grandiloquence of the _letter_ was so bewildering to the editors that they published it out of sheer curiosity, under the assumption that something contentious enough was being said that it should provoke some interesting responses from their readers. The letter stated thus: LET IT BE KNOWN TO ALL THAT THE PROMINENT ARTIST AND CERTIFIED GENIUS BUSSABA LEK, IN HIS INFINITE GALLANTRY, SHALL HENCEFORTH DECLARE IN REPEATED FORMAL ENTREATIES TO THE LEGISLATURE OF THE REPUBLIC THAT THE BARBARIC PRACTICE OF PET OWNERSHIP IS TO BE ABOLISHED FORTHWITH! Even though no such formal entreaties were ever submitted in the name of Bussaba Lek, this concise, yet mystifying letter (if it could be called a letter at all) managed to catch the attention of a red gown-clad, bearded judge from the Silver Thread committee. Intrigued by the convoluted, yet commanding nature of the statement, and in profound admiration of the way its writer referred to himself in the third person, the judge believed himself to have found a potential candidate, for he knew a schizoid narcissist when he encountered one, and schizoid narcissism was most certainly a desirable trait in any Silver Thread candidate—it was the sign of another great trait that separated Silver Thread nominees from the general populace: megalomania. The judge started asking around about this Bussaba Lek character, and soon found the gallery where _The Fingers of Cat-a-mazoo_ was hanging. He attempted to find the artist, only to learn that he had died of loneliness weeks earlier (presumably having a pet would have prolonged his life, but this man's integrity and dedication to his causes was unquestionable). Excited by his remarkable find, the judge contacted his fellow committee members and Bussaba Lek was nominated instantly. It might not be taken as a coincidence that his nomination happened to come at a time in which legislation proposing a Republic-wide ban on pets was being argued before the Senate (the bill itself had been proposed by a Senator J.R. Levinson of Sentosa, who had strong ties to the Silver Thread nomination process, and who, incidentally, had a severe allergy to animal fur, in spite of the fact that his wife was a mammal-lover that kept a seeming menagerie of fur-bearing critters in their domicile). To the great happiness of Senator Levinson, Bussaba Lek was awarded the prize, the proposed legislation was passed, and all his wife's pets were sent out to various wildlife preserves, or otherwise jettisoned to the farthest reaches of the Outlands.

Everyone, with the exception of the Senator's heartbroken wife, got exactly what he sought. The judges, in particular, were proud of their selection: the work of Bussaba Lek would finally be known to the civilized world (actually, unbeknownst to all present at the all-night Salad Bar, where—we must remember—this account of his life was being given by the Lesser T.P. Johnson, the Silver Thread judges had only tracked down one of Lek's pieces, but it was not difficult to commission other artists of comparable skills who could fabricate any number of uncontroversial works which veered near enough to his own, while adhering more closely to certain well-established aesthetic principles, so as to render each more recognizable and appealing by the common public standard. The Bussaba Lek name was, for the purposes of filling museums with his work, extended to represent the work of numerous other anonymous, yet well-paid artists, who were not making attempts at self-expression, _per se,_ but rather attempts at expression of a self within which they sought to masquerade their identities, which is to say they could more aptly be referred to as _expressions on the behalf of another self besides one's own._ Unfortunately for the judges, this attempt at fraud would not be kept under wraps forever: their ruse on the public would eventually be revealed to the world in a sensational feature article in _The Plebian,_ five decades later. By this point, however, the Bussaba Lek name would already have become a part of the cultural lexicon and representations of his work would already be so iconic that they could even be found on certain bills of currency. Thus, upon the publication of this scandalous news, most would only come to view this fraudulent use of Lek's name as an interesting, and perhaps even contestable, historical side note. But of course, all of this was still far ahead in the future, and therefore unknown to the gentlemen dining this eve in the all-night Salad Bar).

As for Sir Bussaba Lek, the deceased artist for whom this honor was meant, it was difficult to say whether or not he would have been as enthralled by his newfound celebrity as Senator Levinson and the Silver Thread judges. The judges, however, seemed confident that he would have been pleased, and stated so in interviews with various publications, along with their unanimous determination that the posthumous conferment of this singular esteem was certain to be a source of pride and personal glory in which Sir Lek could surely bask for the eternity of his afterlife. There could be no doubt, after all, that this was an esteem that transcended the corporeal and passed over into other realms, an esteem which was vast and universal, the true and unqualified praise of not just the human species, but of all species on behalf of whom the human species had forged this inestimable tribute. Surely, they declared, the noble and grand Sir Bussaba Lek, though largely unhappy and unrecognized for most of his physical life, had finally achieved bliss in the hereafter.

Their claims were complemented by an eventual decision by the Ministry of Burials, Cremations, Reincarnations and Mummifications to relocate his remains from the mass grave site where his bones had laid alongside the likes of beggars and thieves to a sarcophagus in the Grand Cathedral of Regent's Square in the Republic's capital: Malion City. In keeping with the burial rituals ratified by the senate in Bill 72-G5B (otherwise affixed the title: "On the Ceremonial Rites of Public Officials and Private Citizens of Cultural and/or Political Significance"), his bones (hopefully his bones and not those of some filthy beggar lying adjacent in the mass grave) were laid out elegantly in a stone sarcophagus encrusted with diamonds; this hermetically sealed receptacle was placed on the floor of a vast basement hall alongside the similarly airtight sarcophagi of noted statesman, kings, distinguished generals, nobility, saintly royal pets, and other icons of cultural capital. The proximity of pets notwithstanding, how singular this glory must have been for one who was so scorned at the world in his own lifetime! How vindicated he must now feel!

"I guess...but doesn't it seem a bit of an empty gesture? Symbolic it certainly is...yes, but it just strikes me as being a lot of smoke. Is universal esteem so all-powerful and gratifying as to transcend life and death? Was it truly for the sake of our esteem that he sought to create from the outset?" remarked Bunnu skeptically, but noting the shocked glances of the others around him, he backed off slightly, offering up for their consolation: "Well...at the very least, he would be happy to know that he hadn't wasted his time." Unfortunately, and in spite of his intentions, Bunnu's minor concession was only met with more uncomfortable silence.

"So, what's all this about him being from these parts?" The Lesser T.P. asked this to the elderly night manager.

"Well..." started the manager.

According to the night manager, the official biographer of the Republic's Silver Thread committee had taken some creative liberties with the life of Bussaba Lek, so as to prevent any unfortunate ramifications for their political representatives in the Senate. The official epitaph carved on a marker under the huge bronze bust bearing his likeness in Regent's Square Cathedral stated that Bussaba Lek was the son of a profitable merchant of good standing in the Republic. No mention was made, of course, of his birth name, Brijainder-3, nor were any allusions entertained regarding him being the spawn of an unscrupulous stevedore and a prostitute of uncertain Outlander ancestry. However, it was common knowledge among the patrons of this Salad Bar that the latter had certainly been the case. In fact, according to the theorists here, there was no shortage of discrepancies in the official version of Bussaba Lek's life story.

Another source of dubiety for them was the existence of certain letters obtained by some nameless civil servant in sub-basement 4 in the Hall of Records which indicated that Bussaba's mother was of a good family in a foreign kingdom: apparently this was meant to account, justifiably and without embarrassment, for the color of Bussaba's eyes and skin (which, in any case, could not be determined if one went solely by the bronze sculpture of his likeness). Naturally, in spite of what anyone here in the Salad Bar said, Silver Thread representatives from the Republic would flatly deny any allegations made refuting the official version, and would have further laughed off any assertions that Bussaba had instead been a penniless bus boy in an all-night salad bar in Yami's Under City; that he had additionally been a member of a murderous graffiti gang there called the Petite Pinky Wastrels; that he had taken up painting only as a means of survival to appease a murderous old brothel madam who had wished to have him castrated in order to satisfy the obligations of a debt his father had left unpaid. Of course, as far as the night manager was concerned, all of these things were common knowledge to his patrons.

And among the night manager's cohorts there was certainly no shortage of anguish about the omission on Sir Lek's Regent's Square epitaph of his now-legendary first encounter with the travelling artist and gallerist from Kaiiba, Sanchez, who had vowed to rescue him from "this squalid hellpit" so long as he was willing to take part in a few harmless, albeit humiliating, artistic installations he sought to stage in the Grand Amphitheater in Baba City. Similarly infuriating was that no references were made to Lek's anti-government affiliations, or to the 15-year sentence he had served in the Asoka Plains Detention Facility in Morell, or to any allegations made of him being a serial killer who had preyed upon pet owners in Gautama City. To be sure, the official biography was stripped of all these details and packed to its capacity with false achievements in places he could never have visited. His epitaph, for example, made mention of the time he had spent in the Hermit Kingdom of Sook, prior to its annexation, where he had apparently been commissioned by its now-defunct patriarch to paint some of the works that were now hanging on the walls of the National Museum in Malion City. Apparently, this never happened.

"...Now, this is not all to say that anyone has any qualms about old Brij-3—that's what we call him, Brij-3—nobody had any qualms about ol' Brij being given this honor." The night manager concluded. "In fact, I would say everyone's happy about it, but why cover up his past like that? Why craft for him a whole new identity?"

"The reflection shines brighter than the light itself..." Bunnu said, looking back at the frantic sea depicted in the painting.

"Are you sure this isn't just some kind of urban legend?" Time Paradox said skeptically. "I don't have to tell you how many rumors I've passed on in my day, without verifying the facts for myself."

"Of course it is difficult to be certain of the veracity of any claims made about Sir Bussaba. As with all things we talk about here, take it with a grain of salt, but not too much salt. You can never take salt out once you put it in the mix." the night manager concluded. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to your meals. Enjoy your salads. Try the celery. Just came in today, so you know it's fresh." He started to walk away.

"What is the name of this painting?" Bucky burst out suddenly, causing the night manager to jump slightly.

"I don't know that it has a name..." the gentleman responded thoughtfully. "Wouldn't hurt to give it one, eh?"

Bunnu nodded slowly and said, "I would call it _Blinding Reflection of Gray."_

"No...that's an idiotic name!" Bucky burst out scathingly. "It's _A Thousand Cuts of Sepia."_

"Mmmm...not bad."

### * * *

The rest of the evening passed without incident, and soon Bunnu reemerged from the azure nets of that hidden metropolis to greet again the sunrise of the Surface City as one would the light from a new and unfamiliar world. The closeness of this vibrant star was a comfort in contrast to the lifeless void separating the Wigged Spider Nebula from the Under City. He remembered from his much earlier attempts to enter the hidden metropolis how deprived of sunlight it had been, even at high noon. He couldn't help but marvel at how easy it was to spurn the intrusive light of the sun in favor of the faint and obscure gleam of a distant nebula. It felt now as though he had journeyed unbelievable stretches of space-time, when in fact he had ventured no further than mere meters below spaces he otherwise inhabited on a daily basis. The Under City was an unrelenting place he never wished to visit again. Yet, somehow he could understand why Bhakti had an affinity for it, why he might find beauty in that which others found untenable, as surely there was majesty which proliferated out of the reach and beyond the perceptions of all. Bhakti wished to seek after it, and in doing so, had found new purpose.

For a few days after his return, Bunnu fell into a kind of sickness: something similar to that illness divers might find bubbling through the bloodstream upon resurfacing too quickly. He had trouble breathing at times. Sometimes he was nauseous. Occasionally, he would have hallucinations of the nightmarish entities he'd encountered in the dark on his way to the salad bar, though he had not actually seen them except in his imagination; oddly he hadn't been the least bit frightened during their trek, but upon resurfacing, his recall became enshrouded in a new cloud of unconscionable terror. And aboveground, these hallucinations soon became unbearable visions which haunted him at inconvenient moments of the day. More often, however, these occurred at night. A pain in the head accompanied his difficulty in breathing and he woke up in pitch black some nights, terrified of what might be around. Of course these nameless threats were absent from his quarters, though it was clear they still lingered unresolved and indefatigable in scattered nests below. He sought the advice of a physician, who told him he had no known physical affliction, but one which was possibly psychological, if not metaphysical. The doc prescribed a special herb which helped deaden the trauma of the hallucinations, but did little to inhibit any of the other symptoms. But soon, the hallucinations faded to mere afterimages he would only witness briefly when he closed his eyes. And these afterimages, too, eventually subsided.

At first he was relieved by this, but was soon overcome by an inexplicable sinking feeling which accompanied his dread of having lost that gift of special sight. He could sense his memories of the Under City eluding him, passing further and further beyond his grasp until they became difficult to call up again even with his most concerted efforts. He began to wonder how many atoms were necessary to store an experience, and if maybe these atoms of memory he had accrued in the Under City had reacted to something external to him and fizzled away, only to leave minimal traces. It was disturbing how easily he could forget something which had once been so impactful. Of course fragments remained, but they were too few to piece together to create any reliable account of his experiences below the surface. Surely this, if any, was reasonable cause to feel depressed. And yet, over time, even the obduracy of any melancholy he felt was soon whittled away by the diversions of each passing moment, until he would finally say to himself with a shrug: "Perhaps I ought not to think so much about it."

Still, that irremediable sense of loss remained and it bothered him greatly: while it was much more comfortable here on the surface, he had never liked to think of himself as a mere surface-dweller, but as someone who could go beneath the surface for a time, endure the conditions prevailing there, and return with a special insight otherwise lacking in the average person who might instinctually avoid such places. Certainly, he couldn't help but recall the existence of all the unlikely life forms which inhabited the Under City. Perhaps these creatures were happier there than they might have been on the surface, but it defied his knowledge of the world to imagine so; thus, he couldn't help but feel sorry for them, though he understood this to be a condescending attitude. Now and again he thought of them, but the time which elapsed between each reminiscence invariably grew longer and longer with the passage of days. This was not an unusual phenomenon, of course, but he found it interesting that these fearful, yet sorrowful recollections recurred as infrequently as memories of former loves he had known: loves which themselves had been special to him in their own time, but which were now—however blissful or tragic or lustful—confined to frozen areas of his soul, where they might be preserved eternally and only thawed with the heat of focused introspection. His past loves and his past fears: mindful fabrications of these now resided together as hollow effigies of emotions he had once had; effigies which were full-figured, yet dull and dilute and featureless; effigies which could be easily reduced to ashes in a matter of moments, never once, in all the heat of their combustion, managing to thaw those heart-contorting originals from which they were artlessly fashioned.

Months passed and the experience of the Under City was now relegated to his distant past; with no stimuli forcing him to introspection, there seemed to be no significant changes in Bunnu's day-to-day activities, and he was now starting to get bored again, as he had been prior to that evening's petty adventures. On the bottoms of his feet formed an unexplainable itch, and he was filled with the urge to scrape them against new terrain. He had now spent too much time in Yami and began to wonder what else was out there waiting for him beyond, if anything at all. Things had become comfortable for him: too comfortable possibly, but now his mind was full of ideas regarding what he might do next. He had heard about an apprenticeship for zookeepers in Gautama City. He wasn't much of an animal lover (actually he quite disliked their odor), but still it sounded like an interesting opportunity. On the other hand, there were still so many reasons not to leave. He didn't want to leave the innkeeper and his wife high and dry. There were people here in Yami who depended on him. He liked filling a need. He liked being needed.

He found it strange that he should feel this way, especially as he didn't socialize as much as he used to when he had first arrived in town. He had gotten to know the longtime residents well, and appreciated the sense of belonging they afforded him, but his kinship with them ended there. There was nothing enthralling about his conversations with them. He enjoyed their company and the mutual exchange of favors that came with friendly acquaintance, but he preferred the impregnable solitude of his private quarters at the inn after a long day of work. Even mon seigneur-Q invited him numerous times to meet for a drink, but he always felt disinclined to accept. He did not feel depressed, or frustrated, or intruded upon, but rather an utter lack of need for the company of other humans. He could not understand from where this feeling might have arisen, nor would he understand it when it arose again over 130 years later when he became a silent, antisocial detainee in the Asoka Plains Detention Facility. Whatever the cause, there was a side to him which required solitude. He did not require this always, but only during certain phases he went through, during the progression of which he was completely averse to the idea of social engagement.

Wrapped snugly in his own self-absorption, he preferred most nights to read: anything met his standards of readability so long as he didn't come away with any new understanding about the way the world might have been (he most enjoyed literature which catered rather effectively to his prejudices about the world, but these were rare, so he settled instead for the sort of written matter which was light, uncontroversial and occupied itself and its reader with sentiments that delved nowhere beyond the superficial). Occasionally he would put a pen to paper in the hope of writing a letter, but soon began to feel that so much time had passed since he had been in contact with anyone of importance that there would be far too much to explain about himself of which he had neither the words nor the patience to express. He considered for a few brief moments one day the prospect of starting a journal, or perhaps a book of essays or poems or short stories, but realized almost immediately that he had nothing to say or write that he imagined others would find significant, at least nothing which hadn't already been expressed in exhaustive detail by countless unnamed predecessors in comparison with whom he might, if still compelled to reiterate such sentiments, labor only in tired redundancy; after all, what could be the point of expressing anything at all unless it is at once unique and without precedent? It caused him anxiety to think so, for he could not say for sure whether there was anything unique or without precedent that he was capable of expressing. Bhakti likely had the potential to do so, but then again Bhakti was that sort of person. It required a special individual to wield self-doubt as one might a chisel to carve from his surroundings a Universe with him in its center; beings lesser than such gifted folks, after all, were hard-pressed not to regard as immutable the conditions of the world forced upon them and should hence seek simply to mold for themselves a place malleable to its whims. Bunnu, in spite of having few worthwhile things to say, saw himself as more of the former than the latter; he didn't know why, but perhaps that night in the Under City had prompted him to believe so. Forget about writing: reading should, at the very least, for one in such a situation, be a sufficient and reasonably dauntless task, but of course this depended greatly on what one sought to read. In spite of his momentary triumph in venturing below the surface, the fact still remained that he no longer wished to read anything for his general edification. Conceivably this was because it hurt his pride to imagine that there should be others who were in possession of information that might have greatly affected his understanding of the world, but who withheld it until he made an active attempt to seek it out; of course, this was not some conscious decision that they had made, but it bothered him still; what troubled him more was the endless possibilities, or perhaps even lack of possibility with respect to what could be done with such information once acquired: it was frightening to think that there would be an endless array of actions or contemplations (or, worse yet, no conceivable array thereof) to be yielded from it, it was similarly worrisome to consider the possibility that the information would be misunderstood or not understood at all and that he might have lacked the intelligence to comprehend it in the first place. It was safer not to seek it out; it was best to anticipate the peril of that hulking leviathan called _disappointment_ and to quash it before it had even a chance to rear its ugly head. And thus, due to his great fear of disappointing himself, Bunnu remained ignorant and unproductive and securely insecure in a blithe state of arrested development. The solitude of his room was a cocoon, but surely a comfortable one.

But occasionally he did wish to leave that confined space. He could not stay insulated absolutely, at least not at the moment. Sometimes he would crave physical contact with a woman—of course this desire for flesh should have been more than sufficient in overturning his desire to be antisocial, but in fact, these two desires appeared to be mutually exclusive, leading him to seek out solutions more expedient than those conventional ones central to mating rituals in most human societies.

Like a moth drawn to light, he took to frequenting a burlesque house on the outskirts of Yami owned by the Akbar twins, where he would watch bawdy travesties which parodied the classical operas of great composers such as Baron Mukherjee, Madagascar Yoshikawa, and Salticidae-5. Naturally, so as not to be recognized, he would disguise himself in a broad-collared overcoat, eyeglasses, and a fake mustache.

### * * *

The burlesque house stood on an overhang facing a bluestone quarry, owned and operated also by the Akbar twins. Along with the boom in the local economy, the twins saw their fortunes increase tenfold, prompting them to invest their returns in a greater expansion of industries which could bring in even more foreign investment. Throughout the Republic, bluestone was a mineral which was regaining much of its former glory as a building material, partly due to a resurgence in nostalgia over architecture from previous centuries, and also in part because those most nostalgic about old-timey building design were able to put forth the capital to finance a revival of that classical bluestone look which—even at the height of its popularity—had been impugned by now long-dead modernists as being representative of all those institutions of aesthetics, once revered, which had over time degraded to a state of stodgy obsolescence. Naturally, bluestone had other uses besides as a building material, but this resurgence in its usage in the façade of neo-classical homes brought its market value up to such a degree that the Akbar twins could wallow in their filthy obsessions all they liked, paying only minimal attention to the administration of their businesses. In fact, they hired a professional team of recent business school graduates to help the efficient running of their corporation and they spent most of their time hopping from pachinko parlors to riverboat saloons to brothels, dropping fat stacks of cash on the table wherever they went and attracting no shortage of degenerates ready and willing to partake in criminal dealings with their organization.

The burlesque house was one of the milder of the Akbar twins' secret holdings. Bunnu enjoyed going incognito and watching the shows from the back corner. One night, two geologists sat in front of him, and argued endlessly throughout the show over the finer differentiations which could be made between sedimentary conglomerates with rounded clasts and breccias of angular clasts. One of the geologists finally conceded he was not as well-informed on the subject of rudites as his superior and the matter was resolved then and there. To make amends, the superior proffered to the lesser, "The Akbars tell me many of the sopranos in the chorus are willing to go to absurd lengths to satisfy their audience. Of course these are private performances, so you can imagine the astronomical price they would fetch, but I have been given to understand that these services are complimentary for special guests as ourselves. Just need to hang out backstage and say the password to the stage manager and he'll put us in a private area with the bird of our choosing. Those Akbars are willing to pull out all the stops to please any visiting geologists they have from the Ministry of Old-timey Buildings and Materials. I'm guessing they want a favorable evaluation on mineral purity, which I don't mind giving so long as they are footing the bill."

"Sure enough. So, what's the password?"

"'Imbrication.' S'ppose they wanted to use a sedimentological term in order to avoid any chance mistakes."

"OK..." the lesser said with a hint of concern, "But it is on the house though, is it?"

"Well it certainly better be, or I'll have plenty to say in my report about the purity of the mineral samples I've seen here. Being around these rocks make me feel unwell, I can't help but wonder if there is some strange property about them that is damaging to the health."

"It's all in your head. Anyway, I like this idea. So you said the password is 'imbrication?' Imbrication...imbrication...imbrication. Easy enough for a geologist to remember. Doubt your average lecher would be able to go backstage and repeat the word unless having heard it numerous times. Imbrication."

"Yes, that's right: imbrication. Don't you forget!"

"Of course not. Imbrication. What sort of nitwit do you take me for?" A brief silence fell between them, before they erupted in joyous chorus:

"IMBRICATION!"

The word was almost impossible to forget now. It echoed again and again in Bunnu's mind; he tried desperately to ignore this sudden temptation which had conjured itself in a puff of smoke before his eyes. Opportunity hovered about his head, leaned imposingly on his shoulder, whispered alluringly into his ears, flicked incessantly at his crotch and whisked faint sensations of soft flesh upon his fingertips; it agitated and annoyed, but spoke with a voice of intoxicating sweetness and a breath of appetite-whetting perfume. He began to slobber uncontrollably, as sweat dripped down his back and a hard-on raged in his pants. Unable to sleep that night, the centripetal intensity of swirling thoughts brought a splitting pain across his forehead; in the eye of this wanting whirlwind was that dreadful unrealized opportunity hanging like a flaming orb suspended in air, complacent and knowing, jeering inimically at the resilient walls of restraint which simultaneously shielded and incarcerated his passions, holding out its fiery hand and inviting him out from this cocoon of stubborn fortitude and back into the world, if only for a mild and momentary dance amidst the hungry flames. A vague guilt grew like a tumor in the mind, but was of neither sufficient malignance as to contaminate his furious spiral of thoughts, nor sufficient metastasis as to bring subsidence to those flames of maddening prospect at their epicenter. And when the blazing inferno of dawn's early light finally reached his room, Bunnu sat up in his bed, scratched his addled head, rubbed his weary eyes and made a critical decision: there was no choice now but to relent.

He went again to the burlesque house that night, and crept backstage. Wary of being made by the geologists who had sat in front of him the night before, he tried to remain as discreet as possible. Fortunately, they were nowhere to be seen; perhaps somewhere else this evening. He found the stage manager and whispered the password to him as sweat poured down his face and into his fake mustache. The stage manager, noticing his nervousness, viewed him for a moment with suspicious scrutiny, before finally telling him to wait there and walking off in a cloud of his own uncertain mutters. Bunnu stood there for five minutes, getting strange looks from passing stagehands and actors. The bottoms of his feet began to itch again, and just as he was ready to abort his plan and make for the exit, the stage manager returned with a large key ring full of brass keys.

"Come with me, sir," he said.

Minutes later he found himself sitting alone in a small room with only a bed and a window. The window looked out towards the quarry, which at night was simply a pit of near blackness but for a tall, blacker silhouetted spike which rose from its center. Bunnu had never seen the quarry by day and couldn't help but wonder whether the spike was a natural or artificial phenomenon.

"Well now...seems you geologists are always on the job," a sweet voice said behind him. Her hair was long and blonde, but he couldn't see her face, for the light from the corridor shone too brightly for him to make out what she looked like. For a moment, he was reminded of the name Bussaba Lek, though he couldn't quite figure out why. "Wouldn't you rather cozy up against something soft and warm than worry about those harsh and cold and indifferent objects out there?"

"An object is an object: lifeless or not. You should know that much." Bunnu said matter-of-factly, not so much in the hopes of staying in character as a socially inept geologist, but because he was suddenly overcome with a vast feeling of honesty. There was no reason to put on a face for this woman. He removed his eyeglasses and fake mustache. There were no lies here, no need for lies anymore.

She giggled, unfazed by his brashness. She was used to this behavior and what she thought of her client didn't really matter, but she said it anyway, "What a silly disguise. What else are you hiding from me?" Bunnu disrobed and she laughed at the size of his penis. "I like small ones like yours. We can go a few rounds and I won't be the least bit sore."

"It doesn't matter to me what you like," Bunnu said without shame. He might have been sensitive about her laughing if she were someone he cared about. "We both know the deal. I'm here because I'm a pathetic loser. I know that already. I'm not looking for an ego boost."

"Good." She said, and suddenly the tension left her body. She sat next to him. "I've never been good at that. I'm really an actress, but I'm doing this on the side until the right part comes along. I get tired of playing the hooker with a heart of gold night after night. Most of the men here don't like me because I'm not as good as the others at making them feel respected."

"If you showed me the slightest bit of respect, I'd know you were lying straight away. That would turn me off."

"So, you're a masochist, then? Prefer a thorough whipping? Some of the other girls might be-"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I don't want to be punished or humiliated either. I certainly do have my fetishes, but nothing like that. I just prefer honesty, that's all. Let's put it this way: if the other girls see it as their duty to cater to my sense of pride, or to cater to any other fantasy, for that matter, I'd be quick to tell them to give it a rest. Pride is tiresome. Fantasy is nice, yes...but eventually we have to come back from it. And that's when reality strikes one as particularly harsh: when one has just reemerged from the depths of fancy. It's easy to feel shame, remorse or even the sense of having been duped by others who were just going through the motions to keep up the charade. I don't want to feel that way. I don't wish to be patronized. Having someone else go through the motions, simply for the sake of catering to my fantasies, sounds a lot like self-deception to me. And I've already had my fair share of that. So, I'll try to be honest with you, as long as you'll do the same for me and treat me like the loser that I truly am. Is that OK? Or...does that...somehow go against your professional code of conduct? If so, I...uh...well, I apologize."

"I like you."

"That's a lie."

"No, really." She smiled genuinely and touched his hand. "I like that you think you are a loser. I like that you understand that about yourself. The moment I walked in, I could tell you were a loser right away, but I assumed you were one of those losers who was insecure about being a loser and didn't wish to admit it; or perhaps one of those losers who took a strange sense of pride in being a loser and, thus, assumed that it had something to do with some unique quality he had that others lacked, thus rendering him exceptional. No, you are a unique sort of loser: the kind who deprives himself of that need for flattery. I mean you are human. Everyone has a basic need for esteem. Maybe you recognize that need, but choose to ignore it, or at least see it for the illusion that it is. I guess what I'm saying is-"

"Listen, I'd prefer you didn't talk to me just now. I'm not here for the conversation."

Her smile dried up, as she nodded affirmatively. She proceeded to kiss him gently on the lips. She knew when to be quiet, she was a professional.

When their time was up, he started putting his clothes back on as she lay on the bed watching him. "I think there is a sinkhole under this building..." she said.

"What did I tell you about conversation?" he snapped at her.

"Just wanted to say to be careful..." she added. "Some of the trees around this building have already disappeared. Who knows how deep those chasms go?"

"It's almost pointless to ask." Bunnu responded unaffectedly, buckling his belt. "Well, I must be going. Thank you...uh..."

"Satyajit. Pinky Satyajit. That's the name I was born with, although no one here knows me by that name. No one except for you."

"Yes. Well, perhaps we'll meet again."

Bunnu went to see her again twice a week for the next three months. After the third time, the stage manager asked Bunnu pointedly whether or not he was actually a visiting geologist, but a quick whisper in his ear from Pinky silenced him immediately and he never questioned the legitimacy of Bunnu's claim to free sexual favors ever again.

"I'm guessing you promised him something in return?" Bunnu finally asked her when they were lying together in the dark.

"I said I liked you, didn't I?"

"I can't imagine why."

"That's precisely why!"

"I'm confused."

She put his head on her breast and stroked his hair, "We all are. We're all lost and confused and clawing our way in the dark."

"I know darker places than this. You sound sad."

"I am sad." She said tearfully, "I'm tired of living like this. I'm tired of living here."

"There are other ways to live. Other places."

"My mother used to say that only the deplorable expatriate. Only the despicable leave the communities and people who nurtured them."

"' _Only the deplorable expatriate...'_ Well, I suppose that's fitting."

"But that's my mother. From the moment she was born, until the day she died, she never left this village. My whole family has been here forever."

"Well, there must have been some point in the past in which your ancestors had migrated here from somewhere else. Were they, too, deplorable for expatriating?"

"Well, if they did migrate here, I suppose they would have done so as nomads, wanderers, or some such thing. And for nomadic peoples, it wouldn't be quite the same as expatriating, would it? There would be no country from which to expatriate."

"So, it's acceptable in the case of drifters."

"It's acceptable in the case of people who have no defined territory to call home, or who take home with them wherever they go. For the wandering nation, the concept of expatriation is alien, except in the case of those who might wander astray from the wanderers."

"I'd like to think that the concept of home might vary from person-to-person," Bunnu retorted with some annoyance. His face grew red as the tone of his voice gained intensity, "Certainly, I agree with the idea that home could be what you take with you wherever you go, but can an individual not also wander away from his kin and still believe himself to be very much at home? At some point in every migration, does distance not eventually separate families? Brother from brother, sister from parents, cousin from cousin: no one remains absolutely bound with every relative, however distant, of his lineage. Migrations separate families of every species of organism on this planet, whether it be animals, plants, sea life or bacteria. I would like to think that it is the natural way of things. Some members of the family settle in one place, and others might move elsewhere, voluntarily or involuntarily. Some settle for countless generations in one place, and then move. Is that not so?"

"It appears I've touched a nerve." Pinky replied slowly. She started to sigh, but her expiration faltered suddenly as she whispered, "I just realized: you aren't from around here, are you? I already knew you weren't a visiting geologist. It was obvious from the way you made whoopee: you didn't seem perverted enough to be a geologist."

"Well..." said Bunnu, "you got me there. No, I'm not a geologist."

"Yes, but like I said, you aren't Yamian either, right? Certainly, you speak the Yamian dialect quite well, albeit with an accent, and your facial expressions are appropriate, however contrived, according to the Yamian sense of modesty. So, I'm more inclined to think that you are a long-staying foreign resident than a mere visitor. Definitely not Yamian though."

"That's two for two. Yes, I'm a long-staying resident. No, I'm not Yamian."

"Right. But at the same time, even the longest-staying foreigners here retain enough elements of their otherness that they would still manage to seem strikingly alien from the point-of-view of indigenous beings like myself. With you, however, I am unable to find attributes which are decidedly foreign."

"I don't know what to say about that. It's hard for me to imagine how I would appear to others, but I do my best to adapt to the life here."

"Some foreigners do a better job of that than others," she admitted. "I don't think their ability to adapt is so much a matter of choice as it is a matter of inclination. I think those less inclined to adapt successfully have such a strong sense of belonging from their place of origin that they have difficulty breaking old habits and prescribed ways of thinking. Thus, they retain certain distinguishable attributes of the culture of their upbringing. People with lesser attachments to such places are more malleable, but still they retain some level of uniqueness which separates them from the natives here."

"Of course."

"But with you, aside from your accent and certain mannerisms, I can't seem to find any discernible attributes which make you unique from anyone else I've ever met: Yamian or otherwise."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Bunnu responded quizzically.

"I'm not sure I get it myself. I just sense it. You just seem to be missing something. You are so unassuming, almost invisible: there is nothing noteworthy about you. In fact, I think it is fair to say that I have never met anyone in my lifetime who was so lacking in prominent traits as you are. I hope I am not offending you by saying so, but there are no marks of allegiance or brotherhood to any race, religion or culture upon you. You are not strictly foreign, not strictly Yamian, but an amalgam of everything I have ever seen. You seem, in some odd way, both a composite of every culture imaginable and an embodiment of _nil culture,_ almost as though nothing could penetrate deep enough to mold your mindset into a form resembling that of others in any known territory of the world: you appear somehow a man without a country, without an identity, without a home. If you were foreign, I would not be able to envision from what sort of land you'd come. You have no prominent features, no prominent mannerisms, no prominent beliefs: you are almost a non-entity. In some ways, your presence is so slight and unworthy of category that it is difficult to tell whether you actually exist, or if indeed you are just a figment of imagination to whom I have been talking all this time—such things have been known to happen after all! Level with me: you are not a figment of my imagination, are you?"

"I doubt it," Bunnu said with some hesitation, "but if I am, maybe even I don't know it. As far as I _do_ know, I am a foreign resident of Yami. I come from a place far away, however the town I was born in is not where my family originated. My parents had migrated there from a completely different area, and their forefathers had migrated before them. Now, all the children in the family—including myself—are following in the footsteps of our ancestors and continuing the family migration along different trajectories. Perhaps my lack of character stems from my lack of skill at absorbing culture lastingly. At first glance, I might appear lacking in confidence. Some might even call me a weak and unmanly individual. Perhaps I am, but it seems to me that I have only come to be this way through a continual sense of doubt, which at times exasperates me, but at others, shatters me to pieces and arranges me anew. When I say this, I am not attempting to say so as a form of either self-deprecation or self-congratulation. It is mere speculation: it is how I have come to see myself though the process of observing others. Fortunately for me, my lack of self-assurance does not stop me from wishing to gain new experiences, which is why I find it so easy to travel from place to place without fear of stepping outside of my comfort zone. For me, comfort zones are an illusion. It would be aberrant for me to maintain a firmness of conviction to any belief system to which I have been exposed, unless I were doing so for the sake of experimentation—in which case said conviction would be, in similar degrees, artificial and ephemeral. I do not know what to call myself, or what words ought to be used to categorize me. Similarly, I am unsure whether this ability to be categorized should be meaningful in any way. I have experienced many things and met many people in my lifetime that are more resolved as to whom they are, but through it all I have remained very much the same irresolute and malleable self you see before you now. Sometimes I hate this about myself, other times I shrug it off and assume that it is my natural state. It is a strange thing: I have experienced so much these past few decades that if I went back to my place of birth, those layers of new self I have accumulated over the years might just shed away like unwanted skin to nothingness and I might become that foolish little boy again. Maybe I am still very much that benighted and ignorant child in many ways, but now I'm a child on my own here in Yami. Certainly I can speak the Yamian dialect and mimic the facial mannerisms of Yamian people, but I can never connect enough with the language or culture of this place to adopt it on anything deeper than the conscious level. Of course, there's no doubt that the people here are like a second family to me. Still, it's not the same as my real family. Regardless of my experiences, affiliations, and acquaintances, I remain very much that same deficient entity. My doubt and vacillation have led me nowhere meaningful." Bunnu stopped himself there. He had, in his typical style of nervous chatter, revealed a great deal just now that he wished he hadn't. He knew what would come next: she would probably judge him a piddling milksop. He was used to receiving this judgment from women.

"Why did you leave your family?" Pinky asked gently. Her tone was sympathetic and kind. There was not a hint of disapproval in it.

"I guess your mother would have found me deplorable..." Bunnu said with some regret.

"I don't know about that. Maybe she was wrong for thinking the way she did."

"She wasn't wrong. I am despicable for leaving. I had people who loved me, people who knew me. They never wanted me to leave, but I did anyway. My decision had more to do with me than with them, and perhaps that is my epitomic flaw: I am too selfish. I miss my kin, and feel terribly guilty that I cannot be with them, in spite of their wishes for me to do so. It is a guilt I bear, but also one that I accept. There's nothing to be done about it now. The decision was made. Now, my life is my own. Maybe someday I'll go back and be that foolish little boy again."

"I hope you don't take offense to my questions," Pinky said soothingly, "I don't mean to make you feel like a coward for making the choices you've made. In fact, I admire you for it. I think it takes a great deal of resolve for anyone to step forward, leave everything they have ever known and never look back."

"I frequently look back. Sometimes that's all I do."

"Nonetheless, you have forged your own destiny. That's more than I can say for myself. My life has followed a passive and fearful path, rooted in my own inability to embrace selfishness as you have. I never took decisive action, never knew which was the right step to take; and because of that, circumstances were always thrust upon me. What I mean is, my situations always found me, not the other way around."

"That happens to me more often than you would think," Bunnu responded. "Situations often do a better job of finding us than we do finding them."

"Still, how we react to it is largely up to us. Whereas I see no alternative to enduring it, you have a knack for escaping. In fact, now that I think of it, _escapist_ seems like a good word to describe you. I know it sounds like a derogatory term, and maybe I do mean it in a somewhat derogatory way, but I think it describes you fairly well.

Bunnu remained quiet. His eyes fell on the door knob.

"I can even see from the way you speak that you feel temporary about this place. You will most certainly not settle here. When something serious happens and the situation gets too difficult for you, you will escape. Yes? And in order to justify your escape, you will convince yourself that something else is out there waiting for you to find it, yes? That's quite an optimistic spin to put on things."

"I don't know. Maybe. A moment ago, you were telling me how much you admired me. Now, I can't help but feel that you are casting aspersions upon my character."

"Oh...but I do admire you. You are unmitigatedly an escapist!" she said, her voice growing more excited in tone, "I would be foolish to recuse myself from making such a severe judgment on your character, for I, too, do not wish to deceive myself. I'm sure you do not either, in spite of the fact that you are merely a weak and insecure excuse for a man who would rather turn tail and run than confront even the most trifling of emotional debacles. OK...yes, that sounds harsh. And yes...you may take all this as an attack on your character, if you like, but I still admire all these things about you! I admire the self-preservationist aspect of it: I mean isn't that what it comes down to? Isn't that what it ought to come down to? Altruism is nice, sure. Kin-selective Altruism is certainly a fascinating phenomenon which is purely rooted in the preservation of species on the macro level, but at some point, the requirements of the macro level must be cast aside for the interests of those who exist on the micro. The needs of others must be excised for our lives to mean anything. Societies and religions might consider it an amoral thing to value oneself over the well-being of the community, but when we slice away those excess bits, we get down to the bare rudiments: the parts that mean something. That is what you did, and that is why you left! I know that you know that I know that you know that people who take the sorts of decisions you have are viewed unfavorably by others because they are simply gratifying their self-serving desires. But, I still respect it. We both know that there is something useful to be gained out of it. And, we both know that at some point you will be leaving again, yes?"

"Leaving Yami? P-possibly." Bunnu sputtered with fearful uncertainty. He suddenly longed for the cool feel of the brass door knob in his hand. His palms began to sweat as though salivating in anticipation of its sharp, tangy taste. He could almost feel the smoothness of the turn, as the brass catch disengaged from the doorway notch in which it had been wedged interminably and the once oppressed alloy which comprised it glided clear of its much stifled role as a mechanism of the larger doorway, and found lasting and dignifying freedom for itself as an indeterminate slab of metallic solid solution. That resplendent alloy of zinc and copper would taste the fresh and abundant air outside of that confined space and it would know again what it was to be liberated from its evanescent incarcerations. How beauteous that air would be!

"And...when you do go...you'll take me with you, right?"

"Well..." Bunnu muttered uncomfortably. A shiver ran through his body. He quickly reached for his pants, got dressed again, satiated his drooling palm with the cool brass of the waiting doorknob, and left the conversation, in the suddenness of his egression, hanging silently right there where it was in the room, suspended and unpunctuated.

### * * *

He stopped going to the burlesque house after that night. A week later, it began slowly collapsing into a sinkhole. The Akbars shut the place down and bought a small theater across the river in Xami, which they hoped to expand and make into a proper opera house for larger, more dignified audiences. They undertook a massive construction project, bringing in investments from "private donors," some of whom wished for a museum wing to be added to bring in exhibitions of fine art, and some of whom asked for a Yamian cultural center to be added to the top floor, as well as a library full of books by noted historians of the Republic on the true roots of Yamian heritage; in addition to this, some donors requested that displays full of primitive ceramics and weaponry be placed in the lobby outside the seating area; nature-loving donors asked that a 15-acre arboretum be founded adjacent to the building where species of flora native to Yami could be preserved and appreciated by tourists from roped off gravel paths. The construction project grew larger and larger, as did talk of this remarkable wonder which the Akbars were spearheading. The locals of the town began to look past the allegations of notorious dealings on the part of the Akbars and started to see the twins in a new light: as philanthropists who gave back to a community they so loved.

Posters went up all over town announcing the opening night 15 months in advance. It was a production of "The Caterpillar" by Baron Mukherjee, this time done with integrity, not as a burlesque travesty. It would be the greatest and most ambitious adaptation ever attempted, or at least so it was whispered around town. The Akbar twins had paid a vast sum to bring in the world-renowned conductor, K.P. Enkil, to abuse the musicians physically, emotionally, and spiritually until the notes they played came out with the same wounded and dispirited, however seemingly impassioned, intensity as had been recreated numerous times before in other concert halls and by other orchestras forced to convergence through collective self-sacrifice. It was a remarkable feat, of course, to be able to corral the spirits of so many, to force them to comply perfectly with the encryptions on paper, in the hopes of creating an aural moment which had been experienced in exactly the same way thousands of times over in other concert halls, in other places, and through the conduits of other vessels: there was a divinity to this flow of meaning through different veins, as though something insubstantial, yet wondrous were rushing through branches and through branches of branches and possibly sub-branches of sub-sub-branches to blossom out in consonance, as though realizing, in full bloom, one's own neglect of a hitherto dormant code which had been hiding always within. In response to this disciplined attempt at musical puppetry, the audience would most certainly be able to call forth their most spiritual recognitions, the sort which had been nurtured in their rituals, the sort that allowed them to find peace, humility and comfort in the known, the rhythmic and the recurring since Time Immemorial. And against this timeless aural soundscape would be the players, prancing about the stage, singing about the mundane and the banal, dancing and moving about rhythmically as though there were nothing more important to be doing with one's day. It was said that all of the actors playing the leads were called in from various theater troupes who had performed "The Caterpillar" in the past. However, there were still minor roles remaining for which local talent had the opportunity to audition. K.P. Enkil had originally insisted on bringing experienced players in for even the minor roles, but the Akbars were starting to run short on money.

In fact, the opera house, in spite of its investors/donors, was in danger of going bankrupt before its opening night, due to all the expenses which were piling up for the lavish decorations, the wages paid to the players for rehearsals, the gourmet feasts planned three times a day for all the musicians, actors, and stagehands, and so on. Soon, the Akbars were told by their financial advisors that if they wished to continue throwing their money into this bottomless chasm, they would have to sell off some of their holdings. They received a generous offer for the quarry from a foreign bank, allowing them to sell it off immediately. Unfortunately for the buyers, the quarry soon proved to be a seeming bottomless chasm in its own right, as it had been mined to its limit. After numerous heated lawsuits yielding no positive results, the bank relented in their hopes at achieving satisfaction through litigation against the Akbars, and decided instead to make the best of their situations by flooding the quarry with the hope of creating a lakeside resort area, as a sister village to Yami. The bank brought in over 100,000 forced laborers—slaves, according to an outraged article in the local newspaper—and, after paying for the necessary permission from the regional authorities, managed, within a matter of months, to divert part of the river, flood the quarry, and create from it a new lake.

The town was full of new blood and tourists were starting to take day trips to the newly formed lake for swimming, boating, and skin-diving. Wishing for a break from his eternal boredom, Bunnu went to the lake one day, remembering as he did so, that this would actually be his first visit to the quarry in daylight hours. Upon arriving, he was shocked by its vastness and beauty. The lake was about one mile in diameter and hotels and boathouses were already being built along its perimeter. From the exact midpoint projected still that spike: now he realized that it was not a spike at all, but a peak which rose 100 meters above water level. Swimmers were climbing it on all sides to find areas 10-15 meters up from where they could dive into the lake. It was midsummer on the day of his visit and everything appeared as silhouettes against the blazing sun. Bunnu sat on a rock facing the water and watched the people before him laughing and playing; he wished he could enjoy the simple things as they did but something inside was still dragging him down to indolent dispassion. He was about to sigh when he heard footsteps approaching him from behind.

" _Well, hello stranger. Fancy meeting you here!"_ Recognizing that eager tone, he turned around. It was Pinky Satyajit. It was the first time he had seen her in a year and she looked more beautiful that he remembered. There was something comforting about seeing her in the daytime. "Reliving past glories?" she said with a wink.

Embarrassed at what she might have been implying, Bunnu smiled and blushed. "Anything worth calling glorious surely wouldn't involve me. I thought you'd have left Yami by now. Weren't you talking about leaving?"

"I should be saying the same to you."

"Hmmm."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing these days?"

"I assume nothing's changed for you."

She was angered by this. "And just what do you proclaim to know about me?"

"Sorry."

"That's OK. I guess I can't blame you for assuming so."

"So, what are you doing these days then?"

"I got a part in the upcoming production of 'The Caterpillar!'"

"Still working for the Akbars then?"

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

"What should I say?

"How about a congratulations, or something to that effect?"

"Why are you trying to elicit that from me?"

"Don't you care if I'm happy?"

"Are you happy?"

"Of course I am. It's a big break for me."

"Well then, I'm happy too."

" _Really?"_ she blushed and her face started glowing. "Do you really mean that?"

"Sure. You deserved better."

"You know, you never really looked down on me, did you? Because I was prostituting myself. I mean the other men-"

"How can I judge someone for that? Anyway, my mother, Yuri, used to be one before my father married her."

"He saved her?"

"I suppose you could call it that. Although, they remained friends with her pimp. It wasn't considered such a shameful profession where they were from. At least, not back then."

"Where's that?"

"Originally they were from Vasalla, but I grew up in Bahlia."

"Where's that?"

"In Kaiiba."

She paused.

Bunnu knew what she wanted to say next without her having to say it. "Kaiiba is a small country approximately 2,000 miles to the east. It's part of the Republic too, although some of my friends and family there aren't too keen about that."

She seemed upset by this. "What problem do they have with the Republic? Don't they have any pride?"

"They do, but I suppose that's why they have a problem with it."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. I've never really understood the need for national pride, for group pride in general. It just seems to require a certain level of self-deception I've never been able to grasp. I'm a pretty selfish person, as I mentioned before. Not much altruism in me. I guess that's why I was kicked off my football team. It was clear to everyone else that I had absolutely no team spirit."

She sat next to him and remained quiet, as though pondering what he had just said. Finally she turned to him, "Bunnu?"

"Yes."

"Will you save me like your father saved your mother?"

"You don't need saving."

"I'm finally getting my big break, yes. But I want something more than this lonely life I've been living. Until now, it's just been my brother and me, but I know he's eventually hoping to get married and start a family of his own."

"How did your brother feel about your previous profession?"

"He never knew and I would never tell him. He's very protective."

"Does he want you to get married?"

"I don't know, but whomever I do marry, I'm sure he feels it would have to be someone he approves of."

"Well, that rules me out. Who would want his sister to marry a lowly employee at an inn? A foreigner no less?"

"It's not his decision to make."

"Where is this conversation going?"

"Where do you want it to go?"

"I don't know. When's your first performance with the opera?"

"At the end of the month. I'll see if I can get you tickets, but I doubt it."

"I have a friend who can probably get tickets. He's a fairly big wheel in this town."

"Who's that?"

"mon seigneur-Q."

"Oh...him." The way she'd said that seemed to convey that she didn't like Q.

"Have you met him?"

"No, but I heard-"

"Don't believe what the Akbars say about him. They lie."

"So you _do_ have group pride."

"What do you mean?"

"Loyalty. Isn't that where it stems from? There are others who are loyal to mon seigneur. You are a part of that group. Surely you can't tell me that loyalty to one's friends and family is such a bad thing."

"You know..." Bunnu said with a smile. "Sometimes I'm not sure if what you are saying is wise or misguided, but I know this much: it's impossible to win a debate against you." They both laughed. He was happy to see her again.

### * * *

The next day, Bunnu went to Aunty Durga's teahouse to find out where mon seigneur was. Durga didn't look the slightest bit pleased to see Bunnu. "So, I hear you've started running with those hooligans now!" she said emphatically.

"Hooligans?"

"Lady Saraswati said she saw you with Bhakti and a group of hooligans one night."

"That woman is a gossipy idiot."

This silenced the room. A gaggle of old bats in the corner impaled him with pointed sharp glances. "What I mean is..." Bunnu backpedaled. "OK...well yes, I ran into him about a year and a half ago. I went with him and his friends to a salad bar in the Under City. There's no reason to jump to conclusions."

"I don't know if I can trust you anymore. Anyway, if you are looking for Bhakti, I haven't seen him in a few months. He doesn't even stop by his apartment anymore. I've decided to stop worrying about him. As far as I'm concerned, he's written off. That little ruffian can go to ruin with all the scum of the Under City for all I care!"

"That's very charitable of you, but actually I'm looking for mon seigneur-Q."

"He's out of town on business. He left by carriage early this morning. I don't know when he'll be back. Could be a week or longer."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know. What does it matter to you?"

"I would like to speak with him about a personal matter."

"Oh...I see. You ignore all his invitations and suddenly when you want something, you must see him urgently. I don't know why he even bothers associating with you."

"It's not urgent. Anyway, I apologize if I have been rude. It is difficult for me to explain...my behavior...sometimes. I was simply hoping to introduce mon seigneur to a person of some importance to me. You see, at the end of the month, she'll be-"

Suddenly the old bats started chirping emphatically. Durga also perked up at this news, sputtering, _"Sh-she???_ Wa-well, a lady friend, is it? Master Bunnu's made himself a lovely lady friend! W-well...had you no intention of bringing her here? Why all the secrecy? Didn't you spare one thought to your dear Aunty Durga who loves you so much and who would so like to meet this young lady friend of yours? My stars, Bunnu...what delightful news, isn't it ladies?" The old women in the teahouse swooned with joy, and for the first time since meeting them, Bunnu started to think they weren't so bad, that they were nice old ladies with pure hearts, who at their cores still desired that elusive, but never to be claimed, aspect of romance, even if doing so was a bit vicarious.

He could feel his face growing hot. Possibly he was blushing. "Well I...I...didn't really..."

"What's her name?" blurted one of the old ladies.

"Where did you meet? Spare us no details!" added another.

"Have you met her parents yet?"

"Yes...yes...and is she from a wealthy family?"

"Tell us about her teeth. Does she have a fine set of choppers?"

"Come now!" Durga said sternly to her friends. "There's no need to interrogate the boy. We can ask the lady herself. You'll bring her by, won't you, dear Bunnu?"

"I suppose I can try. She might be a little shy about-"

"Hogwash! What's there to be shy about? We're welcoming people, yes?" Aunty Durga countered, arms akimbo, as the old ladies broke into riotous laughter behind her. "These young girls today are so delicate. I tell you it's the parents coddling them and talking incessantly about their precious 'self-esteem.' So, when can we expect her?"

"Well...I'd like to introduce her to mon seigneur as well."

"Don't worry about him. He can meet her anytime!"

"Maybe next time Bucky comes around..."

"And who, pray tell, is Bucky?"

"You know...Bhakti..."

The room fell silent as Aunty Durga's expression soured, and Bunnu could see in her for the first time that the only true flaw in her character was that she loved too much. She really was a good old woman. He didn't want to bring any more disappointments her way.

"Well..." Bunnu relented, "Maybe I can bring her in tomorrow."

The room erupted into applause, and Durga's sour old face managed a hopeful smile. "Thank you dear."

After some coaxing, Pinky Satyajit agreed to come with Bunnu to Aunty Durga's teahouse, where she charmed her audience of old ladies with stories of the theater. Durga remained silent and watchful through most of this, her eyes hard and unflinching. When she finally opened her mouth, she said, "So...your employers, the Akbars...do they still harbor anti-Republic affiliations? I hear talk of money changing hands with terrorist groups..."

"With insurgent factions? Oh dear, I hope not!" Pinky said in shock. "But dear Aunty Durga, I believe you've got the Akbars all wrong. They are patriots! They love the Republic. In fact, they are traveling to Malion City next month to attend the inaugurations of Senators whose campaigns they have helped finance. They have great faith in the system."

"You speak about them in a way that betrays a great closeness. Should I be worried?"

"Oh...Mrs. Durga, please do not think ill of me. The Akbars have been very good to me...yes. But I assure you that they are strictly my employers and nothing more."

"Hmmm...." Durga huffed, viewing her askance. "My dear, I will have you know that I look upon young Bunnu as the son I never had. If you betray him in any way, I will not only have your pretty little head, but I will dip it in honey and mount it on a spike outside my shop and let the flies have at it."

"Bunnu is very lucky to have a loving family here, especially as he is so far away from his blood relations in Kaiiba. But then again, his gentle nature simply causes good people to surround him."

Durga turned to Bunnu and winked. "She's a clever one." Durga's tone of voice conveyed half-admiration and half-caution. Bunnu sensed that Durga didn't trust Pinky completely.

"She's an actress," Bunnu explained in her defense, though he didn't know why. Why had he brought this woman here? He didn't even know how he felt about her yet. "An actress must have a keen insight into human nature. They must be sensitive to the feelings of others."

"An actress...yes." Durga said slowly. "Well...I pray for your happiness, dear Bunnu. Whomever you end up with, that's all I wish for."

"As do I." Pinky Satyajit said sweetly.

Durga sighed. "Thank you for coming, Miss Satyajit. I will make sure we are there for your opening night."

"Mrs. Durga, it has been wonderful meeting you. Thank you, Bunnu, for bringing me! I suppose I should head over to the theater for rehearsal. Thank you again for the tea!"

With this, Pinky walked out the door. Bunnu threw a stern glance at Durga, "I must say, I can't understand what you find suspicious about her."

"My dear, when you've lived as long as I have, you know the conniving type when you see one. Although, I doubt my dotard of a husband would be able to see it either. Maybe it takes a woman to see such things. You are old enough to make your own decisions, young man, but I advise you to be careful. That woman will be trouble."

"I think you're being a little hard on her."

Durga sighed again. "Perhaps...but then perhaps the true curse of being aged lies in having to watch generation after generation of young people repeatedly make the same mistakes you made when you were younger, and to be completely powerless in halting their momentum."

The old women behind her murmured in agreement.

### * * *

Opening night of "The Caterpillar" was an unmistakable success. As promised, Bunnu attended, along with mon seigneur-Q and Aunty Durga. The good mon seigneur managed to get them private balcony seats with an excellent view of the performance. Pinky was only on stage for a total of 10 minutes, but still did a good job of making herself stand out from the others, or at least so it was agreed among the three, who muttered enough between themselves to elicit a stern shush from the authoritarian usher who stood behind them, flexing and checking the firmness of his own biceps. This sudden reproach was a surprise to Bunnu, for he had not realized that there were any ushers standing near the balcony seats. He somehow felt uncomfortable knowing that someone was watching him from behind to make sure that he behaved. There were already enough forces about that sought to ensure his compliance. He did not need one more.

Meanwhile, the usher, unknowing of the scorn being silently directed at him, started to make strange noises to himself. It started out with a few grunts and murmurs, followed by snickers and dog-like whines, and then these repeated again in exactly the same arrangement as though he were performing from sheet music. These reached a coda and repeated a third time, thusly creating a self-perpetuating cycle of noises. With further repetition, this cycle became hypnotizingly rhythmic in its oscillation between self-directed utterances and high-pitched squeaks which seemed to express a kind of warm humility at the unexpected compliments he was inexhaustibly paying himself.

" _Oh my! How kind of you to say!...Well, you certainly are deserving! How can I not praise such excellence as I see before me! This masterful and heroic creation: Look at that handsome grin! And just feel the hardness of these biceps!...Oh, please you are going to make me blush. I know not what to say to all these compliments...You need say nothing at all, only to accept. But who am I to tell someone on your level how you are to react. Your blushing visage of present is a feat of Nature itself. Whenever I am scorned at the gods, I shall remember it and remember again to be thankful....Oh dear, this really is all too much! But I thank you for your generous words..."_

Bunnu turned around once to see the mustachioed hulk towering over him with his eyes closed and smiling delightfully, completely unconcerned by his surroundings, much less what was happening on stage. He had a great belly, but he was smartly dressed in a striped coat with a silk cravat and a custom-tailored shirt of rubied buttons, which made it easy to mistake him for an audience member rather than an usher. He wore two rings on each finger, and the smell of perfumed talc seemed to radiate from him, imbuing him with a certain augustness he would most certainly lose when robbed of its scent. As the roughneck spoke to himself self-admiringly, twirling his mustache and squealing blissfully at the firmness of his own abs, Bunnu couldn't help but feel an inexplicable sense of peace unfolding similarly within him. He no longer felt anger toward the usher: he was an enlightened man!

This remarkable entity was very much in his natural state. No! To simply call it _natural_ would be an understatement. To be more precise, one must inexorably assume that he had achieved a higher state of being, a purity which could not otherwise be had in all the distractions and self-consciousness of this life. Perhaps, he could not behave like this publicly in other situations, but here in the darkness of the theater, where everyone else seemed to enjoy escaping from one reality to have another imposed upon them, it did not seem strange at all for him to evade also this second imposition and, in its stead, to formulate his own new reality wherein the central character would be none other than himself: Him as its protagonist, its hero, its savior! Witnessing this, Bunnu couldn't help but admire the gentleman's ability to self-admire.

There was a blessed sanctity to his narcissism: a cherished honesty with regard to his self-interest, for certainly this was the root of all human endeavor. But then, did all that was holy and pious and spiritual in this world similarly have its roots in a rudimentary narcissism? It would certainly seem honest to think so. Whatever one aspired to, however meaningful or selfless or to whatever extent for the sake of pushing the limits of human potential, the chief underlying motivation for following through often came in the form of immoderate self-congratulation. Even the noble ascetic could not be accurately deemed modest, for certainly, it would only be through the immodesty of his pride that he could uphold with any sense of stubbornness or self-restraint his fortitude against all temptation, and remain, as thus, passionately defiant of all natures of perniciousness which sought to corrode the foundations of his seeming moral rectitude. There could be no doubt that making such sacrifices would render him an upstanding individual according to some system of rightness, if, of course, universal rightness could be said to exist. All the same, Bunnu did not wish to view temperance as a foolish thing, but neither as a wise endeavor. One had to ask oneself what was being given up, and for what purpose, and whether that purpose was indeed worthwhile, or if it was just a bunch of smoke conjured up by well-intentioned individuals who wished to give hope to the hopeless, for little other reason than to protect political power, if not to channel their own boredom in a way more positive than could otherwise be done through simple indulgence (even the most tyrannical of emperors occasionally tired of continual fighting, feasting and fornication for long enough to give judicious ruling a go—conceivably out of an alien sense of compassion, but more conceivably, out of their innate sense of self-righteousness). One had to ask oneself if the sacrifices made were done so for something authentic, or something artificial, possibly even self-idealized. Bunnu sighed. All around him and everyday, sacrifices were made on behalf of and for the benefit of arbitrary constructs, and forged in fires fanned by boredom.

Bunnu was inspired by this usher, for he had, in this moment, confirmed something that Bunnu had always suspected: whatever joy he could find in this life would have its roots more in self-satisfaction than in actual endeavor. There was no such thing as achievement for achievement's sake: this was a myth people whispered to themselves while they masturbated. There was indeed a satisfaction that could be had without achievement, physical indulgence, austerity or self-denial. It seemed humans kept themselves busy doing things without really knowing why they were doing them. The lazy and the simple-minded, on the other hand, seemed to have a greater grasp of what really mattered. They neglected the trivial, and focused instead on those minor things which would make them happy.

Yes, this was selfish. Of course it was! That was the point. Bunnu had been called "lazy" all his life. This was never said to him in a complimentary way, for certainly few viewed it as a virtue. But perhaps, they were wrong to see it this way. Perhaps, this very indolence gave Bunnu an inherent advantage over others, maybe even an increased capacity to view the landscape expansively enough to find happiness. If that muscle-bound simpleton of an usher could find the wellsprings of satisfaction by way of his own narcissism, surely Bunnu could do the same! But, of course, now was not the time to celebrate this epiphany. There were people all around him watching the characters on stage as they agonized over seemingly important matters, planned for their futures, reveled in their victories, mourned their losses, and littered the worlds they occupied with the full weight of their precious, precious emotions, as though these all meant something in the larger chemical interactions of the Universe.

It was a laughable diversion, though written to be a tragedy. Bunnu reclined back in his seat and watched with waning interest, occasionally becoming lost in his own thoughts.

### * * *

After the performance, Q, Durga and Bunnu waited outside the dressing rooms, at the front of a crowd of adoring fans and attention-seekers, until she finally exited in her civvies. Before Bunnu had a chance to say anything, mon seigneur stepped forward and intercepted Pinky, bearing a bouquet of beautiful flowers. "My dear, you outshone them all this evening," he said with a bow. "I must apologize for these flowers are mere weeds in the presence of such radiant beauty. I am concerned they detract from your infinite grace rather than add to it, and for this I am humbled by my inability to offer anything which is worthy enough for you to keep."

"You are most kind, dear mon seigneur-Q. I have looked very much forward to meeting you! And Aunty Durga! How wonderful it is to see you again! How it is that the wise and venerable mon seigneur can speak of me so in the presence of such immeasurable radiance as yours is beyond my imagination!"

"Well, deary, you certainly have a knack for knowing what to say." Aunty Durga replied, blushing as she curtsied.

"My sweet, sweet girl," mon seigneur said, taking Pinky by the arm and walking away with her down the corridor through the crowd of gawkers, "I must ask: what are you doing with a nobody like Bunnu? Surely, you are out of his league! Why...he doesn't even own land! What sort of man calls himself a man who doesn't own land? Sure, one could make the argument that the land is not there to be claimed as one's own. All the same, for the sake of one's sense of ambition, a man must still make a solid go of it, yes? Now...my darling, let me tell you. If you follow my lead, I'll have you dining with royalty. I know my fair share of handsome young princes from foreign lands looking for a girl just like you. Those gentlemen will take you places beyond your imagination! Just imagine: one day we might even be calling you _Princess Pinky!_ Sounds better than Pinky, the wife of the trifling bloke who does odd jobs around the local inn. No?"

She smiled at his playful banter: "Oh, mon seigneur! You are too much! Bunnu!" she looked back, "Won't you say anything? He's attacking you relentlessly!"

"Nothing new," Bunnu shrugged indifferently. "You'll get used to it." She laughed and his heart skipped at the sweetness of its sound. As his eyes scanned over her, he realized that what mon seigneur had said was very much true: she _was_ out of his league. Now, in this light, that frail body seemed a breathtaking feat of aesthetics: those narrow feet which met thin ankles to curve up in pleasing arcs to her knees, and then smoothly outward again to her hips; the curve of her body thereupon rounded gradually to its apex and settled concavely inward to reach its nadir at the waist and then became convex again at her breasts, forming an elegant—albeit not too rounded—hourglass shape: with her shoulders turned and her face looking back as it was now, it was easy to make out in profile the pleasing dimensions of her bosom, which Bunnu had enjoyed numerous times by touch previously, but in whose glory he had never so much reveled as he did now by sight; scanning up further, her long neck ended in a dramatic arc to meet her firm mandibles which added a striking tautness about her jowls; over her face fell her bobbed black hair—when he had first met her, it had been dyed blonde, but black was her natural color and suited her better; the shape of her face was long, but not too long, and her eyes ran deeply inward from her forehead, imbuing them with a wistful prominence; when she smiled, the lines of her mouth made aesthetically beautiful arcs which accorded within ten-trillionths of a decimal point to the divine proportion of mathematics, and her eyes narrowed slightly and alluringly filling Bunnu with the immediate urge to pull her close and embrace her and never let her go.

For the first time since he had met her, Pinky's physical presence was godliness itself: and to think that in the midst of his depression, a year ago, her presence had had a far lesser impact upon him. He wondered if his seeing her in this way was somehow connected to the mutability of his imagination, or of his feelings. He remembered now that he had wished to imagine her as a mere object on their first meeting; now he was compelled to view her as an apparition far beyond his own worthiness to touch: a divine specter of some kind. And yet, how does one bridge the gap between these two images without recognizing the possibility of self-deception?

Affronted by this sudden realization, the confusion now began to tear away at him. Over her gentle smiling face now floated a sudden dreadful trick of light which transformed her features ever so slightly enough that her smile suddenly seemed conniving and predatory. She and mon seigneur-Q passed out of the light of one lantern and were about to cross over into another, when the darkness which passed over her then made her face appear grotesque, as though this was the true face waiting underneath that elegantly contrived visage held in place by light. What was happening? Was it his fear transforming her? Was he seeing her for who she was? Or, was her face truly a blank canvas upon which he projected his own affections and his own dread, depending on his feelings at a particular moment? Perhaps, it would be dangerous to love her, for he did not know if what he felt would be something true and beyond question, or if it would otherwise be a dithering abstraction of the mind and nothing more. Q and Pinky passed into the light of another lantern further down the corridor and she looked stunning again: Bunnu's resolve returned as though it had never left.

And so, he swore to himself, in that moment as he stood there watching her, that he would allow himself to pursue her, but it was imperative that he refuse to fall in love with her. It was no mistake to follow his inclinations to seek the object of his attraction, but he must also be prepared to traverse many a self-deception which might arise in the process. In addition, it was necessary to be aware that she, too, could possibly deceive herself, and that her affections were just as likely to change from moment-to-moment as his. The whole matter seemed too risky and irrational for his liking, and so it was necessary for him to approach the matter as logically as possible. The logical approach, of course, required that he do whatever necessary to minimize damage to himself. The best way to do this was to deny absolutely the possibility of falling in love with her. This seemed an extreme course to take, but it was the only option available to him at the moment until he was otherwise able to answer to his satisfaction the question as to how someone he had viewed as trivial at the start could seem so infinitely important all of a sudden. If he allowed the self-deception to overcome his sense of reason, he just might be destroyed by it. He could not allow someone else besides himself to dictate how he was to feel from day-to-day: no, this was too much control to give any other individual than oneself. He knew that so long as he kept her at a certain distance and chose not to care, no harm would come to him.

And yet, just looking at her now, filled him with an uncontrollable impulse to pursue her until she was his...but was this only a self-serving temptation, a desire for his own gratification and nothing more? What if he immediately lost interest upon gaining that which he sought? Such things were possible, after all—and certainly, this would be unfair to her. The thrill of the pursuit may have been of greater intrinsic value than that of the object to be pursued. Perhaps, it was best to declare himself unworthy from the outset and not to pursue her at all. Perhaps, it was best for her, and best for him. After all, how could he allow his feelings to go any deeper now, without at the same time realizing how impermanent they must be? And what would be the purpose of giving oneself over to anything so completely, when it was so impermanent? What indeed?

"You'd better keep a close eye on her," Aunty Durga whispered in his ear as they both gazed at Q and Pinky making their way through the crowd in the corridor and moving towards the exit, "mon seigneur's taken quite a shine to her. He just might be leading her to the closest altar. If he runs off with her, you'll take care of your old Aunty Durga, won't you, Boy?" She smiled warmly at Bunnu, still blushing slightly from the generous compliment paid her earlier by Pinky.

"It's all just play," Bunnu said with a laugh. "You know that, Aunty! Anyway, I thought you didn't approve of her."

"I just said to be careful. She's a smart one, her. She knows which cards to play and when. She might be a very nice girl, but if she were so inclined, she could probably bring you to ruin with a mere snap of the fingers."

"If she were so inclined...?"

"Yes. We do not know yet whether she is or isn't. Actually she seems quite...nice. In all honesty, I can't say anything very much against her. She's been exceedingly polite to both mon seigneur and myself. She seems to care for you deeply. I'm just worried, that's all. mon seigneur's right. You are well out of your league with this one! I'm sure she has genuine feelings for you, but I hope those feelings do not sour. Love is a fickle sweetness in one's mouth which sours but with such swiftness as to confound the glory of that initial taste. That blissful sensation first felt might soon be forgotten, leaving one to question whether or not it was an illusion to begin with. It happens too quickly and too easily, and often for no reason at all. People who love unconditionally one moment can so very easily grow bored the next. One might even come to betray the other, or one's annoyance with the other might impel her to deal her partner a shattering blow. And with each attack, his wounds shall grow deeper, sometimes never healing—and the worst wound he might sustain is the sort that can be dealt against his pride.

"Wounded pride is more searing than any physical pain imaginable. When the pride of one is hurt by another and forgiveness becomes too bitter a taste to fathom, the mutual sense of trust becomes irreversibly damaged, and the dynamic of the relationship descends quickly from altruistic cooperation to ruthless one-upmanship, each member competing to make the other feel inferior for one reason or another. We are all fickle that way: one day, our spirits are generous and we will sacrifice anything of ourselves—our lives even—to please the object of our affections, but in the next moment, we revert to our most vicious instincts of survivalism, seeking to destroy the ego of this newfound object of enmity, possibly because of some betrayal, or possibly because we sense that this person has become a threat to our livelihood, thus propelling us to seek the most effective solution in minimizing damage to ourselves. Of course, this is all rooted in mistrust.

"Often, this transition from altruism to antipathy takes shape out of the tiniest, most inconsequential events. And yet, these trifling events are capable of pushing us to the extremes of emotion and action. Why is that, you might ask? Well, look at it this way: with every self-sacrifice made on behalf of love, a running total accrues in our mind, though we fail to notice it at the time. Think of that total as a line of credit extended by our hearts, but kept track of in secret ledgers by our heads. Well, when the total in these secret ledgers begins to exceed by too vast a sum the value brought by one's significant other to the relationship, the economics of affection become untenable and the head takes over. The head is effective at bureaucratic duties, but when managing emotions, it takes on the role of the calculating pencil-pusher seeking to purge its organization of toxic assets, regardless of extenuating circumstance. To the head, love must surely seem an unstable and risky investment for one's emotions, and for those of us ruled more by the head than by the heart, that is what gives us most pause in moving forward.

"At the same time, I believe truly that love is a risk we must all take for our own good; a risk that is, in turns, glorious, confusing, painful, tragic, edifying and, in some way, liberating. At times, it will fill your soul, and at other times, drain it...but whichever state you find yourself in, you must take lessons from it, for it is, to a great extent, your own choice which direction you will allow it to take you. When you are consumed in the throes of love, you must understand that whatever happens from that moment forward is what you bring upon yourself, for it is you who ultimately makes the choices for yourself, and thus, it is you who must take ownership of your own circumstances and be wise, though love is, in its purest form, an endeavor of the foolish. I just hope you'll be mindful of that."

"I will try to be." Bunnu said, watching Pinky and Q walk out the exit at the end of the corridor. "You know, all of this sounded a lot like something mon seigneur-Q would say."

"I guess, after all these years, the old fool has rubbed off on me a bit," Durga laughed with a shrug, "In a way, maybe I'm just parroting a lot of what he has been saying to me lately. You and this young lady have been a popular topic of conversation around the tea shop, let me tell you. But take all this advice with a grain of salt. You are the best judge of your own situation. Never take the prattle of your elders too seriously. They have experience, but it may not translate well to your own. You must experience things for yourself and learn your own lessons. You must make your own mistakes. Of course, it is important to approach all matters of the heart wisely, but then again, no worthwhile experience could be had so long as one wishes always to be wise. Go forth and make mistakes, young man! Make terrible and beautiful mistakes!"

### * * *

The show played on for another year at the Xami Theater. Over the course of that year, Bunnu and Pinky's relationship blossomed. Having thrown all caution to the wind, he started without shyness or hesitation to attend her shows at least 3 nights a week—though she never asked or expected him to do so—and on other nights, he was sure to be waiting outside the back exit of the theater when she finished. Some days, he stood there, wondering if he was being too persistent—and possibly somewhat presumptuous—by waiting for her outside the theater, for they never made concrete plans to meet with each other. But then, when she would emerge from the exit, he would see the mix of surprise and delight that would cross her features in seeing that he had waited for her, and he knew that he had made the right choice. This ritual continued night-after-night, and for some reason, Pinky never ceased to be pleasantly surprised by his presence, as though it never occurred to her that he should be standing there. The interesting thing was that she never came to expect it either, nor would she be disappointed on those nights when he couldn't make it. It seemed that she held no expectation of him, no wish for him to have a routine of seeing her, no claim of ownership over his time. On the other hand, she seemed to enjoy the idea that each time they met her day had suddenly been filled with new possibility. What she seemed to like most was that she was not committed to some plan in advance and neither was he, and that whenever they were together, a sweeping spontaneity carried them as though by gusts of circumstance from one moment to the next.

She loved that he could surprise her, could take her places she had never been without even intending to do so; meanwhile, he adored the ease with which she could find infinite wonder in the mundane, for he sought not at all to impress her, but rather to simply spend time together in whatever way seemed natural at each particular moment. He recognized the fact that he was anything but romantic, but somehow this seemed to work to his benefit, for, in her lovely optimism, that was what Pinky seemed to find most romantic about him: his inability to make a spectacle of it all, and his discomfort at the prospect of orchestrating anything grand for the sake of impressing her (she no longer required any affirmations from him that she was special, and frankly, if he had gone through the motions of seeking to impress her now, she would have been more annoyed than impressed, for after days and weeks and months of rehearsing and performing and beholding on stage the same grand orchestrations again and again—which to its audience were supposed to seem spontaneous, but to its players were most certainly the very antithesis—she had become tired of the need for pomp and melodrama in real life and now sought refuge in the unplanned and the inconsequential). And so, what Bunnu lacked in flashiness or refinement or showmanship, he seemed to make up for in earnestness and authenticity of feeling. It was nice to know that his movements were not planned. It was refreshing to see that life off-stage could manage to be so different for its players than life on stage.

Their dates consisted mostly of perambulations around town after midnight. They never planned out a route, or said they would go any one place in particular. Usually, they just walked and allowed their feet to take them wherever it was their inclination to go. They strolled along the streets of Yami, talking endlessly and laughing, sometimes stopping under a streetlamp for a momentary embrace. They crossed the footbridge and meandered through the narrow alleyways of Xami, weaving around the sleeping drunks, the trash cans, and the brooding down-on-their-luck gamblers. They ambled about the riverside, sometimes even entering the Under City at Bunnu's insistence, but not for long enough to encounter anyone or anything he would recognize. And sometimes, they would pick up a blanket from the inn and make for the Bluestone Lake, close to the site of the burlesque house where they had first met.

They would lie on the blanket and eat and talk and sing loudly, but they would never make love. Even if they wanted to, the time and the transformation which their relationship underwent had caused a barrier to form which became too torturous to cross—it was a barrier reinforced by a newfound mutual respect and modesty, almost a shyness at the prospect of the intimacy of adult relationships. There was something blissful and innocent and childlike about it, which enhanced the playful romance of their relationship and which intensified their feelings for one another. In fact, they found themselves now so enamored with one another that every moment they spent together was glorious and painful all at once. For the first time in his life, Bunnu felt truly happy.

One night, the topic of making love was discussed, but it only made them both weep for reasons they failed to understand. Those times in the past, they had been different people to each other and therefore those previous sessions of fornication seemed to exist in a different dimension from where they were now. In some strange way, dredging up those old memories was disappointing and sad. It almost felt as though they wished to erase their previous existences and start their life together fresh and pure and unsullied by the ugliness of the world in which they were forced to live.

Unfortunately for them, events would transpire in such a way that their time together would soon be cut short. For the moment, however, the sweetness of this bliss more than made up for its impermanence.

### * * *

After a successful year's run at Xami Theater, the Akbars finally caved in to pressure from promoters in foreign lands to take the show on the road.

The cast, orchestra, set decorators, costume designers and stage crew were all expected to move from city-to-city, performing three times daily the same actions: the orchestra producing the same notes with the same timbres, volumes, and intensities; the stage hands repeating the same motions with the same sets and props, over and over, following the same mindless routines; the actors and singers voicing the same lines again and again and again and again, in the same way and from the same positions on stage: but all of this for different faces each evening, for different people who would receive these actions and gestures and moments and musings as though they were new and coming into existence for the very first time—of course, the audiences would be cognizant enough of the devices of theater to know otherwise, but these fantasy-seeking spectators also enjoyed giving in to that suspension of disbelief which allowed them to entertain temporarily the possibility that these moments they were witnessing were unique and nearly impossible to replicate.

Nonetheless, players were expected to be—for those three times daily—emotive mediums channeling the true anima and feeling of the characters they portrayed: they sang often forcefully, at other times gently, dictated always by the pianissimos and fortissimos of their musical notations, but in such a way as would make it seem that the lyrics represented something true and meaningful to them; occasionally, they entered into mellifluous ariettas as though the very soul of the character were exiting from its body through the mouth, bound inseparably to the ascensions and declensions of sweet melody, swirling upwards and spiraling like ribbons of paper through air and about the stratosphere above the stage in an elegant immaterial form, and then drifting down like a sweeping feather to alight gently again upon the singer, whose composure could be seen to return immediately and whose eyes would open again as though awakening to the world anew. Amidst these ornate transcendences and reincarnations would be the background score, which was to play as though the feeling it lent to the story was organic and crucial to that ephemeral moment on stage which should soon pass. And at precise times between such moments, the sets were to be wheeled back and forth, or lowered and raised by ropes, in a prescribed sequence as though the progression of events and backgrounds were unfolding naturally and in such a way as to lead the protagonist along an unwavering journey to that moment of inevitable climax prior to his denouement, which would be underscored by the sudden and well-timed crash of cymbals (of course, the timing of the cymbalist was an extremely critical component to making this climax believable, as realized one night when the nervous gentleman holding the cymbals came in a full step and a half before the story's moment of revelation, eliciting mutters of confusion from the audience—the illusion of this performance was, for the moment, shattered, and its painstaking planning embarrassingly palpable, which for some reason drew forth feelings of outrage and resentment from those members of the audience who were happier not to believe that this had all been a disingenuous exercise in playing pretend.)

With practice, most of the inconsistencies of the performance were ironed out and the movements of its players became flawless like the workings of a precision water clock. And by the time the theater troupe was ready to hit the road for its first tour, most of the actors had already reached a point in which they could slip into and out of their roles as easily and quickly as their costumes, performing their parts effortlessly while thoughts of other things went through their minds: that evening's supper, the closing time of the neighborhood pub, or any other matter of small importance pertaining to the life of the person occupying the costume. Of course, this was not true for all of the actors. There were some serious artistes within the troupe who had a deep sense of professionalism: these hard-working souls would try to remain as absorbed in every moment of the performance as possible. In some cases, they would even attempt to remain in character off-stage. Over the many weeks and months of performing, however, even these holdouts came to realize that they could only remain absorbed in their character's repetitive actions as genuinely as any person could remain absorbed in his own mindless routines. Eventually, it became boring, almost farcical, and they soon wished—for fear of adding an unwitting tone of tired sarcasm to their character's voice—to revert, like the others, to their original persona for those moments off-stage. Nonetheless, all the players—whatever their inclinations and differences in personality—would, for the sake of their audience, live out the lives of these characters again and again in perpetual repetition, and they would be revered and loved once at noon, once in the late afternoon and once in the evening, and the audiences would clap and howl and whistle and throw roses, until the curtain went down and the hall fell to murmurs and then silence. For those actors who stayed to listen from behind the curtain, that silence after the hall cleared was the loneliest—yet somehow the most cleansing—moment of the day, for it was that dark, pure moment between death and rebirth. The vessels liberated themselves of the souls which had possessed them briefly, imbibed an ungodly amount of wine to free them of its nagging memory, and took naps in private nooks backstage, until the sound of the orchestra tuning could be heard again from the pit, and it was time again to shake off the inebriation, put on the costume and make-up, and live again the life of that character on-stage.

In spite of the toll it took on her emotionally to keep up the routines of a minor character thousands of times over, Pinky was thrilled by the prospect of continuing such a lifestyle on the road. She had grown quite fond of the theater and felt that she had really learned a great deal by observing those around her. Even though her brother was very much against her leaving, she was so much in love with the idea that he had no choice but to let her do as she pleased. Bunnu was happy for her, too, for to leave Yami had truly been her lifelong dream. At the same time, he was concerned—though he refused to say so—about where this left things between them. He had grown to like her very much and it was sad to think that they should now part ways, but at the same time, he wouldn't dream of holding her back from what was out there waiting for her. What sort of person does that?

One evening as they were lying on a blanket by the lake, Pinky's head turned on his shoulder and she looked up at him, saying with a hint of curiosity, "Don't you love me?"

"Why do you need to ask?"

"You haven't done anything to try to get me to stay."

"Is that love?"

"Love is passionate. I understand that you are doing it out of respect for my dreams, but doesn't some irrational facet of your personality wish to make a selfish claim over me?"

"Of course...but what can I do? If you wanted to stay, you would stay. I can't hold you back from what's out there."

"What if I stayed?"

"I would be happy, but is that what you really want?"

"I dunno." She began to cry. "All I've ever wanted was to get away from this place, and now that I have a chance, I'm scared about it. The other girls aren't the slightest bit scared. They are so excited about going. Maybe I don't have it in me."

"You'd be surprised what you have in you. I went through the same thing when I left Bahlia for the first time. Fear is natural...it's a sign that you do not take your decisions lightly. It is a sign of a precious sensitivity in you. You are afraid of being disappointed by the world you idealized...and you are sad for those you must leave behind."

"Maybe we can go together."

"I would like that...but I can't follow you from town-to-town either. I might be able to do it for a short time, but if I am not occupied with something myself, I will begin to feel unfulfilled by my place in things."

"You seem like such a smart person, Bunnu. I never understood why you settled for work at the inn. Don't you feel unfulfilled by that?"

"It is difficult to say what ambition should be. I wouldn't say I'm ambitious in the traditional sense of the word. I do not aspire to achieve any predetermined station in life, or any noteworthy status, nor do I wish to attain any measure of glory by weight of external accomplishments. In fact, there is nothing specific that I desire to accomplish at all, and even if there were, I would only seek to accomplish it for the sake of mere accomplishment, which in turn would provide me with what I believe to be an illusory sense of self-satisfaction. I don't have the inclination to pursue this route. I don't know if that makes me ambitionless by the definition of others, but I would still like to think that I am ambitious from a certain perspective. In my mind, I have this image of the sort of person I strive to be. It is not something concrete, not measurable by achievement, not definable by any words I am capable of expressing, but it is there and I aspire to be that person. I mean, I aspire to evolve into an entity whose full definition still eludes me, but whose undeniable essence beckons to me from afar, and whatever role I occupy in society should have no bearing on this process of transformation. Maybe if I had become more ambitious about the sort of work I did, or the sort of place I held in society, I would appear fulfilled to others. However, as you well know, how I appear to others is not incredibly important to me. What's most important is to be better than what I am, and to be going in the direction I wish to be going. To me, the sort of job I have is a trifling detail in determining who I am and what I aspire to be. As far as I'm concerned, jobs are only a means to a much larger end...and any job that is unlikely to get in the way of my aspirations is fine with me. If I wished to have my role in society define the sort of person I am, I suppose I could have been like my brother-"

"You mean _O.?"_

"Yes... _O._ He could be seen as more successful from the social definition of the word. Certainly he is important. But apart from this social definition, what is he? I've not seen him for many years, but the only image I have remaining in my mind is staring at him and seeing myself in the reflection."

"What do you mean?"

"Well...perhaps you have to know him. He actually looks like a reflective silver ball. He is about 50 centimeters in diameter. He is soft on the outside and seems to have no organs on the inside."

Pinky sat up on her elbow. "Wait...all this time, I assumed he was a person. I'd heard about him before I met you, but only that he was a well-known industrialist and kingmaker in the Republic. I mean, with the amount of political clout he had, one would scarcely imagine he looked like a silver ball. I mean...he is a person, right?"

"He is."

"But the way you describe him, he sounds-"

"Listen, I'd rather not get into that. As it is, we had problems for years overturning his status as a Legal Non-entity. Actually, we never succeeded. It wasn't until he merged with a corporation with the status of a legal citizen that he was able to gain the rights and privileges of a citizen of the Republic."

"So...what you're saying is-"

"I think we're getting off the topic. I thought we were talking about you."

"Yes, we were." She paused for a second. "Have you tried writing any letters to your brother?"

Bunnu now sat up on his elbow as well. He pointed to her neck. "Sorry to change the subject, but...that necklace. It's rather nice. Is that new?"

"Oh...this old thing?" she blushed immediately. "No...it's an heirloo—uh... w-well...yes, it is new. I suppose you might have seen it in the store window at the jeweler's, yes?"

Bunnu grew immediately jealous. "Yes...and it was rather pricy. Was it a gift from an adoring fan?"

"No...no!" she said with a hint of embarrassment. "What kind of person do you think I am? I could never accept something like this from someone I don't know. I...well...I bought it myself."

Bunnu whistled. "Wow...the show must be doing better than I thought."

"Well...actually, no. The Akbars are only now making back the money they lost at the beginning. Actually, I haven't been paid in months. I had to pick up an extra job. I found a good one with the Republic's Ministry of Information."

"Sounds ominous."

"It's not...it's just simple information-gathering. Entry-level position, but it pays well. Nothing sinister, they give me assignments. Simple ones...barely anything to talk about really. I've never had an easier job than this. And the best part is I can continue while I'm on the road."

"I suppose that explains your sudden interest in my brother. Are you expected to gather information about _O.?_ He probably has just as many enemies in the Senate as he does allies."

"Bunnu!" she exclaimed with a hint of hurt reproach. "That's unkind!"

"Then, what _is_ your current assignment?"

"I can't tell you. That's confidential."

"Hmmm. OK, then."

"Now, if you're done with the interrogation: can we get back to what we were talking about?"

"What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about how often you stay in touch with your brother."

"See?"

"It's just an innocent question. What's the harm?"

"I suppose I wouldn't know anything that would be of any use to his enemies anyway. To be honest, _O._ and I don't keep in touch as much as we should. I'm very happy for his success though. Well...happy as long as that is what he wants. His aspirations are different from mine, and I am proud he is able to achieve them."

"Is it true that his organization has been selling weapons to insurgent factions in Gautama?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Is that another _innocent question?"_

"Well...a girl has to try." She said with a smile so sweet that it was difficult not to forgive her. "Anyway, let's forget about that. We've much more important matters to discuss." She stroked his cheek and her eyes narrowed alluringly.

That night they made love for the first time since the burlesque house. Afterwards, as they lay together nestled in each other's arms, Bunnu could have sworn he smelled the distinct scent of violets all about them. The smell was almost fierce in its intoxicating potency.

"Do you smell that?" he whispered to Pinky, but she was already asleep. Somewhere in his ear, he could hear the faint sound of uncontrollable giggling.

He looked about him, hoping to detect that meddling rodent deity: to no avail. "No..." he finally whispered to himself, "It can't be Him." And with this, Bunnu, too, fell asleep.

### * * *

Finally came the day when Pinky was set to depart. Bunnu decided to spend the morning drinking tea with mon seigneur at Aunty Durga's teahouse, before going to Pinky's place to meet her brother and wish her farewell.

"It's nice to see you after so long," Q said to Bunnu. "I suppose you've been busy with your young lady friend. Aunty Durga has been a regular treasure trove of information on her. This old teahouse has transformed into a rather effective information-gathering agency. Every day, it seems like some old bitty is coming in with some urgent information on her background. Durga's really got her team running all over creation, working up a profile, intercepting communiqués between various distant relatives to work up a proper genealogical chart, decoding suspicious-looking correspondences between her brother and the Akbars, and speaking with representatives of various financial institutions which have loaned them money. Of course, your sweetheart's new job with the Ministry of Information has got some tongues wagging as well. But like I told your Aunty: whether or not the sweet girl's family is in debt is no one's business but hers. I apologize for any invasions of privacy this may have caused."

Bunnu laughed at this. "It's not a problem really. I know that Aunty Durga doesn't trust her very much. I appreciate her concern."

mon seigneur peeked over Bunnu's shoulder at his wife who was cleaning a table behind them and pretending not to listen. He smiled as he said, "Your Aunty has a great fondness for you. That is why she feels the need to protect you. I do have to say to her credit that she has a keen insight about other females. If she had some concerns, they may have been well-founded. But anyway, what does it matter now that she's leaving?"

"We're going to try to make it work," Bunnu said. "The relationship, I mean. Long distance relationships are not my strong suit, but I think we can do it."

"Then why don't you marry her?"

"Well...I'm not ready for that. She says she is, but I don't think she knows what she wants just now."

"And you never thought about leaving Yami with her?"

"I did, but it just didn't seem right to me. Maybe I'm making a mistake by not going, but I can't go against what I'm feeling right now. Maybe it would be a bigger mistake to go."

"That's very logical thinking, son. Still, what good is living, if we cannot make a few mistakes along the way? Love is not about logical decisions, yes? Sometimes we have to make that impulsive choice, even when our reason tells us otherwise. As you know from all my stories, I've had my share of missteps. But I would never trade one of them for the more logical choice. Mistakes can be beautiful. I'm told our dear Aunty said something to the same effect to you once before."

"And I'm told that, in part, she was quoting you. Yes...but whoever said anything about love?"

mon seigneur scoffed at this, "Are you saying you don't love her?"

"I don't know. I like her immensely, but what is love?"

"If you don't know what it is now, nothing I can say will properly explain it."

"I mean...could it be that love is just an illusion?"

"I don't know. Is it? If it is, it's a bloody convincing one. Who cares? It's one by which I don't mind being deceived." He winked at Aunty Durga, who giggled in uncharacteristic delight.

"I just sense in myself that I am seeing merely what I want to see."

"Well...yes. There is a certain element of that. We see others the way we wish to see them. That's not just exclusive to love: it is inherent in all our interactions. In the case of love, we project something of ourselves upon the people we like, but they still remain those people, whatever our reasons for admiring them. Of course it is subjective! Do not look for objective truth in love, young man. You will not find it."

"I know what you are saying, but it just seems like I'm chasing after illusions, after self-deception. I don't want to deceive myself."

"Chasing after illusions?"

"The reflection shines brighter than the light from which it's conceived."

mon seigneur paused for a second, seemingly mystified. Obviously, he hadn't been there when Bunnu and Bhakti had seen Bussaba Lek's painting, and thus he had no idea to what his younger friend was referring. But he made a go of understanding it anyway: "The reflection shines brighter. Shines brighter. Shines brighter than the original? So, what we see is a simulacrum of that which is genuine? I think that's what you're saying, right? Well...I agree. You certainly can't chase after reflections...yes. But she's real. I mean, we can talk about projections and idealizations all day, but aren't you worried you are going to miss your chance with the _real thing?_ Isn't this a rather major turning point? You can't fool about staring at your belly button and conceptualizing the truth, all the while, letting the world pass you by! Believe it or not, there is such a thing as overthinking it!"

"The _real thing,_ you say?" Bunnu replied, "Sometimes when I look at her, I feel like I'm not seeing the _real_ her. I feel like I am seeing an object of fancy that only my mind has concocted. Something that cannot be had, that cannot be held, that cannot be in the first place. I see the ideal image of something I dreamt up, but could never exist. And I fear for her, as much as I do for myself, what should happen if she failed to meet that impossible standard I have formed in my mind."

"Aye, but you see all this when you look at her. Is it not love?"

"I'd like to think love would be something more than an image merely beyond my grasp. I don't know why, but I just do."

Just then, Aunty Durga began to crying loudly. It was the first time Bunnu had ever seen the tough old woman cry. She put a handkerchief to her face and ran out of the room, eliciting a sudden hush from all the patrons of the teahouse. mon seigneur sighed, "Don't worry, laddie. It's not you. I think something about what you just said reminded her of... _him."_

"Bhakti?" Bunnu leaned forward and whispered. Q closed his eyes and nodded.

### * * *

The rest of the day, though largely uneventful, proved to be an emotional one. Bunnu met Pinky's brother for the first time over lunch. They ate a simple meal of corn and biscuits, but talked little.

The brother was the serious, quiet type. It was clear that he was a traditionalist when it came to religion as well. There was no shortage of old spiritual iconography scattered about his house: paintings from the parables of old scripture adorning walls, porcelain salt and pepper shakers whose tops warped and extended into prongs shaped like the Sacred Claws of Dasa in the middle of the dining table, statuettes of ancient—and, in modern times, somewhat arcane—gods in his puja area. From where Bunnu sat in the dining room, he could see through the parted curtains of the doorway past the living room area and all the way into the bedroom, where there was a kneeling mat of a deep red, and Golden Neva Cloaks hanging on the far wall. It seemed that the brother was with an old Order. He was probably one of those preservationists trying to keep alive the faith of that old cathedral with that malicious Horny God gargoyle perched atop (in Yami's recent prosperity, much of their old flock had scattered for the trendier faiths which required less servility). Pinky's brother, evidently, was one of the austere holdouts, possibly because he treasured his convictions. Bunnu did not ask any questions about his faith, but quickly got the picture with regard to the sort of character with whom he was dealing.

He did find himself wondering what the source of the family's debts could have been. Could the debts have been bound in some way to this brother's refusal to renounce his faith, bound in his capacity to treasure something ancient in which he believed, in spite of its having been superseded by a newer, more fashionable strain of religiosity? Or, were the debts simply something which had preceded him, something that he had inherited with which he had had to live all his life. Perhaps, the debts were something he had incurred in his lifetime, but had nothing whatsoever to do with his faith or with the trials and tribulations of his predecessors: of course, this was the most likely of the possibilities. Everyone in this life had to make a living somehow, and to have outstanding financial obligations because of it did not necessarily have any bearing with regard to a person's character. Of course, the nature of money being what it was, and the inclinations of man in relation to money being what they were, it almost seemed natural to view all debtors (especially those delinquent in the fulfillment of obligations) with a kind of scorn, but this was wholly wrong-headed. Whatever the cause of the brother's financial situation, Bunnu was in no position to judge. He knew this from experience. His family had once taken on a debt of their own, and they had had to take _extreme measures_ in order to satisfy it. Of course, without having taken those measures, _O._ would not have risen to such heights of prominence as he did...but that was beside the point.

The brother worked as a foreman for a construction company owned by the Akbars, and his hearing was partially damaged from working with explosives. Nonetheless, he had impeccable manners and a straight-toned, earnest disposition which earned Bunnu's immense respect. His face had sharp angles to it and his eyes were droopy as though pulled down by the weight of excess skin: he looked very much different from his sister, and much more solemn and weary, as though bearing an unspeakable weight on her behalf.

Before exchanging teary goodbyes with Pinky, Bunnu pledged to her brother that he would stop and visit more frequently, though he knew, even as the words left his mouth, that neither party was keen at the prospect of his doing so. Pinky, however, was extremely touched by the gesture.

Bunnu and Pinky's brother hauled her trunks and baggage to the meeting point in front of the theater where the stagecoaches were waiting. There was a slight chill in the afternoon wind, for autumn was approaching.

And soon, the caravan of stagecoaches made their slow departure and it seemed that Pinky was out of Bunnu's life for the moment. Bunnu felt a slight weight leave his shoulders, for the anticipation of her leaving had been much more excruciating than the departure itself. In that torturous countdown of days which had preceded this one, each had often consoled the other with their absurd plan to send letters by carrier pigeon on a weekly basis, knowing in the back of their minds that this would be logistically impossible given her frequent changes of address. Now, he felt a little guilty for feeling relieved that the moment had finally come. Of course, he missed her, but strangely enough, not to the extent that he did when they were still in each other's presence, anticipating the anxiety of separation. He now began to wonder if he would ever see her again.

Little did Bunnu know, however, as he waved goodbye stupidly at the back of the moving carriage, that they would meet again by chance many years later in Baba City, that he would eventually marry her, and that her job with the Ministry of Information would, at some point, prompt her to spy on his occasional written correspondences with friends and family, leading, in part, to his eventual imprisonment at the Asoka Plains Detention Facility.

But all that, of course, was still very much far ahead of him, and thus, not relevant to the moment at hand.

### * * *

The night after Pinky left, Bunnu had a horrific nightmare. It seemed his younger brother _O._ had grown so large as to become a second moon orbiting their planet. Bunnu stood on the soft fleshy terrain of _O.,_ watching what had been a flawlessly smooth epidermis form into mountains and valleys, dried lakes, and canals. Asteroids began relentlessly pounding the surface of _O._ to disappear beneath his gelatinous crust, proceeding indeterminately through to his core, presumably never proceeding beyond. This left behind gigantic impact craters and the overall size of this moon grew accordingly large, as though by means of protoplasmic jelly displacement.

Bunnu walked over the strange jiggling surface. A cold penetrated the bottoms of his moon boots and he could feel the chill jolting up through his leg and spreading through his body. He found it strange that he should be able to manage here without any special breathing apparatus, especially as he had somehow been filled with the intuitive assumption that the air of this moon was noxious. He looked down at his clothes, thinking it strange that he should be wearing the same uniform he had worn when under the employ of the RavanAlloy Mining Company. _What possessed me to return to this company?_ He thought to himself. _Maybe they liked my work. Yes, that's right...now I remember. It was all a mistake and now I am to be promoted. That's why I was transferred to this moon mining colony. Also, as this moon happens to be my younger brother, that immediately deems me an expert on the conditions which could be expected here. I know little about his chemical composition, or for that matter, what sorts of minerals could possibly be mined from him, but I must remember, in spite of this, that the RavanAlloy Mining Company is merely a subsidiary of Guni Incorporated, which was not long ago acquired by O. and his strange cohort of bearded, tuxedo-and-top-hat-clad old men. So, of course, for all their research, there should certainly be few known-unknowns with regard to the properties of this moon, only unknown-unknowns. So, they brought me, his older brother, in, so that I might shed some light on whatever information would otherwise be lacking. In their eyes, there are presumably things I intuitively recognize about O. that he fails to recognize about himself—information that he would be incapable of furnishing for their purposes. Therefore, there may yet be a purpose for me with respect to the unknown-unknowns: I can help them fill in the gaps—if, indeed, the gaps existing are the sort, which are capable of being filled._

Satisfied by this realization, Bunnu proceeded up a craggy mountain. It was steep, but the ascent was effortless. The ground beneath his feet had begun to harden. He noticed this as he crested the incline, and he looked ahead to see opening at his feet a vast crater, half covered in shadow, half beaming with the light of excessive reflection. The surface of this moon was still very much as silver and reflective as he remembered _O._ had been. Half-cloaked in dark and half-showered with light was a mining colony which sat almost at the midpoint of this elliptical crater. Enormous oil-powered bucket-wheel excavators motored into and out of shadow zones; from afar these looked like immense children's toys. Watching these mammoth shovellers screech and scrape noisily across the terrain, he found himself remembering how kids on Dhritarashtra had often played with such toys, as the island had been industrialized enough that scale models of mining vehicles could be cheaply mass-produced for the enjoyment of children who would one day follow their parents into rewarding professions as procurers of metal resources. Of course, these scale models were unique to that island, and were rare to be seen in lesser developed areas, or in areas where strip mining was not deemed so crucial a component to the respective community's economic livelihood.

At the entry gate to the mining village stood two identical mannequins: one on each side of the gate. They reminded Bunnu of the statuettes in the puja of Pinky's brother's house, and were carved crudely from wood as though by some primitive tribe. Their faces were unwelcoming, conceivably in the hopes of scaring off demons. Bunnu drew closer, studying the wood, when one of the figures spoke to him, "Halt! What business have you here?"

"I have come to perform an audit on the mining procedures. I have been sent from headquarters..." Bunnu replied, slightly shaken.

The mannequins remained still, but one said to the other, "'Tis but a trick by a wood demon I fear. What does this word _audit_ mean? Is it some sort of fiendish invocation ritual? Surely this dark realm from whither he was sent, _headquarters_ as he calls it, is only a depraved pit of hellfire within which even the densest of woods burn in harrowing fury. I can understand that much from what he says."

"Nay, 'tis unlikely he should be a wood demon. He speaks from the mouth orifice rather than through the epidermis. He has substance, which he wears naturally. I doubt he has the capacity to curse wooden objects. All the same, I fear this creature before us is not of this world."

"I agree with you on the point of his otherworldliness. But I beg to differ with respect to his supernatural abilities. The powers he wields may not be of the dark variety, which is why you have easily and rightly ruled out the prospect of him being a demon. All the same, if I didn't know better, I would assume he was a benevolent wood sprite. And yet, he seems quite unaccustomed to communing with wood. Otherwise, if he had the special powers of a sprite, I might ask him to cure my brethren of the virus which has afflicted them."

"Listen..." Bunnu said impatiently. "I do not have time to listen to this debate. I insist you let me through. I am here on an urgent matter which requires my attention. Surely, you understand that there are matters above your level of authority of which I may be a part."

The mannequins ignored his entreaty. Remarked one to the other: "Surely, you are only fogged by wishful thinking. I understand your sadness about the profound devastation this disease has wrought in our native forest, but do not look for answers where they do not exist, Brother. He cannot help us with such wood-related quandaries."

"Yes, perhaps I am only seeing what I wish to see. Thank you for pointing out the flaw in my logic. I need this now and again, as I am often akin to specious reasoning. Now that I am of clearer musing, another theory is emerging from behind the dwindling wisps of fog. I am told that there are living beings of this Universe who speak a funny garbled language which vaguely resembles our own, but which is spoken through moist orifices. Please do not be offended by this graphic characterization, but I believe the creature before us to be no different.

"Creatures such as these are not inert and lifeless like us, nor are they stationary and silent like the mighty wooden trees from which we were hewn by our Lord Almighty. No, creatures like this one before us move around here and there, this way and that, having meetings and making plans with one another, all the while sharing unwittingly with the other species in their habitat a complex and multi-faceted relationship which functions according to perpetual cycles of production and consumption. By this, I mean that in spite of all the time spent on their planning, strategizing, and moving, they—to no greater or lesser extent than any other species in their ecosystem—produce for the benefit of that ecosystem and consume for the sake of their survival in that ecosystem. They contribute and they reap. It could be said that this species of Moist-mouthed Talker who stands before us is beneficial to his habitat in as far as he is able to produce waste chemicals which can be transformed, through a series of chemical reactions in the soil, into nutrients aiding the growth of plants in that same ecosystem. However, to describe it this way does not properly underscore this creature's sense of opportunism and self-importance, which is a key element in explaining the pushy, arrogant behavior we are witnessing from him right now. You see, he is too busy _being busy_ to take the time to consider that he might be a lesser component in the larger mechanisms of Nature. He would like very much to view himself at the center of the cycles of Nature, rather than to one side of them.

"To put this in simpler terms, we might say that, within his ecosystem, this Moist-mouthed Talker would most likely rather view himself as a consumer than a producer of nutrients. Naturally, he is both, but to stress the former over the latter somehow fills him with a sense that he has established dominance over his environment and is, thus, capable of forging his own destiny in spite of any encumbrances that might be brought on by those other creatures with whom he is forced to coexist. To him, the consumption of food, though pleasurable, only serves one utilitarian purpose: to provide energy for his industry. Of course, what he fails to realize is that his industry is less meaningful to the ecosystem than the waste products he produces by mere dint of his biology.

"Naturally, he does not wish to see his endeavors as so trivial. It is appalling for him to imagine that his waste products should be of greater value than the fruits of his active efforts—efforts which are certainly derived of the energy created through his consumption of food. Surely, it is much more satisfying to his ego to view the inverse as being true. He would like to think that for whatever purpose he has expended his energy, it is for something that could be deemed worthwhile. However, he is just deluding himself by expecting such cosmic equity in return for energy he has simply exchanged with his environment. Certainly he is a consumer in the ecosystem, and certainly the consumption of other species provides his body with energy, but the end purpose of this consumption need not be equated to the fruits of his labors. In fact, his endeavors are the true waste products of food consumption, not the nitrogenous substances his body excretes. Of course, he does not realize this. Neither, in his infinite myopia, does he realize that his endeavors will ultimately be meaningless and forgotten on a long enough time scale. His shit, on the other hand, will have brought countless generations of life to proliferation for eternity. His excrement shall be timeless!

"Perhaps, this reasoning is difficult for you to follow. Admittedly, I am making some severe leaps in logic once again. I shall back up and re-explain the process; this time, with a more thorough example. OK...now let us imagine that this Moist-mouthed Talker before us consumes our brethren plants for the sake of his sustenance. In spite of the energy that is sure to be created for the sake of his survival and endeavor, his body is additionally impelled to create, perhaps out of some magnanimous sense of reciprocity toward its environment, certain _waste byproducts_ which enter into the soil again, and chemically react with other cyclically-derived elements before being assimilated through the roots of latter generations of the very same plant species he had just consumed. This, in fact, turns out to be the Moist-mouthed Talker's greatest and most meaningful contribution to the ecosystem, though he is wholly convinced that his excretion is an unimportant matter to be gotten through, so that he might carry on with more pressing issues of his day. To make matters more complex, if you view this process of consumption and production from the perspective of those latter generations of plants he would surely nourish, the whole process could be understood according to its converse, for these young, arrogant plants are similarly inclined to consider themselves the end consumers in the process, in very much the same way as do those species which eventually come to consume them."

"Peculiar." The second mannequin responded. "So, this moist-mouthed being before us coexists with our brethren plants. You say he consumes them? Then he is their predator, yes? But then he is also the provider of nutrients to the progeny of his prey. Fascinating."

"Indeed it is," agreed the first. "You might also find it interesting, as I do, that both sides of the equation see themselves as consumers, rather than producers. Perhaps what we can take from this is that there exists a certain sense of pride (but also a certain humility) in being a consumer—conceivably a belief that one is entitled to, but also shamefully dependent upon whatever can be harvested from one's surroundings. I have also heard that there is a concept referred to as 'the food chain,' but I believe its existence to be simply a work of propaganda developed by dominance-seeking species, who wish to condition their presumed lessers to accept their hegemony. Few species delight in thinking that they exist for the sole purpose of producing nutrients for others, or that the propagation of their species achieves little more than to satisfy an external requirement created by other species. Certainly nutrient production and consumption is a multi-directional, multi-tiered process and I fail to do it justice by oversimplifying the way its dynamics play out. But let us say for the sake of argument that from the perspective of the plant—and similarly, from the perspective of the 'predator' which consumes the plant—it is entirely too easy to view oneself as the process's sole beneficiary.

"We might call it humble—or contrastingly arrogant: I am not sure which—to pay attention to only half of this process, that of consumption, while neglecting the more critical component of production for one's ecosystem—and, as in the case of the Moist-mouthed Talker, the most crucial component of _defecation,_ but then it is certainly more convenient to view the situation by halves. All the same, the waste byproducts being released by the body of this creature before us are likely of a composition and aroma to which his body is biochemically-inclined to feel repulsed. This is natural, as it could be harmful to find one's own waste appetizing, and thus it would be unthinkable for him to consume excrement on a continual basis save for extreme circumstances, or unless he happens to be a coprophagous bodybuilder, which—judging from his physique—he most likely isn't. The body wishes to release waste and to be done with it, but one organism's waste is another's source of nutrients. In spite of what esteem he may hold of himself in other areas, his true utility to the ecosystem is to provide these nitrogenous byproducts which can be absorbed by the soil. So, for him, consumption is really only the dawn of purpose—it is similarly so for all species. They live only to perpetuate their own kind, and to perpetuate the species which consume either them or their byproducts.

"Why does he fail to realize this for himself?"

"I am not sure. Perhaps the scale of the process is far too broad and its dynamics too confusing for him to comprehend. It is not unreasonable to assume so. All the same, even if this is the case, the Moist-mouthed Talker, instead of acknowledging his inability to grasp the situation, seems more inclined to overcompensate for his lack of knowledge by deluding himself into believing that the energy produced through food consumption will allow for the real achievement of purpose through his own _industry and ambition_. In fact, industry and ambition are only ancillary to the main purpose of the organism—the main purpose being his own reproduction, and his species' ability to provide nutrients for other organisms; and the purpose for all species being the perpetuation of this very cycle."

" _Omoshiroi!"_ exclaimed the second mannequin, "What strange creatures his kind must be! And to think that the wood from which we were fashioned by our Lord Almighty came from similar beings—it is difficult to imagine that our living forest brethren, too, are involved in this strange process. Maybe the purpose of _their_ existence now is to serve as hosts for the illness which has plagued them. But I am still confused by the cycle you explained: you say that excrement must be consumed for the sake of producing food?"

"And _vice versa,_ yes."

"OK, that much I understand. What I still can't understand is: why does the cycle only exist to preserve itself? Is there no other purpose to life than to perpetuate life? And if not, why would life only exist to preserve itself? Is there nothing beyond self-preservation for which life can proclaim significance? Is there any importance to the existence of life?"

"Well...that's the big question, isn't it? Naturally, being the lifeless mannequins that we are, we might have difficulty understanding the true purpose of this self-perpetuating process, and we are certainly helpless to comprehend the overabundance of importance that every species involved in it is likely to place on its own existence. The cosmic significance of life can be discussed by each species for the sake of their own enlightenment, but no groundbreaking approximations can be made that would render this discussion anything more than mere philosophical diversion—make no mistake in my meaning here: philosophy is only a form of diversion, nothing more and nothing less. Truly, a life form would be silly to theorize meaningfully about the cosmic significance of life and its natural processes, without also considering whether every molecule in a chemical reaction should similarly contemplate the cosmic significance of that reaction.

"This might sound like a strange comparison, but certainly we could correlate the complex processes of life to the equally complex processes of chemistry, for they are very much intertwined—which is to say that the existence of life merely fills a chemical requirement of the surrounding physical Universe. To think of it this way renders any and all questions about the significance of life and its processes absurd from the outset. Beyond our fulfillment of this tangible requirement, if we must press ourselves to affix some additional intangible significance to the existence of life and its processes, we can only resort to fanciful speculation and subjective reasoning, for the objective truth would still remain beyond all understanding."

"OK..." replied the second mannequin, "So, really, we could see life as a cyclical process of chemistry, right? Furthermore, we can assume very little separates us lifeless beings from that which has life, apart from the cycles by which we interact with our environment. I think that's a fair enough conclusion. So...is there no essential significance to life beyond this?"

"Surely, we do not chemically interact with our environment in the exact same way as our living forest brethren, but we still do interact. But, your question has to do with whether there is any essential significance to life, beyond its fulfillment of tangible requirements of matter and energy to the physical universe. Essential significance? Well...let us assume, for convenience sake's estimation, that our understanding of the essential significance of Life can be reduced to simple enough terms according to whichever species we wish to ascribe importance at a particular moment. Certainly, this could easily be done if we focus solely on that species and assume all others to be peripheral to its cause. However, if we choose to go by this route, we must bear in mind always that the concept of _ascribing importance_ itself is an illusion of subjectivity, that is to say a fabrication of 'the mind'—the mind, which is, mind you, in and of itself, a fabrication."

"Yes yes...I concur. It is important to be mindful that concepts such as _importance_ and _mind_ have no inherent value in objective reality...and certainly bear no relevance to a Universe teeming with inanimate objects such as ourselves. So...if we choose to focus solely on the Moist-mouthed Talker before us, how would we answer any questions as to the essential significance of Life?"

"As I mentioned earlier, we could view him in terms of his relevance to the Cosmos. The easiest way to do this would be to consider his existence from the economic standpoint—that is, what chemical costs are invested in him, and for what chemical return. Let us assume that the Moist-mouthed Talker is a kind of processing mechanism that exists only to produce nutrients for soil which feed many of the same species of creatures who directly or indirectly assist in the eventual nourishment and propagation of his kind. The chemicals exchanged in this multi-directional transaction also interact with the chemicals of the Outer Cosmos. Those chemicals interact with other chemicals, and so on. The production and consumption vital to his daily life, from this standpoint, is economically important to the Cosmos by virtue of the chemical transactions to which it naturally gives way."

"So, for the Moist-mouthed Talker, defecation is an investment of sorts."

"It is both the capital and the return, most certainly."

"Then this creature is economically relevant to the Cosmos."

"Undoubtedly. But we must also consider efficiency. He might not be able to produce very much for the amount consumed. There are certainly issues of sunk costs involved, for he might not defecate in as great a volume as one would hope."

"Is he lacking in skill?"

"Possibly. To be honest, however, I have no idea how all this works. It could be due to a lack of skill, or even due to an excess of ambition diverting him from the task at hand. "

"You mentioned _ambition_ before. What is ambition?"

"Ambition is a veil behind which dissatisfied organisms conceal disappointment at their own cosmic triviality: a veil allowing them to perpetuate, through self-serving delusion, the belief that there must be something worthwhile for which they have made themselves suffer. Individuals plagued by this nasty affliction often fail to understand their minor role in the grand scheme of things: they wish for it to be something more than it actually is. Ants are a prime example of how an ambitious and laborious creature can only continue existing by overvaluing the importance of their actions."

"And in fact there is nothing worthwhile for which these organisms must strive collectively?"

"No...there is most certainly something. However, it might not be, as I mentioned before, incredibly meaningful to the Cosmos. In some cases, there is an effect felt by the Universe, but rarely is it the one desired by ambitious entities. The endeavors of ants still have profound effects upon the other species with whom they live symbiotically—however these effects occur on such a level as would evade their cognizance. Take the example of the Kusai Ant, native to our forest. They work furiously to create elaborate nests. Their nests are stunning works of architecture, and it is difficult to know what motivates the unique design of each, however let us assume that they accord to certain principles of aesthetics and natural beauty that have some meaning in the ants' culture. The process of building each structure begins when they burrow into the thorns of our brethren trees. It is an incredible team effort, but the ants work tirelessly, until they have established a proper and meaningful structure which can be admired. Then, they congregate solemnly for a festival, feast flavorfully upon the sweet nectar of the petioles, and extract proteins from the leaves. The best among them rub together the files and scrapers of the abdomen to utter sweet chirping sounds. A competition is held to determine the greatest chirper, and the winner is allowed to mate with the queen while the others watch. It is a glorious and sacred and time-honored occasion for them. And all throughout this event, the malodorous scent emitted unwittingly by this gathering of Kusai Ants repels all nearby herbivores, thereby protecting our brethren trees from attack and further predation. As it turns out, only the herbivores most likely to feed on the trees can detect the smell emitted by the ants. The ants don't even know they are giving off this smell: they are just going about their lives, completely unknowing of how vital they are to the survival of the trees. Therefore, they labor for one purpose, while unwittingly serving another. The same could be said for the Moist-mouthed Talker standing before us right now: he likely has ambitions which are superfluous to the roles he serves in the ecosystem. These ambitions may be worthwhile for the sake of his survival, or even for the sake of the meaning he ascribes to his own existence, but in general, he is out of his depth and any hopes of attaining anything at all towards which the Universe would cease to be indifferent are beyond his capacity. In most cases, this does not cause any problems. Small-scale ambitions are harmless in the long run. Small-scale ambitions can even be helpful to a species—but in such cases we would probably use the term _ambition_ loosely. Truly, it is the large-scale ambitions which can wreak the most havoc on the individual level and within a species. It is those large-scale ambitions which can be the greatest diversions for the species from its true relevance to the ecosystem. Sometimes diversions such as these might even result in unfortunate disruptions of the cycles of nature, at least with respect to the so-called food chain: unbridled consumption and stunted or inferior production."

"Is ambition not also a natural trait?"

"It is. Don't get me wrong: ambition is not necessarily a bad thing. Ambitions have their place in the ebb and flow of species reproduction, adaptation, survival, and migration. At the same time, there seems to be an inborn flaw among these creatures that allows them to assume that they can determine the purpose of their existence for themselves. Unfortunately for them, it only gives way to distraction from the crucial process of consumption and excretion."

"So...you say that this one may similarly be plagued by too much needless ambition, which is disrupting his own cycles...as well as the cycles of nature?"

"'Tis merely a conjecture, but looking at his face and demeanor, I cannot help but be concerned about his regularity."

"If he is not contributing much to the ecosystem, is he then a null entity?"

"No, I should think that he still contributes in other ways. See the way air goes into and out of his mouth orifice."

"Intriguing. Yes...surely there is an inward and outward flow of airborne chemicals. Is there a name for such a process?"

"I am not sure."

"There is also a phenomenon among such creatures, I hear, referred to as love. Is this, too, an illusion that disrupts the food chain?"

"That is difficult to determine. Preservation of their kind has been a motivating factor which often even drives their ambitions. One could argue that love is similarly a byproduct of the struggle for species preservation, but it is still a phenomenon far too complex and intrinsic to their character for any insightful deductions to be drawn. Even their most ambitious thinkers have failed in their attempts to understand it, and thus they must take it as an axiom that it is beyond instinct, and far beyond their systems of logic and understanding. Some even become indignant at the very prospect of probing into the purpose of love, others become cynical and reductionist and assume that its very existence is again an illusion within which the proliferation of their kind is inextricably rooted. From this, we can only assume that love is to be seen in the way one wishes to see it, but this may, too, vary according to circumstance and the framework of understandings one has forged through his interactions. Therefore, it is almost impossible to understand its true nature."

"Sounds like an illusion from the way you describe it."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Enough of this comedy!" Bunnu interjected with indignation. "I demand you grant me entry."

A silence fell over the mannequins for a brief moment, but then the debate continued. Said one: "He seems...unfriendly. I think we were wrong about him. This is no mere mouth-talking mortal! Surely this is a demon what stands before us! A most deceptive fiend! Pity: he has such kind eyes. We must discard our prior assumptions about this Moist-mouthed Talker: he is not the naïve and pitiful organism we thought he was. I think he sought to lull us into a false sense of security. I now feel embarrassed for having entertained the notion that he might have been anything else, but a wood demon. We have wasted our time with this pointless debate. He must be enjoying this."

"It is necessary to be prudent. Surely he knows we lack experience in spotting demons and he has used that knowledge to his advantage. This is how demons operate. They must resort to trickery."

"But what is a demon to gain by entering truly?"

"Truly, to gain would be to enter, and then to come away with something new which he has sought. I have never encountered a demon and am not imbued with any natural understanding of what I am guarding from him exactly, though I only know that it is to be guarded and that the demon is to be kept away."

"This thing that is sought by the demon: would it be missed, or is there any motivation to prevent it being gained? That is to say: is it directly related to either of us in any way?"

"I do not know the answer to this. Perhaps not."

"Does this, then, negate the purpose of our existence?"

"Only if included in the purpose is the requirement that we understand its whys and wherefores, which we do not."

"So, it follows that we have a purpose, but it is not required that we understand it. Its fulfillment is of greater priority than our logical deduction regarding the purpose of our purpose."

"I suppose so."

"So, is there any chance that we have been deluded, or that we are deluding ourselves?"

"Yes...but we cannot waste time thinking about such things."

"How am I to perform my duties without once thinking about why they are being performed? How do we know we are not being duped?"

"We must take that on faith."

"What is faith?"

"Never _Mind."_

"Mmm...so what if this demon too has a purpose which conflicts with our own?"

"Surely he does, that is why we must guard against him."

"But if that is the case, each of our distinct purposes emanates from a different source, yes?"

"Not necessarily so, but I would recognize this as a plausible conclusion. Our purpose likely emanates from a source within the confines of this village; his from a source somewhere without. But I may be wrong in assuming so."

"Whose purpose is higher then? It would be daft to assume that whosoever should prevail has done so by weight of his purpose, unless he has been imbued with it by a higher authority. But then we must contend with the nature of authority and whether or not it is relevant in the first place."

"What you say is true. However, our duty is not to questio—huh?"

"Wha-"

"Where did he-"

Bunnu, having slipped through the gates, found himself strolling through the market street, looking at the pallid, solemn faces walking in the other direction. This village seemed oddly different from most mining villages he had visited before. He could no longer hear the drone of the oil-powered bucket-wheel excavators that he had seen moving in and out of the village from afar. Could it be that he had seen a mirage? On a reflective moon, this didn't seem an unreasonable assumption. Maybe there were no excavators. Perhaps, this was not a mining colony at all; or, maybe the village existed and the inhabitants mined, but they didn't know for what purpose they were doing so.

The inhabitants were a simple, yet strange breed of creature. They appeared human, but there was something different about them, though it was difficult to discern what. Perhaps they were a species of Lesser Human. They dressed primitively, and spoke little. Long hair hung in braids from the heads of both men and women, their faces were smooth and hairless, but their features were crude and masculine—in fact, the only determination that could be made regarding gender came from their sexual organs, which were in plain view for all to see. Both men and women wore quivers upon their backs, but these quivers contained no arrows, nor was there a bow with which to shoot anywhere in sight. The only article of clothing anyone wore, aside from these, were the simple scraps of fabric with the RavanAlloy logo embossed upon them. These doily-like fabrics rested upon each shoulder, held in place by twines wrapped about the neck.

_These people are too primitive to use bucket-wheel excavators,_ Bunnu speculated. _Then again, there may be some among them who have received special training to use them. Given the small numbers and the remoteness of this village, I would say they are to some degree a tribal people. There is no need to hunt, but the quivers retain some symbolic value for the sake of their prosperity. Possibly those charged with the duties of operating the heavy machinery are revered as performing a task of high spiritual value to the tribe. Naturally, trade with RavanAlloy would bring some food and medicines their way. I don't see any signs of the famine or pestilence that were prevalent in other areas we strip-mined. Conceivably this community is flourishing from this deal. Still, I wonder if, from the perspective of O., they would simply be viewed as mere mites living in symbiosis with him. It is difficult to understand his motivations. Why would he have himself mined by microorganisms living on his epidermis? Then again, perhaps the decision to do so was made at some other level of the organization and therefore he is unaware that it is even happening. It seems rational that he would fail to notice, as he has now grown to such an enormous size that the effects of the mining upon his epidermis would be miniscule. I wonder if I should tell him. Perhaps later—I would hesitate to disrupt the lives of these creatures so soon after arriving. I wish to explore this town further. There is something simple and pleasant about the creatures here._

Glowing red lanterns hung from strings interrupting the solemn glow of starlight. Children gazed quietly into the hypnotic orbs: they too had a strange stoicism about them. Bunnu knew he was an alien here, but the primitives crowding the streets seemed not the least bit mystified by his presence, at least far less so than the mannequins had been. An old woman with white glowing skin and a painted blue mouth was walking in a crowd moving in the other direction; she had a Neanderthal face with eyes darting frantically at Bunnu. In spite of the roughness of her appearance, her stare was meek and non-confrontational, and her lips curled forward from her protruding jaw as though she wished to say something. She hesitated and twitched and her lips pursed momentarily from the strain of her utter vacillation. Bunnu stepped across into the opposing lane of foot traffic, eliciting sniffs of alarm from those in whose path he tread, and he took her delicate porcelain hand. In spite of her Neanderthal-like features, her quivering fingers were tiny and thin, but stiff and bent slightly as though permanently in the same position. She said nothing, but stopped in her tracks, her eyes blinking curiously as she looked at him. "Take me to back to your coven, Witchy..." Bunnu said with a trace of humor, knowing somehow she could not understand his language anyway. In any case, the statement and its dry humor were lost on the frail Neanderthal-faced woman, who led him by the hand away from the main avenue and down a maze of dark streets.

The sounds of voices in the streets and calls of merchants started to fade, as did any evidence of the market street's existence. Now, they were in an area lit only by the starlight above. Soon, it was almost impossible to see and he felt the pavement of the street end, as he stepped onto fleshy ground again. They were moving away from the town. They were on open ground, leaving all traces of civilization in their path. Looking down, he could see the reflection of the starlight in the silver surface of his brother's skin. "The ground on which we walk is actually the epidermis of my younger brother..." Bunnu remarked conversationally to the woman whom he could scarcely see but for her slight silhouette. Her head seemed to have shrunk: it was no longer enormous and primitive-looking, at least not in silhouette. In fact, everything about her seemed utterly delicate and waifish—even more so now than before; her head was now long and pointy at the top. Her eyes and mouth were small and her overbite was gone. Could this have been the same person? Had the darkness of this side of the moon caused her form to lose its rigor? Perhaps, the bone structure of these beings was kept firm by the light of the nearest sun. Or, maybe they were photosynthetic? No, that seemed a ridiculous assumption: either what he had seen before, or what he was seeing now was a trick of light—perhaps both. And most likely, there was a certain element of his imagination which could account for the way he saw her. Whatever the cause, she seemed different now. She resembled a porcelain doll. She seemed so easy to shatter.

Everything about her was now slight, right down to the squeeze of her fingers upon his palm. He had never met anyone with such a subtle presence in his life. Was there a certain poetry to this minimalism of existence? Was it truly better to be as lacking in firm substance and to be as faint as a feather in wind? They walked and the stars above and below mirrored each other perfectly as though he were walking in the elegant void of space. Soon, a new sun dawned on the frontier, and the light split into two. It reached his eyes for a moment, but then he saw it sink back over the horizon, as though _O._ were mindfully rotating them away from it. The landscape grew dark again.

There were torches on either side of the entrance way to a wooden hut somewhere in the distance of these shadow flatlands. Those solitary lights hovered in the silent landscape with nothing surrounding it, the floating beacons beckoning imperiously, and yet challenging the approaching party to balk even slightly at their approach, vowing, in the hopes that they would, to seek nothing less in reparation for the ignominy of such vacillation than the utter annihilation of their very souls: it beckoned and they approached.

His eyes fixed on these torches, Bunnu asked the woman, "Are we outside the village limits now?" He knew without her having to say so that they were. They were somewhere on the dark side of this moon, in a portion that had not yet hardened. " _O.,_ if you can hear me: this situation may not bode well for me. I trust you can open up the ground and swallow disagreeable entities whole if circumstances call for it. I'll keep you apprised of my whereabouts and situation. This is one of those moments in which I must remind you of the importance of family. Yes...yes...I'm sorry, I haven't been so good about keeping in touch. I promise you I'll write you as soon as this whole matter is settled. Surely, we've lots to catch up on...."

They reached the shack. It was supported by stilts and, upon looking at it closely for the first time, Bunnu couldn't help but be reminded of the shanties he had seen in the Under City.

She led him up the steps. The light of the torches seemed of a piercing luminosity almost unbearable—of a similar intensity, perhaps, to the blinding light upon that wick in his bedroom when he woke up from his entheogenic strawberry trip. Into the crude entrance they went and Bunnu was astounded to find himself in an elegant room of bright pink. There were hundreds of pink candles all around the room on expensive looking silver candlesticks. Even though the outside of this hut had been of wood, the floors were of stunning pink marble. In one corner of the room was a pink armchair with lacy frills on the tops and at the ends of each arm rest. In the seat were velvet cushions. In the adjacent corner was an enormous bed fit for the likes of royalty. The bedspread and frame were of the same pink frills as the armchair and atop it were pink rose petals and the same velvet cushions as had adorned the chair. In the third corner was a shrine around which the most candles were oriented. The shrine was a wooden cabinet with golden doors which opened up to reveal a statue of the _Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade_ (the G.C.I.T.). Surrounding the base of the statue were more rose petals, along with an assortment of perfume bottles, and prophylactic devices. In the fourth corner, in an old rocking chair, sat the actual _Goddess of Commerce, Industry, and Trade_ (the G.C.I.T.): she farted noisily and cackled at the sight of Bunnu. Bunnu had seen her before, for she was a recurring character in nightmares, who ridiculed him endlessly for his lack of ambition. He realized instantly upon seeing her that this was simply a dream and nothing more. He sighed happily at this realization, but at the same time was filled with a strange terror, for he couldn't seem to wake up, however hard he tried.

"Come up short again, have we?" She cackled contemptuously.

He began to sense beyond his own perceptions in the dream, a physical body which was lying on a bed in his room back at the inn—a physical body so very far away from his senses now. And it seemed that no matter how much his conscious will attempted to establish contact with the mechanisms of this body, no progress could be made.

"It is useless to escape from this reality, young man, though surely escape is the only thing you do well. If only it were a marketable skill," the old woman heehawed. "As I say, you cannot escape—for this is the true reality, or at least it is as relevant as your waking existence for the moment. You can try all you like to rouse the motionless, lazy vessel in that distant Universe, but I tell you now that you are too far out in the outer reaches right now...so far out that the signals you are sending back will never reach your body, no matter what their speed and intensity may be. In fact, the signals will diminish in intensity over their long journey and your body will not be sensitive enough to recognize them even if they do arrive swiftly enough, which they surely won't. Therefore, your body may never waken, and you may never make it back."

"I always make it back," Bunnu retorted defiantly. In the back of his mind, he knew that in times such as these, it was sometimes difficult to wake up at all. Sometimes he dove so deep into his dream state that the waking state could very easily be left behind permanently. Sometimes, when this happened, his senses would become slowly and dully aware that he was lying prone in a bed, but still his muscles would not be receptive to his signals, and thus he would be paralyzed. The paralysis sometimes seemed to last for several hours, but in fact, he would realize upon getting out of bed that these hours had been mere seconds. He had seen a doctor about this, but the doctor told him that there was no such thing as sleep paralysis—that he was merely dreaming that he was lying in his bed paralyzed and nothing more. The doctor urged him to immediately take control and assert power over his own imagination before it got the better of him. Little did the doctor know that Bunnu's imagination was well beyond his own mechanisms for control. "You are just a figment of my imagination!" he now said to the G.C.I.T.

"Just because these images and events take place in your own mind, who says they belong to you? How do you know they aren't being transmitted to you from somewhere external? You don't know. In fact, you don't even know if this dream is originating from inside of your mind. I could very well be planting it in your mind from elsewhere. I could be causing you to dream what I wish you to dream."

"I'm not interested in hearing what you have to say."

The woman holding Bunnu's hand now started motioning for him to join her on the bed. "Go on! Don't mind me!" the G.C.I.T. said. "You are lazy, but you aren't impotent. Well, not yet anyway. I'm sure even someone as dull and sluggish as you can make a proper go of—OH...I forgot! We need our stenographer!" She clapped her hands twice and the door opened behind Bunnu and woman. It was a man with a long white beard wearing a tuxedo and a top hat. He looked like one of _O.'s_ business associates. In his hands, he held a notebook and a pencil. She began barking commands at him: "Make yourself comfortable in that armchair. Make sure you have a proper view of the bed. If you need to render their sexual positions from different angles, feel free to stand up and watch from different perspectives. Anyway, I'll leave that to you. You know what to do." She turned to Bunnu again, "We don't have time for your dawdling! Get to it! I will not suffer a waste of resources on my watch. If you must deny yourself ambition, at least make yourself useful to the ecosystem by getting busy with the ladies. NOW...get on that bed and explore your carnal fascinations to their fullest! Treat her like the object she so deserves to be treated."

Bunnu looked at the woman, who looked back at him meekly. He started to feel sorry for her, because she probably didn't have much choice in the matter. A strange pang of guilt surged through him, though he had done nothing yet: this possibly had more to do with how he had treated Pinky when she was still a prostitute.

The woman's lips quivered and she stroked his wrist imploringly as though asking him to comply. He felt embarrassed for the position he had put her in and almost felt it would have been humiliating now for him to reject her in front of others. He went with her to the bed and they disrobed quickly.

Behind him he heard cackling, but he ignored it and allowed his passions to take control. Soon his eyes were closed and he was moving. He could feel her flesh on his and their bodies moved in concert: her either following his lead, or him following hers. Moving from position to position, he entered her repeatedly, but neither of them ever quite reached climax. Soon, in spite of being consumed by the moment, he began to sense there were other people in the room. New people. They were muttering to one another. Some were laughing. Others were expressing concern. Some were expressing admiration or approval. A few scattered souls voiced strong disapproval and began heckling them. But, he was not interested in them. He kept going, they kept moving together, gratifying each other and themselves. Soon, the moment of climax was approaching. Her wails were becoming louder and so were his grunts. He became rough suddenly and held her neck down against the pillow, choking her. She dug her nails into his shoulders and drew blood. And then there was a sweltering heat burning every molecule in his body.

He opened his eyes: the whole room was on fire. Flames consumed the pink curtains, the pink chair, the rocking chair, the shrine, and now they were spreading to the bed. Everyone else was gone except him and Pinky.

Pinky?

He looked down. Now, it was Pinky whose body was under him. She had stopped moving. He removed his hand from her throat and attempted to move from the bed, but his legs wouldn't move. The flames became violent and parts of the roof started crashing to the marble floors.

The smoke consumed him and he faded to darkness.

He opened his eyes again to find himself drifting in seawater. His hair was wet, and so was the rest of his body. It had been that way for some time now. He could no longer remember what had transpired moments before, or why he had closed his eyes. He could only imagine now that he had closed them to shield them from the intensity of the sun. He closed them again briefly, and could see through his eyelids a faint pink color. The pink reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite capture it. Perhaps it was a play he saw once.

Yes, it must have been a play at the Xami Theater. The one with Pinky in the starring role. There was her and the lead guy, who oddly resembled Bucky—maybe it was "Bucky," or did he allow his name to be listed in the credits as "Bhakti?" Couldn't quite remember. Anyway, their characters had run off together to the moon, and were staying in the honeymoon suite of a Guni Corporation resort hotel in a lunar colony shaped like a spider's web. They were having rough sex in an obscenely pink room while a spider stood perched in the corner watching them. Something happened and Bucky's character became enraged, strangled Pinky's character to death, and set the pink room ablaze. The housemaid, played by Aunty Durga, then came into the room and began cackling hysterically and farting with excessive appreciation. Her squeals of flatulence were patterned in such a way that they became a coded transmission which somehow invoked the spirit of Rat Man Miyazaki. Soon, the meddlesome rodent came bursting through the doorway and into the room, giggling joyously and bowing to the standing ovation from the audience. Bunnu now remembered he had been in the audience and he had been standing and clapping too. What an impressive play it had been! It would be nice to see again, so he could remember its details better. He would have to make sure to compliment the cast on their fine performance. Had that been Bucky/Bhakti in the role of the male lead? He would have to ask him about that later.

Anyway, the details were fuzzy now. But enough about that, this sea air was bracing. Now that his eyes were open again, his vision became more clear and he could see the sun peeking from between clouds in the sky. Suddenly, a shadow appeared above him. Overhead, a rocky cliff protruded out from the land and over the water. Something about it reminded him instantly of that Bussaba Lek painting he had seen with Bhakti in the all-night salad bar.

A gust of wind blew and the waves started to become rough. Rain started falling from the sky. He treaded water and looked around to see black rocks like fangs against which water frothed. He swam for shore. As he reached solid ground, he looked up again at the cliff to see two silhouettes, one with blonde hair. He remembered that when he had first met Pinky, her hair, though naturally black, had been dyed blonde, so he began to climb the rocks to reach her. He looked again at the sea, but now it was a field of shiny black grasses. The reflection of the sun upon the lustrous surface of each grass blade was more blinding than any light he had ever seen, including the sun itself.

He continued climbing, as the sun grew cold and froze into a ball of ice in the sky. It began to snow. The last rock was especially hard to climb and the two figures momentarily passed out of his line of sight. When he finally reached the top, there was now only one figure. It was lying bloody on the rocks. The blonde-haired woman was gone. Before he saw the face, he already knew who it was. It was Bhakti and blood was spurting out of his mouth. He was struggling to breathe. Now a knife was in Bunnu's hands. Without questioning the impulse to do so, he began to carve into the chest of his friend repeatedly, vivisecting him, reaching in and pulling out organs. He was not in the least plagued by a sense of conscience, but only questioned himself in such a way as would ensure a greater precision of cuts. He now had a duty to perform, and it was less important to consider the purpose of the duty, or whether it was right or wrong to do so, but more important to make sure that it was done in a proper way and employing the most effective technique.

Bunnu sliced and carved and incised and eviscerated, amidst the horrified and woeful sounds coming from the bloody mouth of his friend. "Why did you leave?" Bunnu demanded angrily, "Why did you change your name, you bloody idiot! Are you Bucky or Bhakti? Are you Bhakti or Bunnu? Are you Bunnu or...?" He trailed off as he heard the sounds of melodious giggling reverberating over the rocks. He looked to the sea of black grasses and the woman with blonde hair stood there amidst the gusts of wind with her hands at her sides, her silky white dress fluttering in the wind. Her hair was over her eyes, but they parted enough to reveal her lips, which half-smiled. Bunnu paused and dropped the knife in horror as he could make out, even from this distance, a solitary tear streaming down her cheek and dripping off her chin. Sepia—which only meant that her brother might have been somewhere close by, might have been the one doing all the giggling.

The gusts grew wild and a bright light flashed before Bunnu and he was suddenly again in his bed at the inn, sweating and awake. It was mid-morning and he had overslept. He could still hear the giggling of the Rat Man echoing in his mind. He immediately grabbed the nearest pen and paper and began taking furious notes about the dream he had just had.

There was something intriguing about it to him. And for some reason, he found himself filled with the necessity to tell Bhakti all about it. He didn't want to go back to the Under City though. He hoped Bhakti would come back for a visit sometime soon. He would probably get a chuckle out of hearing about his own evisceration.

Or, at least so Bunnu could only assume.

### * * *

Bhakti did eventually return to life in the Surface City, but it only served to do him more harm than good, and may very well have contributed to his untimely demise. For reasons Bunnu was never able to determine, Bhakti soon put an end to all affiliation he'd had with his cohorts in the Under City. He never grew his beard back, nor did he take up the accordion again, but he was back to the Surface City for good. He still introduced himself around as Bucky, but those who'd known him for any reasonable stretch of time seemed to defy—possibly intentionally, but more likely out of the sheer laziness of habit—any entreaties insinuated upon them to acknowledge this newer, redefined persona, by continuing instead to refer to him by his original given name as though nothing at all had changed with respect to him (which, as far as they were willing to see, was the case). Bucky, however, could not begrudge them in the least for their inability to cooperate, as their perceptions of him were likely so awash with the plenitude of experiences in watching him as he had been before that it was impossible to supplant the imagistic watermark which had stained the walls of their minds with that derived of a newer fluid from whose altered substance and consistency he found himself now in flow.

As for those he'd left behind in the Under City, there were no reprisals, no embarrassing episodes, no known repercussions for him: people there were tossed aside all the time, and were therefore used to it. The T.P.'s had probably known from the start that their affiliation with Bucky would end eventually. He was too entrenched—willing or not— into the old establishment of the Surface City for this not to happen. And as sad as it may seem, it was clear that they would never see each other again, except possibly by chance, in which case a nod of acknowledgment from afar generally sufficed, but was never quite necessary.

However, upon reclaiming his lifestyle on the surface, Bhakti soon found himself too time-worn and hollowed by the onslaught of experiences to reintegrate skillfully into the workings of the town; furthermore, any attempts on his part to revive that ancient husk of a former self from its long hibernation of neglect were met by his own glaring and resounding inadequacies, for he was no longer of fit enough humor to recoup that timeless, untainted bounty lost, although he'd only been away for a trifling period—trifling enough that the extinguishment of a fire of such immeasurable importance became to him all the more disheartening. Too much had changed in those 35 months in Yami. Certainly, Bhakti had been in and out of the Surface City often enough (he still officially resided in his own flat, though he had spent most nights out with 'his hooligan friends,' as Durga called them) to see the economic and social transformations taking place. He had noticed the greater diversity and burgeoning social problems which typified most growing cities, and he took them in stride, but it wasn't until he was truly back in the Surface City full-time that the degree to which Yami had changed began to strike him. The shock of this could possibly account for the brief depression into which he fell soon after returning, for he could no longer recognize the village of his birth. After a few months, however, he began to socialize again, though it could be said that it wasn't so much Bhakti doing the socializing as it was _Bucky._

It seemed that _this_ extroverted character was the one solitary thing that he had brought back from the Under City which he seemed unwilling to cast aside. Conceivably he felt _Bucky_ was better equipped to handle the new urban environment with which he was suddenly confronted. The _Bucky_ identity could have been a defense mechanism: an aspect of Bhakti which had allowed him to attain a certain level of likeability in the Under City, and one who would remain as his savior in all matters of social protocol. Unfortunately for Bhakti, however, the value brought to each interaction by this self-styled savior of sociability was questionable, as that frantic freak charge emitted into the atmosphere all about him only seemed to repel his Surface City acquaintances further from him and with much greater swiftness than would otherwise have been the case if Bhakti had remained that polite, non-threatening, introverted weirdo to whom they were all accustomed. Naturally, the contradiction here was formidable, but, all the same, was not without rational merit: conceivably, _Bucky's_ affable peculiarity may not have been so off-putting to others, if he hadn't, along with it, completely abandoned the rigors of Yamian politeness, and adopted, in their place, a blunter, more outspoken manner of expressing himself.

Of course, from his own perspective, this new aggression was just a manifestation of male maturity. This was not to say that it was necessary for him to be macho, but his masculinity demanded that he _take charge,_ instead of shying away from being assertive as he had in the past. This had been a hard lesson to learn for Bhakti. When he had first started frequenting certain hangouts in the Under City, his advances on women were laughed off, as he was looked upon by them as a mollycoddle. He had never thought of himself this way, but then remembered how often Aunty Durga had referred to his sensitivity and his delicate mannerisms. Embarrassed by the way he thought others viewed him, he sought to make changes to his image. He had never cared so much before about this, but there was something in the way those women had laughed at him, something that made him feel inferior to the roughnecks who had better success than he at getting their attention. So, he had made changes to himself: he took the initiative as often as he could, he talked tough when the situation warranted it, and he employed his wits for the purposes of exposing, in their midst, milksops even more pathetic than he. He soon became a natural at it, and it became part and parcel of the Bucky character that he had fashioned for himself. He was proud of his new masculinity, that new confidence of his, and he could sense a difference in the way women looked at him when he walked in the streets. Of course, one could scarcely continue to view him as a non-threatening, passive entity, for certainly, this, too, had changed.

Unfortunately for Bhakti, from the perspective of the average surface-dwelling Yamian who had _not_ witnessed the gradualness of his transformation, it seemed that he had, in his brief absence, begun to manifest externally, through his many seeming attempts at overcompensation, those long deep-seated insecurities which had been fermenting in silent discontentment inside him for decades. They resented him for showcasing his inadequacies the way he did, despised the way he strutted around arrogantly (although he did so with better posture than he had previously); they were similarly offended by the new loudness in his voice, and the cocksureness of its tone. He became the subject of their contempt for his lack of self-restraint, his utter dearth of solemnity, and his brash mannerisms. When he wasn't laughing vulgarly at his own crude jokes, he was otherwise airing out his awful prejudices to anyone in earshot, or leaning back from the group he was conversing with to smack passing women on their fannies with a mighty guffaw of licentious bravado. To the long-standing residents of Yami, he had become somewhat of an ogre: a puerile fiend and an embarrassment to the town.

On the other hand, the tourists still seemed to find him somewhat entertaining, but in a different way than they had when he was in his meeker, more innocent incarnation as the bearded accordionist. He was now the jabbering, attention-seeking braggart, who would aggressively seek out listeners whom he could regale with self-aggrandizing tales, garnished immoderately with no shortage of exaggerations and lewd declarations regarding his prowess at performing certain sexual feats, the details of which the listeners-in-question probably wouldn't otherwise care to hear, if the verve of his storytelling hadn't enlivened them with a certain grandeur. His eyes would grow wide and piercing as he perorated about one perversion or another, the corners of his mouth turning up in that delight of mastery over his listeners. He seemed to get a thrill out of creating a mystique for himself. And entwined with the ardor with which he told these stories, there came a seeming conviction of tone, as though he had told the stories often enough that he no longer had any choice but to subscribe to his own ridiculous exaggerations. He would accost people in pubs, in the marketplace, in parks, or in casinos, cornering them to tell some absurd, often ribald story, absolutely unrelated to the moment at hand, giving way to accommodating nods and polite titters from the objects of his predation. Then, satisfied that he had sufficiently implanted his character lastingly into their memories, he would turn his attentions on another group of unsuspecting strangers and march forcefully in their direction, leaving his most recent prey to look blankly at each other, exchange knowing snickers, and then lapse into a conversation about the interesting characters one gets to meet while one is on holiday. Surely, by the end of this process, he would have succeeded in emblazoning an indelible place for himself in their minds and imaginations. Of course, it wasn't so much _him_ they were remembering as the image that he had so deftly molded for them.

By contrast, his conversations with his fellow residents of Yami took a less satisfying trajectory than it did with the tourists, and often did more to win the disfavor of these polite citizens than it did their admiration. It seemed that, in his time away from the Surface City, Bhakti had lost some of his sensitivity to the subtle Yamian social cues, causing him to blunder aimlessly through the minefields of group discourse; his inadvertent, however well-meaning, paroxysms thereupon serving only to exacerbate further the damage he'd inflicted upon others with each tactless detonation. To wit, this new ersatz Bhakti often proved to be unbearably vociferous, opinionated, and contrarian in social situations, causing some to go out of their way to avoid running into him. At parties, especially when he was drinking heavily, as he had taken to doing upon resurfacing from his hiatus, Bhakti had become an absolute terror to the finer sensibilities of some, for unable to resist the urge to spout off about one thing or another, he would corner some poor unsuspecting sap who didn't see him approaching from behind, would lean in really close—thereby invading his victim's space cushion—and would unleash with his toxic, brandy-infused breath the full weight of his musings, opinions, and strange speculations, eliciting polite grimaces and uncomfortable nods of affirmation from his tense captives who helplessly repeated these thoughtless and mechanical gestures of empathy until the boozy blowhard finally found himself stuck in mid-sentence, attempting to remember where he had been going in the first place with this tirade he had just unleashed upon them.

Naturally, in spite of their attempts at politeness, the residents of Yami, especially those who knew him well, were never too enlightened a people to resort to gossip. Certainly, it was frowned upon by the elders, especially those of nobler clans, who viewed any scandalous chit-chat about acquaintances as a vulgar and unsavory practice, but there were always ways around any established codes of common decency. Implications could be made or seemingly benign statements with incisive undercurrents. As long as the proper protocol was being observed, it mattered not what one meant, but only what one said. One could easily be talking about something as innocuous as the weather, but the timing and the way these words were spoken could be taken by those with the proper contextual understanding to indicate that something more malicious was to be inferred. There were always ways around common decency, and discovering them often required the enterprise of the most enlightened of individuals—those individuals equipped with and able to manipulate most skillfully that hollow language of pleasantries which was so essential in navigating any and all social intercourse with effortless aplomb.

In the case of Bhakti, in spite of all this gossip under the surface, to his face, people were as gentile as they ever were, their features agreeable, eyes smiling and naïve, which over time, might have contributed to his inability to realize that he was behaving strangely in the first place. Unhindered by social limitation, he descended further and further into the depths of strangeness. To call it strange could, however, be a tad unfair. Bhakti, for all his bluntness, was simply being brutally honest with people. He was saying whatever came to mind, without pausing to consider first whether or not it would be well-received. One could say that there was a certain purity to his doing so, that he was being true to himself, but one could just as easily say that a domestic dog was merely being true to his feelings by humping the leg of his master's guest. He, just like the dog, was acting on impulse, and thus saw no pressing need for deception, but this would not render him any more deserving of one's admiration than would the actions of this mischievous mutt, who was sure, in any case, to get a swift kick in the backside from its owner until it ceased to bother the guest. Bhakti, however, was not fortunate enough to have someone to kick him in the backside when he needed it.

In truth, it was difficult to know whether or not he was being genuine to himself in the first place, for another contributing factor to the oddness of his behavior was his daily consumption of entheogenic strawberries, which fostered in him the wildest of delusions and a worsening psychosis from which he would never recover. He began to blather interminably of this woman for whom he had formed a special attachment; of course, he had only met her in dreams, but as their affections grew deeper, it became more and more necessary to induce the dream state. And now, he could see her everywhere. One day he told guests at a party at the inn that he had seen her face trapped in the pupils of a stray puppy; she had been begging for release from her prison, so he cut the cur's throat until her tiny body flowed out from the neck cavity along with its blood, the white of her gown not the least bit befouled by red; her physical form dissolved the moment it made contact with outside air; and in his ears he heard a hum of appreciation which seemed to indicate that he had done a great thing for her. Actually this didn't really happen, but he had dreamt it. However, upon hearing this, one of the guests at the party, emotions constrained by his own civility, nodded affably and said affirmingly, "Right you were to do so, young man. Never forsake a lovely young lady in distress!" Of course, when asked later about it, after Bhakti had left the room, the guest burst out laughing and exclaimed, "I don't know how I managed to keep my composure. The young chap is certifiable! All I could do was to stand there smiling and nodding helplessly. How does one respond to something like that?" This true opinion, however, never got back to Bhakti, and so he never had a chance to self-reflect, nor to question himself. In affecting politeness, people were inadvertently catering to his delusions, causing him to spiral further and further away. They laughed whenever he was out of the room (for it was still considered polite to do so in certain circles, so long as they were unanimous in their mockery of the object at which they were laughing), they spoke with suppressed smiles about the plight of poor mon seigneur-Q and Aunty Durga, who really ought to send the ailing lad to a sanitarium for his own good. They spoke of Bhakti's father, who had at one time, tried to stand in the way of further development of the town because of his own selfish pride. "It's all so very sad," the more sensitive among them would cry, "Dear Bhakti has become such a tragic figure." Others, of lesser sensitivity, would scoff at the notion of this being his destiny. One such individual could be found saying: "It's not as though he had no options! Things didn't have to turn out the way they did for him. Why! Look at the opportunities all around us! If he had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps and put forth a little bit of good, honest hard work, if he had taken a little bit of initiative for himself, surely he could have made something of himself. He has had plenty of chances in life and he has squandered them all! I have no patience for these people who lack motivation, who lack industry, who contribute nothing in the name of progress, but who nevertheless expect our endless pity at the end of the day!"

On occasion, Bunnu was privy to these conversations, but would often bite his tongue for the sake of keeping the peace. He was worried about Bhakti, but wasn't sure it was proper to interfere. There was something about his sense of assurance that inspired a certain admiration in Bunnu. He admired the fact that Bhakti insisted on maintaining his freakish tendencies, in spite of the mockery of others. He liked that Bhakti had become so naturally inclined to defy social expectations, and that he had shed away that shyness which had once isolated him from others. Bhakti had never seemed so alive as he did now. It was difficult to say whether or not he was happier, for certainly there were more pronounced highs and lows with him, and his behavior had become erratic enough that each followed the other in closer succession. Nonetheless, it seemed that he had come out of his shell and joined the world around him. Bunnu missed the shy artist his friend had been, but, at the same time, admired this newer aspect of him, albeit for different reasons.

One night during a party at the inn, Bunnu finally had occasion to tell Bhakti about both Pinky Satyajit and the strange dream that he'd had after she had left. Bhakti seemed only mildly interested in details about Pinky, except for the fact that she had been blonde on Bunnu's first meeting with her (for some reason this piqued his curiosity greatly). When Bunnu started describing his dream however, Bhakti's face grew intent and he kept interrupting him excitedly with ideas as to what certain elements in the dream could have meant without having heard sufficient enough details that such approximations could manage to be relevant or insightful. "The Neanderthal woman is probably representative of the moral degradation you underwent in giving in to your urges, no?" Bhakti would say for example, prompting a frustrated sigh from Bunnu. "I'm not finished yet. That's an interesting thought, but let me tell you the rest before you jump to any conclusions." Bhakti would nod his head impatiently and say, "Sure sure. Get on with it then," but then he would interrupt again about two minutes later with another one of his precious revelations. By the end of the conversation, the interruptions had steered the monologue into so many directions that Bunnu almost found himself questioning the validity of the account he had given. In any case, Bhakti was especially affected by the last part in which his character had been the subject of a vivisection. This silenced him for some reason, and he seemed either unable or unwilling to offer any further speculations as to its meaning. Slightly disappointed by this, Bunnu prodded him, "So, now that you've heard it all, what do you think?"

"Hmmm...?" Bhakti perked up. He seemed lost in thought.

"I want to know what you think all this could have meant, now that you've heard it all."

"Mmm...hard to say," Bhakti said with a hint of hesitation. He suddenly seemed again like his former, pensive self. "W-well...it was certainly interesting, to say the least."

"Yes," Bunnu said slowly, watching the lines grow deep in Bhakti's forehead. "Interesting."

### * * *

Then came that day, about three months later, when Bhakti visited Bunnu at the inn while he was washing dishes in the kitchen. "Wormy ol' Innwoman back there—wormy, I say, cuz I reckon her gut parasites have inched up her spine and bored a hole back to front, straight into her cerebrum—ol' Wormy opened the door for me," he rattled off erratically, "She is possibly the least emotive being I have ever encountered. Dutiful sack of skin she is though. I wonder how many stray thoughts occupy that simple worm-clustered cranium of hers before the end of the day. Stray thoughts not relevant to the task at hand, I mean—what'd you say? Five? Seven maybe? How many would occupy it if one stripped her of her routines and of her training to live in civilized society? Perhaps, there would be no greater or no fewer cogitations...although it is difficult to say for certain; in any case, we can likely assume that the duration of each thought would be shorter: in fact, the whole process of thinking would become more fragmented—more short-term, reactionary and concrete than forward-thinking and abstract, as her drives grew increasingly primal. I should like to see her in such a circumstance. I should like to take a knife, though any cutting implement would do—I should like to take one and excise those portions of her brain which have allowed her to absorb the mannerisms and culture all around her, to belch out sophistication from her viscera as mechanically as any other member of her clan, to remark delightfully and in a timely way on the tastiness of desserts which she would be certain to eat most daintily and with the appropriate utensils, to shiver dreadfully at the shrillness of any who dared speak an emboldened word in the presence of ears trained and attuned to humors far less bilious, to follow the procedural subroutines of her day deprived of all but the mildest of joys, hesitations, or agonies. I should like to extract those bits and see if that induces more profound emotion, if it brings forth a rise of feeling from her, for in the confusion of primal panic, she would most certainly paddle helplessly as would any lung-breathing mammal lost at sea, who has been deprived of its own ability to swim, in the direction of the nearest drifting bit of wood debris swept in by the riptide. She would search for that drifting deadwood and grab at it with both arms fearfully and mechanically, holding the floating trunk to her bosom with the misapplied dependence of ardent faith, aggressively defending it as though it were an extension of her, kicking at pursuing sharks who wished not so much to eat her, as to gnash their teeth against the wood and use it as a toothpick to purge themselves of the taste of that morning's repast (of course, by doing so, the sharks would weaken the structural integrity of this makeshift vessel to which she clung, thus provoking her to kick them away out of sheer survivalism). Upon fending off the sharks with moderate success, she would gain consolation, possibly pleasure from the security of this floating trunk, for it would have allowed her to prevail successfully over the physical dangers of her environment, and would keep her ever hopeful of the bounty that awaited her on some distant shore over the horizon, but then when she'd finally reach dry land, she would forget about the trunk completely. She would think upon her time together with it fondly, but she would leave it discarded upon the beach to be swept out to sea again on its own. And surely the happiness and the uncertainty and the pleasure and the fear and the gratitude she would have experienced would be more pronounced than ever could she have imagined, even though she would be relegated in many ways now to being a creature with the incapacity to reabsorb the traits and culture of sophistication. She would be more alive than she ever was, but she would no longer mix well in the company of her more subdued counterparts. In a manner of speaking, she would be... _free."_

Bhakti sighed longingly, as he paused for a moment to reflect on the grandeur of this possibility. A soapy dish, meanwhile, fell out of Bunnu's hand and to the floor, shattering into ceramic fragments of various shapes and sizes. Bunnu briefly wondered if the plate could be mended with an adhesive, but then looked down to realize that there were seemingly thousands of tiny, barely noticeable fragments scattered about the floor which had come loose from the whole, making it virtually impossible to piece the plate back together into that original arrangement whose form embodied its initial essence. Obviously, leaving any of those pieces out or arranging them in a different fashion would give way to a different permutation of what had once constituted the _initial plate._ This sort of rearrangement might not have been discernible to any future persons making use of the plate, or even mildly perceptible to any future food morsels for which the plate would have been refashioned, but may still, nonetheless, have been incredibly uncomfortable and traumatic for the plate itself, especially if certain parts vital to its initial essence had been left out from its newer form. Bunnu had a choice: either to mend the plate with certain shards missing or out of their proper positions; or to leave the shattered plate unmended, thereby granting those newly liberated ceramic particles their freedom from the molds which had once oppressed them and which had invariably limited their potential—in this latter case, however, it would have been difficult to determine whether these newly liberated entities would value their independence, or crave again their safer and less exceptional place in union with the larger homogeneous super-entity. Whatever the case, the plate, as a whole, would never be what it once was, would never recapture its initial essence. The damage had been done, and was, for lack of a better term, _irreparable_.

Bhakti took little notice of the plate. He continued: "In any case, enough about Ol' Wormy. I come with a purpose. An offer really, but more specifically a choice: a Rablefee scuppernong or a cocker spaniel for a moment of your time. Ye can go with either the former or the latter, whichever suits yer fancy—although I'd say the cocker spaniel might be a poor choice, as she's not housetrained anymore: she had been housebroken at one time, but was recently _debrokenized_ and _deprogrammed_ by anti-animal-training Bussaban extremists. No doubt, you've heard of that new separatist faction out there in the Outlands who kneel like big-kneed mastodons at the altar of the illustrious, however gratuitously iconic, Bussaba Lek; those devout masochists trudge barefoot over endless dunes of scrap metal and silicon, attempting to carry camels on their own backs as a means of spiritual penance for centuries of animal enslavement: you understand what sort of people I'm talking about, yes? Well, a few from their congregation drifted like useless bark to the riverbanks at the edge of town the other day, bearing in tow a floating cage filled with a motley litter of dogs they'd recently liberated. I took a few off their hands after pledging that I would set them free in the Wood of Helsingør so that they might flourish out there on their reacquired natural instinct. To be honest, though, I was just saying whatever would appease them in order to take the dogs off their hands. Seriously, I don't think those mutts'd stand much of a chance going feral in Helsingør: the indigenous and migrant fauna have grown aggressively competitive now that food sources have grown scarce, and even more so, since many species have been displaced from their natural habitats by the urban sprawl of our thriving metropolis. The externality of human hegemony over his natural habitat seems to have applied evolutionary adaptive pressure to these lesser capable species, rendering them, by weight of the myriad challenges to be surmounted—the worsening economy of food resources being but one—hardier and all the more cunning in their resolve to survive. They have, thus, over the course of generations, grown more resilient to the conditions and hazards of their environment than their trained counterparts, all the more ruthless in their scavenging and hunting. I'd give these poor deprogrammed bitches a week to ten days before they starve to death or are otherwise killed by a predator, or sexual competitor. Anyway, I had no intention of releasing them in the wild. What sort of idiot would do what those nutjobs asked? Instead, I thought I could take the dumb beasts for my own and trade them for something useful. Surely they'd have some value to others. I've already traded one off to buy myself a bunch of Rablefee scuppernongs from a traveling merchant at the docks—Ol' Mohinder! You know him...but don't tell anyone he's in town. He's got a bird with child at this port he's been attempting to avoid. If anyone rats him out, you might just find me disemboweled like in that dream you told me about. Except Ol' Mohinder would probably take matters a hair further and play skip rope with me entrails. Anyway, as I mentioned, I'd be willing to trade either the scuppernongs or a feral dog for a moment of your time...though, by forfeiting succinctness in the declaration of this proposal, it is likely that a few moments have already been extended to me as credit from your side. I appreciate this courtesy and flexibility on your part, and should certainly be happy to defray the outstanding sum owed, plus double the standard interest rate required when a line of credit is extended for transactions such as these. The current rate is 9.5%: let us round up and estimate that exactly three moments of your time have been taken; therefore a payment of either 3.275 cocker spaniels or an equivalent number of scuppernongs would settle the outstanding balance, upon whose payment I should certainly be happy to reassert my original offer of one moment for one cocker-spaniel-slash-scuppernong."

"Rablefee...scuppernong, you say?" Bunnu now remembered mon seigneur's story about his mission to procure Rablefee for his former father-in-law, Viscount Khilikoff. Bunnu knew nothing else about the substance aside from the strange properties it was said to have, and the fact that it was black in its liquid form. It was hard to imagine what a Rablefee scuppernong would be. Was it merely a scuppernong dipped in a barrel of Rablefee? Was it solid state Rablefee, but in the shape of a bunch of scuppernongs? And...in any case, what was one to do with it? Was it to be ingested? Bunnu found himself wondering if the ingestion of a Rablefee scuppernong somehow accounted for the yammering slovenly creature he saw before him now.

To be sure, Bhakti looked like he had just spent a week sleeping in a gutter. The muscles of this face were contorted beyond the extremities of any neuroses Bunnu had ever recognized prior. The hairs above these bizarre contortions were warped out and curled in peculiar degrees and directions. Scattered patches of white had found places to reside in the dense growth upon his head and within his newly-grown beard: he was no longer the young accordionist Bunnu had once known. He had become an old man. His skin was stretched and was of an unhealthy gray and his eyes had drooping bags under them. He had lost a great deal of weight since the last time Bunnu had seen him. His breath was foul and he had a nasty body odor to him. His clothes had become raggedy and his fingernails long.

"You don't look well," Bunnu said. He was charitable in this understatement: Bhakti looked like a wild cur.

"So, which is it, then? The Rablefee or the pup? Have the litter tied up outside as we speak."

"Neither. Forget about that. Can't believe Aunty Durga would let you walk around town in the condition you're in."

"Who?" Bhakti responded in a distraught tone. His eyes darted about the room frantically.

"Have you imbibed something that disagrees with you?" Bunnu asked with concern.

Blood began to seep through the front of Bhakti's shirt. Bunnu's eyes widened. Bhakti looked puzzled for a moment and then looked down. "O rapturous pain—a creature: beastly, yet noble like a dragon what breathes its divine fury; all the same, fleeting for it passes out easily as it enters another—its visitation felt to be, by turns, finite, treasured, resonant. It emerges from blessed waters, is indeed itself a blessed, holy visitor, but yes, a fiend which simultaneously honors and maligns its host with its presence and leaves few hints of itself in the memory, for the depths of excruciation are forgotten in their aftermath. A Pierrot must experience lastingly the demented embrace of pain, must be purified by its tragic and indelible swell and then be purged by its regression, must be squeezed and twisted and shredded and incinerated until his soul screams in echo of every pang of life breathed into the living. I must be a scholar in the comprehension of every pain imaginable, however minor, even those yet unheard of, even those yet unfathomed; must tolerate each with the temperance of a saint; must learn to wield these weapons as though they were my very appendages—wield these with the resolve and discipline of an assassin, and plaster upon my forgettable countenance, for the pleasure of my audience, an insightful and edifying, albeit artificial grin—that is what a Pierrot must learn to do, and that is what I wish to be."

"A Pierrot?" Bunnu asked quizzically. He remembered telling Bhakti now of his first night in Yami. "I think maybe you've—"

"From shifting sands rise fortifications—high stone battlements surrounding the comfort of domestic stone enclosures peopled by soon-to-be-squirming, later-to-be-maggot-infested carcasses. The Pierrot is well-aware of the existence, but not the timing, of the ailments which arrive from foreign lands. Though he is more worldly, he is no more knowledgeable than the average yokel; still he thinks of it everyday. He waits impatiently for _it,_ for _it_ shall grant unto him, with finality, glorious release from this lamentable existence of mockery. In the meantime, he must perform his duty to the hollow chimes and tinkling of small coins on cobblestone from deadbeats—skinflint tourists in this town or that, depending on where the carnival happens to be at the moment— who do not wish to consider the inevitable approach and utter finality of that terminal affliction—that destroyer which grows closer by the day: his laughter, in spite of this, is chattering and diversionary, for what else is one to do but engage in the fleeting gratifications of whimsical farce and acrobatic horseplay to keep the spectators entertained while they stuff themselves with crackers and nuts and fried meats, their juices gushing from every pore under the baking light of the sun, and prime themselves unwittingly to be devoured by this phantom what approaches from all sides. The scabby and scrawny Pierrot watches the fleshy, moneyed, self-important morsels and he cackles wondrously as he envisions the stealth of the approaching affliction which would liberate him from this interminable pain of diversion: rodents, mosquitoes, foaming cocker spaniels and mad roosters all scurrying through or flying amid the long grasses of the countryside, weaving through valleys, traversing swamps and rivers and wood toward the bustling metropolis, infecting all in their path with a fast-evolving, highly communicable pathogen which grows by migration and propagation in all directions and which devastates populations without ever stopping to consider its own status as a menace to humanity (in fact, it knows not even of the existence of humanity, for it cannot separate one nutrient-bearing organism from another, except perhaps by the subtleties of flavor, as to do so would require a discriminating sensitivity on the part of the microorganism: this might only occur within those predisposed to become connoisseurs of nutrient flavor and consistency over the course of their ultrashort life spans, which is a rare enough ability that one might be impelled to deem it a genetic abnormality—a mutation even!—but we shall not concern ourselves with such details just now). Fortifications crumble to stone dust to merge again with the sand whence they emerged, or they collapse in a cloud, or sink altogether into chasms, when indeed, chasms exist. Such trenches have been known to swallow civilizations whole: they do not simply open their mouths and suck down the crust, but wait for centuries for the rocks to loosen and cave in naturally. Societies built on the firmest foundations on the firmest ground may well be oblivious to the bottomless trenches over which they remain tenuously perched. Lives carry on. Creatures toil and suffer, and then fall to boredom when they finally achieve lives of plenty. They seek entertainment as a diversion from their boredom. All the while, the chasm awaits."

"Bhakti-"

"That wicked gargoyle has fallen from atop the cathedral upon a covered wagon owned by carnival tramps that were entering town. I witnessed that stone god plummet by the light of early morn—my bare feet sliding over the night-time's condensation on cobblestone: if it had been the will of this dew-soaked deity to attack carnies in His malicious and desperate suicidal plunge, He could not have timed it better. That enormous boner of His, it seems, pierced through the top of the wagon and impaled a pierrot sitting inside. It was a humiliating, yet oddly comical exit from this life, for who else's fate is it, but a pierrot's to remain farcical even in his moment of final and utter degradation?"

"Yes..." Bunnu remarked in slow approval of this observation. He did not know about this incident, but it did not surprise him either. This was the cathedral at which he'd suspected Pinky's brother worshipped. In the many years since his arrival in Yami, that impressive cathedral he had first beheld with awe from his ship had fallen into disrepair—the bell of its tower still chimed as it had before, once at dawn and once in the early eve; but services were no longer held as that institution of theology upheld by the supports and crossbeams of its structure no longer had the financial resources to preserve itself as well as the more established, more ubiquitous institutions of the Republic, which had accumulated not only a substantial amount of wealth from tithing and armed conquest, but had also commissioned with these immoderate funds no shortage of artistic, architectural and cultural feats endowing their respective faiths with the full weight of that aggrandizement and bootlicking demanded by a noble creed from its followers. These newer faiths also seemed to have better-organized infrastructures consisting of missionaries, soldiers, and outright do-gooders: all charged with the task of representing their faiths and bringing their glory to all lands by whatever means of charity, rhetoric, fire, sword, or projectile at their disposal. And so, the smaller, now obsolete faiths of this community had fallen out of favor in the presence of the shinier, glistening, more sophisticated ones. Most people had forsaken the crude, barbaric cathedral, for the larger, more enlightened and magnanimous jewel of a structure in Xami which now towered over the river with a spire stretching toward the heavens. With no congregation left to support it, the city debated condemning the old cathedral and wiping it clean from the fast-changing landscape of the town. However, a group of wealthy philanthropists, who were interested in making a show of its preservation as a landmark, stepped in suddenly and petitioned the city council to allow for its repair. A construction company owned by the Akbars was contracted to perform the structural restoration, but cash flow problems prevented the company from being able to procure the materials and employ the laborers necessary to start the job, effectively leaving the building untouched for over a year (apparently, the twins' financial situation had, of late, grown dire as a result of a series of faulty, high-risk investments, which eventually forced them to default on many of their loans. Naturally, it wasn't long before this brought their creditors to unison in their collective howls for blood. A bounty was put on their heads, and the twins took to hiding out in different quarters each evening [fortunately, this was not difficult to do, as they were landlords to at least one-third of the town's population, and had included a clause in every lease agreement requiring tenants to provide free room and board when called upon by their lords to do so]. However, sometimes it would be necessary to leave one residence for another in the middle of the night to evade would-be bounty hunters, who were, more often than not, the very people with whom they'd been lodging previously. Fortunately for the brothers, they were always a step ahead. However, their skills at repeatedly eluding capture only increased the bounty threefold each successive day and further maddened the pursuit by exponential degrees. The situation finally achieved critical madness earlier this week when one of the twins apparently attempted to hemlock the other's wine in a poorly planned betrayal. Unfortunately for the ruthless sibling, his scheme had been thwarted by an elderly dipsomaniacal servant who had secretly imbibed some of the tainted concoction shortly before it was to be served, only to fall to his knees, minutes later, vomiting blood and pleading in the same short-winded breath for one last sip before dying. According to what Bunnu had heard, the twins had since left town. Whether or not they had not reconciled their differences before doing so, and whether, in fact, they'd left together or separately, had become a topic of some debate among the townspeople these past few days. Most in town seemed to derive a certain mild enjoyment from assuming the twins had parted ways: if this were true, then the twins would no longer be in conspiracy against the public, and were instead each aiming to raise an army against the other. Surely, they would find no allegiances here in Yami: while many townspeople had been bounden to them for many years, the sense of gratitude felt by these vassals towards their former lords was not so profound as to purge them of that jollity of vindication which seemed to blossom out of any speculations as to the nature of the twins' imminent comeuppance. Bets were now being taken at casinos in Xami about which of the twins would triumph in this seemingly pointless battle [if, in fact, such a battle were to transpire], as well as how the victor in said [hypothetical] battle would thenceforth meet his demise by hand of his creditors).

Bhakti, however, unaware of the prevailing dramas of the town, much less the presumed reason for the gargoyle falling from the cathedral, continued grimly: "The other two pierrot inside the wagon were crushed: never saw it coming. I shall join as a replacement. It is a lamentable, seemingly trifling existence—but it has importance far beyond the pitying assessments of most. I shall have a singular duty—to bring amusement to the unamused, even if said amusement happens to be empty and forgettable. I have already procured myself the unsoiled costumes of my predecessors. I shall have to gain a few kilos for them to suit me better. I have also been told as a pre-assignment to test my thresholds for trauma—physical, emotional, and otherwise—and to expand them with the greatest swiftness imaginable."

"Bhakti, you are not the right sort of person for thi—"

"My dear friend—I'm sorry I forget your name, so I can only address you as 'my dear friend' (please do not take offense). So, I say again: My dear friend, _she_ was with them! You know to whom I am referring when I say _she,_ yes? I asked her to help me empathize with the unimaginable pain she'd endured. She pretended not to know what I meant at first, but I helped her...remember. We reminisced together, and her tears were as beautiful as I envisioned. The pained grimace—it was heartening to see her so very much in that instant of feeling with me as she sliced into my flesh. That pretense of protest which left her quivering lips was so true and so heart-rending, I almost imagined her to be truly appalled by what we were doing. I know this could not be true though, for she was only reenacting earlier traumas."

"So, this is about a woman?" Bunnu hazarded, hoping this should add some semblance of reason to his otherwise irrational decision to become a pierrot. "She was with the carnival?"

"She had blonde hair. Did you not say, friend, that you had known her as well? That you were lovers?"

"Had known a blond yes, but she turned out later to have black hair. Not sure she was really blonde."

"Surely, she was just being modest. Or, perhaps she was disappointed. Where is she now?"

"Gone. Left town."

"So then she has come back to town re-blonded, and in search of a more adequate male suitor? Yes...that sounds plausible: the mynx! Please do not take offense, dear friend. I shall not spread word of your inadequacy. Anyway, her older brother may not be pleased if we go spreading gossip about-"

"Bhakti..." Bunnu suddenly became insanely jealous. Older brother? Could it be true? "Surely this isn't the same...is...did she...er...say her name was Pinky?"

At this, Bhakti looked confused. And the confusion turned to nervous giggling. Bunnu could feel that rage again slinking up his spine like cool tiny lizards with pinprick toes. The giggles became frantic and Bunnu felt again the sudden urge to tear away the face from this maniac who stood before him, interrupting his chores and threatening to steal his woman. _"Puh-puh-Pinky,_ you say!" Bhakti finally sputtered between giggles. "And what sort of domestic animal is that? Pinky the name of your cat?"

Bunnu seethed, as he turned his back on Bhakti and resumed washing the dishes in the sink. "Do not play games with me, my friend!" Bhakti now said sternly to Bunnu's turned back. "If I have succeeded in gaining Sepia's favor by empathizing with the pain of her _Ling Chi,_ surely I will have gained the favor of her illustrious brother! After all, he has a certain nostalgic familiarity with the _Death by a Thousand Cuts."_

Bunnu froze. "You don't mean..."

"Our fates are sealed..." Bhakti said with an odd mixture of joy and moroseness. "I do not remember your name, but I do remember your premonition. About me. On the rocks. You do remember telling me about this, yes?"

"Listen-"

"Listen to what? I must go. I only came to let you know that you have been bested. The carnival will be in town for the entire summer, but I must begin practicing now. Soon, I will leave the town. Then, we will be unknown to each other again, friend. Next time you see me, we will be as strangers. I can already feel it happening. Perhaps, that's why I've forgotten your name."

"I haven't forgotten yours, Bhakti."

"It appears you have. That's not my name."

Bunnu froze for a moment. Could this have been a game? A delusion, perhaps? Bunnu spoke slowly: "Not your name... anymore... maybe."

"No. I mean...it never was my name. I could never understand why you called me that. Or Bucky, or all the strange names you called me."

"You mean I'd been calling you by those names all this time and you never corrected me?"

"Oh, yes. I think I did several times. But you never remembered. I've been correcting you since the very beginning. It's the others in town who have been forgiving the mistake. Perhaps they thought it was a colorful nickname you had for me, or maybe they assumed you couldn't pronounce my name correctly since you were a foreigner. They might have even used it in conversations with you as a way to be polite about your ignorance. They allowed you to save face by working around your misunderstanding. That's Yamian politeness for you. Double-edged sword: in public, they will allow you to carry on in ignorance unfettered, but in private they will laugh derisively at your many failings. You know—they all see you as somewhat of a bumbling boob. No one ever says it to you, but everyone in town thinks you're strange. Including me. Including my former friends in the Under City. When the topic of you comes up, and you are nowhere in the vicinity, the only natural response for us is to laugh."

Bunnu showed no disappointment at being called strange. He was quite used to it, and he never begrudged anyone for thinking so about him. There was no reason to feel bad about what other people thought. The way he saw it, what they thought about him was none of his business. What instead served to appall him was that he had been corrected about Bhakti's name numerous times, but had failed to remember even one instance in which this had occurred. He had even failed to remember the existence of a correction: "You corrected me? Why can't I remember this?"

"Arrogance possibly, pride maybe—whatever the reason, we remember what we choose to remember, what we wish to remember, and we remember all things in whatever way most suits our fancy."

"I'm sorry if I offended you by failing to remember your name. I assure you it was completely unintentional." Bunnu meant what he said, but couldn't help but harbor a suspicion that his friend was the one who was mistaken, not him. Nonetheless, the doubt lingered.

"Naturally. Just as it is unintentional that I fail to remember yours. I must say though..." he said with a sardonic grin, "I can't help but think that _even you_ are not a reliable source for that information, that even you've got it wrong. Are you even sure of your own name? Perhaps you aren't who you think you are. Maybe you have mistaken someone else for yourself, or _vice versa._ It is not such an unusual thing for a person to appropriate the identity of another and mistake it for his own!"

Bunnu had no response to this. The thought had never crossed his mind. How does one mistake the identity of another for his own? How does one mistake his own name?

"Anyway, my friend, I will be sure to send a handful of scuppernongs your way in good time. Thank you very much for the pleasure of your acquaintance. Good day to you, friend...and goodbye."

With this, the Pierrot took his leave. Bunnu didn't know it then, but this would be the last time they'd ever meet.

### * * *

The weather that summer was hotter and stickier than usual. The days had grown interminably long as well. Daylight persisted for about 20 hours of each day (which was generally the norm for this area of the world at the height of summer). In the plentiful light, mirages became frequent. Bunnu found himself each morning waking to the intense brightness and reeling from the pain of a splitting headache as soupy air oozed into his lungs. The air was heavy and so was his body. His mind was moving rapidly with the heightened rate of chemical reactions and transitions, but his flesh was strangely sluggish and his limbs dense in spite of it. This dichotomy seemed to create a pocket of madness at his center, churning and gurgling as though harking back to the very uncertainty of primordial life where each moment was frantic and fragmentary, and calmness was, as yet, an alien entity overwhelmed by the demented normalcy of tumult—this black sludge bubbling at his core was where all darkness took refuge from the unrelenting light, was where it reacted with every compound and isotope of shadow and formed petty conspiracies which should only reach the surface when the dusk fell over the landscape. Bedeviled by unseen churns of black, Bunnu shielded his eyes from the new harsh intensity of light. He occasionally found light too luminous to bear: this fact alone seemed to sadden him, though he could not understand why. Perhaps, this was because he had always been conditioned to hold a positive prejudice toward the nature of light: words such as _illumination,_ _bright,_ and _shining_ were rarely elements of his vocabulary which had negative emotions associated with them—and in spite of this, there were times in which he felt intuitively, albeit in a way he was inarticulate to express, that light could, all the same, be wicked, deceptive, and cruel; that light had a tendency to beguile, perhaps even addle one's mind to an odd, yet momentary depravity: it often seemed that during the befuddling haze and head-splitting light of summer, he was most at a loss with respect to how he must distinguish details of the immediate moment, from those which occurred in dream, imagination and memory. He grew confused and disoriented often, for tricks of perception were constant in the endless heat and bedazzling daylight of summer, but not just for Bunnu. In fact, Bunnu found himself fortunate to have recognized the disingenuousness of light. Others trusted in it fully, which only gave way to a kind of consecrated madness among them.

Hints of this luminous derangement were all about, though it was difficult, at times, to separate the real from the imagined. Bunnu could only rely on Memory: but this, too, was unreliable. Gazing at the shimmering glare scorching his eyes from the river, he remembered hearing a voice in his ear one day—he forgot whose voice it had been—telling him that a blonde prostitute had been found eviscerated atop a rock somewhere down the riverbank. By the estimates of local detectives, it had happened at the height of the noonday sun: somehow this minor detail seemed to trouble Bunnu and no one else. On another day, whilst walking upon a crowded street in the dense heat of early afternoon, he could have sworn he heard a giggle from somewhere behind him. Moments later, a cart came at him from the other direction, nearly running him over. He dove out of the way just in time. The driver of the cart had a dour expression. The cargo was simply a stack of burlap grain sacks. However, Bunnu could have sworn he saw a pallid hand with festering flesh sticking out from between one sack and another. Perhaps it was just his imagination, or maybe a memory of something about which he had read or heard recombining with the moment immediate. Whatever it was, the image stuck with him.

On one occasion—it was difficult to remember if it happened earlier or later, as all days had become a jumble in memory—a party of 50 foreign guests who had reserved the inn for a special evening banquet failed to show up. On investigation, the innkeeper was told by the oddly nervous manager of the resort where they were staying that they had all suddenly vanished without settling their tab. Soon, thereafter, the resort manager was reported missing as well, followed by at least one-third of the casino dealers. Around the same time—either before or after the disappearance of the tourists and casino staff—rumors started abounding about an ailment which had reached the town. Some believed it to be the new strain of the Red-17 virus which had been known to decimate distant regions of the Republic. However, these were just rumors.

A short while before or after these rumors started flying about—it was hard to remember when exactly!—a garrison of tax auditors and treasury officers, each bearing his own arsenal of abacuses and pencils, came to town. They had been sent from the Tax Bureau in Malion City to audit both key city officials and local industrialists who were being investigated for underpaying on their taxes. They were told to focus on government officials, but in fact the whole town was under suspicion: from tax collectors on down to private citizens, in some cases even children and household pets (depending on their respective statuses of exemption). It seemed that the pronounced disparity between the paltry tax revenues being sent from this town and the level of moral neglect reportedly attained by the average self-indulgent citizen of Yami had been troubling to analysts from the tax bureau, who were accustomed only to hearing reports of this level of moral degradation among those who occupied the top 1% of the highest tax brackets in the Republic (these top echelons generally consisted of inheritors of soul-destroying amounts of wealth, who still managed to remain far less reprehensible than their nouveau riche Yamian counterparts, inasmuch as these remnants of the old aristocracy were still pressured to conform to the rigid, stodgy molds fashioned for them by the firm surfaces of their surroundings—those hard-stuffed cushions which pressed up against and made depressions in their buttocks, those clothes and costumes they wore which required corsets and bound feet and the ability to subsist by respiring shallowly [thereby compromising the amount of oxygen which reached the brain: the poor fellows!], that jewelry which hung as irons from their necks and as manacles from their wrists as might the adornments of slaves, those estates whose efflorescence and authority demanded a similar efflorescence of virtue on the part of its inhabitants, which amounted to, in a larger, almost universal sense, that artifice of dignified superiority expected of all hegemons by their lessers).

The arrival of these accountants finally brought to light a conspiracy of fraud, embezzlement, and usury among industrialists, black marketers, gangsters, and city officials at the expense of the local economy. Apparently records were being falsified by local industries, money was being borrowed at absurd rates of interest, and that money was being used to pay off personal debts incurred by powerful men to other creditors. The net effect of the auditors' shocking disclosure was a pronounced and immediate downturn in the economy to pre-Bubble levels, accompanied by a severe tax penalty levied by the Republic on every resident of the town, the result of which soon triggered massive panic among the residents.

Banks were flooded by angry customers demanding full withdrawals. Panic buying depleted the supply of all vital resources in the marketplace. Riots would break out after dark, and shops would be looted of all their merchandise. Wealthy families were robbed frequently, often times by the very same police who had been hired initially to protect their power. Hungry, food-deprived rats began scurrying frantically about the streets in search of scraps: their populations had also grown in proportion with the bounteous waste of the bubble economy; now, deprived of the luxury of abundance, they scavenged the streets for sustenance, and it soon became hard to distinguish their behavior from that of the people on whose crumbs they had once dined. Real estate prices also took a dive, and a lot of people who had bought or rented property at bubble prices were now losing equity for their investments. Buildings were set ablaze by their owners for the purpose of collecting insurance money, though the insurance companies no longer had the revenue to satisfy these claims. Foreign corporations decided to close local resorts and reopen them elsewhere in other boom towns. The number of ships coming into the harbor fell sharply by the day, cutting off the influx of much-desired foodstuffs and supplies. And by the middle of the summer, with very few attractions remaining to keep them interested in this once quaint little town, the tourist populations of both Yami and Xami seemed to dry up almost completely. Even the compulsive gamblers left the casinos, complaining that the payouts were too low.

The sun, though but a mere 149,597,870,701.7 meters away, remained nevertheless insensible to the civilized mites dashing frenetically this way and that, and diminished not even slightly in its fierce luminosity, as the afternoons seemed to grow more and more oppressive by the day. People were continuing to vanish, but it was happening so quickly and dramatically that it was difficult to know why and for what reasons. Some had fled for other towns, others had disappeared completely. It soon became difficult to keep track of who had remained in town and who hadn't, as most had already left or gone missing. Windows were being boarded up and whole families disappeared overnight. The smell of rotting meat filled the air. Bacteria proliferated, as did insects, and all natures of fungus and pest. The humidity brought the air to stagnant putrefaction. Many familiar faces were gone from the town: the postman, whose family had been there for 5 generations and whose delicate and humble demeanor was a comforting blessing upon whomever he visited, packed up his family in a wagon and left town; Lady Saraswati, who had been a fixture at Aunty Durga's teahouse (an establishment now defunct), fell extremely ill and passed away after 3 days of horrible symptoms resembling a mix of rubella, cholera, and pertussis—the family was then asked to release the body to the local public health officials for further study, and were paid a modest sum for signing some agreement whose details they were not at liberty to disclose; the innkeeper's wife also fell ill, as did the innkeeper, which prompted Bunnu to contact the public health officials, in accordance with the recent formal decrees which had been posted all about town: within hours, a group of soldiers came and carried them out on stretchers, before loading them onto the bed of a wagon atop a stack of burlap sacks.

The driver of the wagon was a long-legged man with a short torso and a face which betrayed an annoying sense of self-consciousness (though he seemed to go to great lengths to mask his insecurity with unbecoming bravado). He sat atop a full burlap grain sack, perhaps to make himself appear to have a longer torso, and he spoke in an unnaturally deep voice, commanding the soldiers in forceful gestures and harsh, condescending barks, though he did not himself appear to be a military man of any rank. Bunnu had seen the face before, or at least he imagined so. Perhaps, the intense light of the afternoon was playing tricks on him, but he couldn't help but think that this driver was the same grim-faced man he had seen that day driving the cart that had the festering hand sticking out from between burlap bags.

Bunnu became immediately concerned about what would happen to the innkeeper and his wife, but was assured that the driver was a doctor, and the key expert in town on afflictions such as these. When Bunnu asked to whom he could make future inquiries regarding their statuses, the doctor smirked at the group of nearby soldiers, wailed out an uncharacteristically high-pitched, _"Mmmmmmm....?"_ in his best falsetto. He then muttered something unintelligible back over his shoulder at the bodies lying in the bed of his wagon, cupping a hand to his ears to listen for their response, which only came in a series of mutters, pleas and feeble sobs: this seemed to elicit a chorus of laughter from the men. Bunnu suspected that the doctor was having a bit of a laugh at his expense, but couldn't be sure. The doctor, then, turned to Bunnu with an unencumbered smile, and shrugged with a good-humored wink—as though to say, _Oh, well!—_ and then he patted Bunnu on his shoulder with a hint of seemingly patronizing pity, before tightening the reins on his horses and signaling their departure. The soldiers, standing around, suddenly found themselves applauding for no particular reason, commenting to each other about the doctor's remarkable sense of showmanship: "Good, yes?" "Reckon he must get tired of hearing the same questions again and again, but he handled this one well." "Need a sense of humor in that line of work, I suppose" "Surely, how else can anyone expect to acknowledge the harsh realities without a sense of humor." "Wise chap, that guy." "No doubt about it. Ee really shut this bloody moron up!" "Indeed, indeed!" "Which reminds me: Oy! Boy-oh! We'll be back for the furniture and valuables later. We've already catalogued them, so don't get any funny ideas!" Bunnu sighed and went back inside the inn. It appeared he would now be acting innkeeper for this permanently vacant, permanently unfurnished space.

Over time, the familiar faces of the town were replaced with the tight-lipped visages of men in uniform, marching through the streets. Carved into these hardened, dehumanized masks were lines which intersected and curved and forked into crows' feet, lines codifying the torment and horrors of many battles from moments past and anticipating the ruination and havoc of moments forward. These dutiful creatures spent most of their days aiding the public health officials in collecting patients who had been reported ill. When they weren't doing this, they patrolled the streets and oversaw the building of a new facility for dispensing rations to the population. Residents began to suspect that this was the beginning of a quarantine, but they could not be sure. Now, there was very little traffic in the streets save for those carts whose flatbeds were stacked to unsteady, shivering heights with squirming patients, rotting corpses, antiques, clothing, home furnishings, and burlap bags with unknown contents: all of these piled high and in no discriminating order, piled with no favor for one arrangement of molecules over the next (although these collections of macromolecules shifted and collided frequently in the inertia of transport), giving inception to, by way of this seemingly random method of organization, a new (however premature) balance by which lasting and final parity could be shared among all transported objects: animate, inanimate, and disanimate alike. The wagons grew in number by the day (conceivably some were even being brought in from other towns), and they headed always in the direction of a column of billowing black smoke on the horizon which arched to one side in the wind of the upper atmosphere, until it resembled a pitch obsidian worm, rotating endlessly as it inched upward on its migration outward into the deeper reaches of space.

In the second month of summer, a town meeting was called. At the meeting, it was finally announced (to no one's surprise) that the town had been put under quarantine, and that ships were being rerouted for other harbors. All factories would be closed and residents of the town were expected to subsist on whatever rations they were given. Any resident caught with foodstuffs, besides those which had been rationed, would face immediate arrest. Instead of the outrage and uproar expected by city officials, the reaction of the residents almost bordered on apathy. They had already resigned themselves to the reality of what was coming. There was nothing left about which to be upset, or disappointed, or angry. The only thing one could do was to wait and see how matters unfolded. People were dying. Many more would follow. The purpose of living, now, became finding ways to pass the time without losing one's mind with boredom: children were best at this. They played their games like they always did.

The carnies had their games too, but without paying customers or a functioning economy, the games took on a previously unrealized scale of dimension and manifestation: a whole new market of currencies was forming to bet on sports yet undiscovered, whose rules and objectives were devised from that special breed of creativity which could only be born out of the scarcity, desperation, and absence of consequence which defined these present circumstances. And indeed the humor of this play was intended to gratify the more base and pitiless drives of its participants—for what other common ground did these otherwise urbane and virtuous entities have left for sake of their own diversion but their sadistic, crude, and lascivious desires? One malicious-looking painted face pierrot, who called himself the GameMaster, became the ringleader, and paced back and forth on the streets, proclaiming himself master of ceremonies to the newfound _Carnival of Pestilence._ After conferring with his cohorts, he would announce the rules of the next game, its purpose, and the participation fee (as money no longer had any value, this sometimes ranged from a portion of rations to one's pets or children). Prizes were often awarded for the successful completion of physical challenges, ranging from the vicious, the vulgar, and the iniquitous to the artistic, the graceful and the poignant. With the passage of each game, the limits of morality were pushed and tolerances tested, bringing the general public appetite the satisfaction it so greatly needed in these troubling times. Certainly, there were those who made a point of decrying the malice of the whole spectacle in between curious glances, but they never ceased to appear at a window, or a balcony overlooking the street when one twisted game had ended and the next one was being announced. The perversities of the Carnival surely gave way to a fair number of vocal detractors from the windows of buildings and within the street audience, but the GameMaster would laugh off his hecklers, proclaiming, "Sorrow and pity: fair citizens! Tis a shame what one is wishing to deprive from others for the sake of keeping appearances. For what do appearances matter now, dear audience? What good has all our politeness, sophistication, rules, and philosophy done us except to weave endless fantasy? Do not get me wrong. Such high-minded notions are a fine thing—I'll grant you, yes— but do they not also seem a bit tumescent when juxtaposed against the backdrop of these tempestuous times? Overblown? Tired? Trifling, perhaps? Surely, our craving for fantasy can have a new outlet in the face of our common tragedy, could it not? Surely we can liberate ourselves finally from the trite fantasies that tea-drinking and polite chit-chat have to offer us of this life, no? Let us have at least these games, for the sorrow and pity of man—for the limited time we shall inhabit this merciless existence: let us have them! Let us humiliate and degrade and treat each other unjustly; and then let us clink glasses, slap shoulders, drink a pint's rations of beer and then call it a day. Can we not indulge at least a little lunacy for the sake of passing our time? Must we conform to the sophistication of a ruined cause?" This rhetoric inevitably elicited a wicked cheer from his fans, prompting the GameMaster to turn grinning toward his next group of contestants, eyes twinkling with fresh mischief.

Bunnu occasionally watched the games from his bedroom at the inn, wondering, all the while, if his friend, the ex-accordionist, was among them. Surely, he was, but since he was new to this lifestyle, he probably wasn't as closely involved as the veterans. These were certainly strange times to be a pierrot. Bhakti, Bucky—whatever his name truly was—had somehow stumbled upon Yami's sole growth industry. Malevolent clowning was sure to be the wave of the future.

When remembering his friend, Bunnu would also find himself reflecting again on the blonde prostitute who had been found eviscerated atop a rock by the riverbank earlier in the summer. He hated to think that there could be a connection, but couldn't help but assume so. He didn't know from where this suspicion arose, but felt as though it was something that had been whispered into his ear by some passerby on the street amidst the mirages of daylight. The passing whisperer: yes, he remembered something like this happening, but couldn't place the moment exactly in his mind, nor did he have a face or a form to put with that voice, but he could still hear the strange timbre of that whisper in his mind. But then, maybe this never happened. Perhaps it was a fabricated memory—all this time in solitude might have caused his imagination to twist the reality of his experiences in his head. Such things were possible when one was not engaged with new interactions and happenings. He now had the inn to himself and was living on whatever leftover food he had managed to hide from the looting soldiers—an infraction of law which would have been a secret worth keeping if any of the food was particular tasty, which it wasn't. Mostly it was juice and nuts from the larder, and perishable foods which tasted just slightly better than the swill being dispensed by the military as rations. He never bothered to stand in the long lines at the rationing station. In fact, he rarely went out at all anymore. His only contact with the outside world was the dramatic spectacles being performed on the streets in front of the inn.

Yet, over time, Bunnu stopped watching the games as well—not for any particular reason, but simply because the melodrama and the ridiculous sense of import surrounding every declaration by the GameMaster had started to sound tedious and somewhat labored. Suspense was being manufactured for the mere sake of suspense, which was the lowest form of entertainment undoubtedly. For the moment, Bunnu was bored with people—bored with their need for endless movement and exertion, with their need to escape loneliness, with their need not to be bored. He was happy to have time finally to be quiet and slow and to embrace the absence of stimulation that this new lonesome lifestyle brought with it. There was something about being slow which appealed to him especially. When caught up in the world, in the interactions with people around him, it was easy to forget the ruminations and epiphanies which had found their conceptions in those silent and slow moments he'd had previously. It almost seemed wasteful that he should have a solitary ruminating self who was able, in the absence of others, to spin tapestries of reason from threads of illusion; while, at the same time, a social, external self, who was cut off from the ruminations of the first, and who found himself so easily caught up in the banality and pettiness and conviviality that the world demanded of him, and who equated fully his sense of self-worth to the successes and disappointments reaped of all focused endeavors of ego. Something about the latter lifestyle struck him as false, and to some degree, meaningless. On the other hand, these rare moments of solitary rumination, though ephemeral, had a generous warmth to them. There was no need to prove oneself, no need to alter one's mood according to the whims of the situation. These quiet moments were the gentle and stable lull which allowed for peaceful introspection. Perhaps, it was best to relish in their warmth for what little time he had.

Solitude draped all around him a soothing cloak with indefinite edges, he could feel the dimensions of its peculiar geometry expanding, spreading to cover his face even; down below, they rippled in a traversing empty wind—he remembered again that day when he was a young boy amidst the rice fields of Bahlia, holding a wooden toy boat of his own creation, whose sail was overwhelmed quickly by that dry, frozen wind which migrated south-to-north: the Karakaze. He had forgotten for many years the lessons of that day, had forgotten to acknowledge the invisible winds which drove and penetrated all things and the vanity for which the vain and the virtuous ventured against it; on that day, at the age of eight, he had perhaps been no less recalcitrant in his defiance than any other creature of futile endeavor, but through his failure, found himself suddenly equipped with the new understanding that his actions in spite of the wind had amounted to very little, if anything at all. Unfortunately, in the years since, he had forgotten that lesson often or sometimes even shrugged it off as the foolish musings of a young child, until circumstances brought him back once again to where he had started. Ensconced now in the formless cloak which separated his body to bare, disconnected particles, he became fleshed transiently of a naked speculation which maintained that in the diversions of days to come, he would continue to forget these childhood lessons evanescently, that, throughout his life, he would forget them and then come back to them, wondering why he had strayed in the first place—for, most certainly, there could be no doubt that he had been wisest when he was a young boy, and that he had now spent most of his life, in the years since, either meandering away from, or seeking to reacquire that same fundamental level of wisdom with which he had once been imparted at such an early age, which is to say, he had progressed no further in spite of his efforts; on the contrary, he had let that initial wisdom slip away from him too often. Part of him wanted to trap this reacquired knowledge now as tightly as he could, as one might a helium balloon one was fearful of letting go the minute its freedom in open air became a possibility and its escape from one's grasp a lingering threat—unfortunately, in such situations, it was also possible to squeeze so hard as to affect a deflating pop, which more or less, brought about the same effect. Either way, he knew it was only a matter of time before this sacred understanding would once again elude him. There was something sad and terrifying about this.

As the weeks passed, it became easier and easier to ignore all that was happening outside amidst the mirages of summer. The hot days passed uneventfully and soon grew shorter and cooler. Living on the dried nuts in the larder, Bunnu barely took notice of the change in weather, much less the change that was going on outside in town.

One day, however, there came a knock at his door. He opened it to find mon seigneur-Q and Aunty Durga standing there, dressed in traditional Yamian funereal costumes. "It's been some time," Q explained. "We heard about the innkeeper and his wife, and feared the worst for you as well, but then Durga here told me she saw a candle lit in the window of your bedroom yesterday evening. I don't know if you'd noticed, but the virus is more or less on its way out of town. Presumably it was just passing through and using its hosts here as temporary rest stops before continuing its ceaseless migration elsewhere. There are still some lingering cases in Xami, but order has been reestablished in both towns and the quarantine lifted. The Mayor is back from his long holiday in the Outlands and is ready to assume command again (actually, we had already assumed him dead—imagine our surprise at hearing that he had been away for the duration of the quarantine). Apparently, the Tax Bureau of the Republic is willing to forgive the tax penalties they'd levied against all our citizens. The treasury in Malion City is also issuing payouts to bail out failing financial institutions, on the condition that the banks affiliated with them waive all liens on properties formerly owned by residents in town. I'm not sure if this stimulus initiative will have a positive or negative impact in the long run, but there's a chance the economy will recover in the short term. Still, I'm guessing it'll take some time." Q blushed for a moment, possibly feeling foolish for talking about fiscal matters at a moment like this. He continued after some slight hesitation, "You know...uh...just looking around, it almost seems like things are back to normal. It's a pretty nice day out. The weather is lovely. I can't remember the last time the weather was this nice. Have...you noticed...the changes outside?"

Bunnu peeked out the window for the first time in at least two months. Stagecoaches were going by in the street. Crowds of young boys and girls were laughing and running about joyously and playing innocent games in the same space where atrocities and perversities alike had, months earlier, been committed to satiate the savage appetites of a dispirited and browbeaten public. A fruit wagon passed and the happy, rotund seller offered a fresh apple to a seraphic young girl, eliciting a musical giggle. Bunnu felt a lump in his throat, and only now did he realize how afraid he had been of losing all these sacred moments around him—all these blessed blessed moments!—which had been a mere glance away, but which he had, all the same, taken for granted in solitude.

"I-I am sorry... to... have caused you any concern," said Bunnu slowly with tears running down his cheek, forgetting for some reason the appropriate way to behave when in the company of others. He had spent these past two months in abject loneliness and had forgotten so very many of the important things which had been all around him.

A pair of young lovers was sitting on the wall looking back over their shoulders at the river. The clouds behind them highlighted the bright pink skies of early eve. The young gentleman took the hand of his lady in his own and stroked it gently. He had a pleasant face and spoke, with a gentle smile, affectionate words Bunnu was unable to hear, but somehow found heartening. His endearing young companion blushed and from her lips emerged a meek and hesitant smile, for she was far too bashful to show any more than this. Bunnu watched the young lovers and could feel along with them that bittersweet shyness and excitement and longing all at once. There was a warm and gracious static which radiated from the marvelous innocence of their expressions. It was a delectable feast for the eyes to look upon two young people who could manage to be so nervous in each other's presence, so afraid to say what they were feeling, yet all the same wanting so curiously to tread closer and closer to that threshold which separated the comfort zone of their omission from the bare and liberating clarity of their divulgence. In the compassionate glow of mutual respect they seemed to hold for one another's feelings, he somehow sensed that through all the death and pestilence and hardship and humiliation that surrounded them, they had known no tragedy, but had focused their energy, in spite of it, on all the hope and possibility which prevailed radiantly on the bright horizons before them. They were two inspiring creatures, far wiser than he could ever be. Bunnu breathed a deep, invigorated breath for the first time in what felt like centuries. How beautiful the world could be, how beautiful people could be!

"My dear lad," Q said, interrupting Bunnu's rejuvenated musings. "Of course, we were worried about you, but our fears are now overwhelmed by our relief to find you well. What saddens us, all the same, is the news we have come to give you."

"You mean...He's...?"

"I'm afraid so." Q said solemnly as though it didn't need to be said. Durga wiped a tear from her eye.

"The... _sickness?"_

"A...sickness, perhaps," Q responded with a sigh, "but not the same _sickness_ as the rest, I'm afraid. Funeral services have been going on for the past few weeks for people who fell to Red-17 this summer. In most cases, the bodies had been burned in mass graves, so a lot of ceremonies are being held with empty caskets, or no caskets at all. This case is being treated differently, however. We didn't have to burn his body with the others. B-but we weren't sure whether or not to have an open casket, b-because of-"

"What happened to him?"

"It is difficult to say really. Something terrible was done to...his...body." mon seigneur said, his voice faltering. "It seems the boy was... keeping the wrong... sort of company? They...th-they did... _something_ to his body in...one of their...strange games. They c-cut him maybe. W-we had to have someone sew him back together.""

"The carnies?"

"The Pierrot maybe." Q clarified uncertainly. He was visibly upset. Bunnu had never seen him like this. "T-they see the Universe in a way...in a way I would never wish to see it. That calculated, desperate cruelty, and the mockery! I saw them and their...games. They seemed...well, to put it mildly...they seemed a strange lot."

Bunnu nodded, "They have a strange lot in life." And then, he froze. This was possibly an unsympathetic thing to say—it could have been taken to imply that the existence of such unlikely cosmic fools as the Pierrot was a necessity, that these sick comedians had no choice in the matter, as though there were no other place in the Cosmos for them than as the menacing brutes they had become: naturally, this was an abhorrent and depressing thought. Usually, it would be mon seigneur-Q who would seize upon an implication such as this, taking it as an opportunity to speak expansively of the strange doings and goings of Rat Man Miyazaki, The Paragon of Virtue, but in these circumstances, it seemed that such academic speculations were no longer entertaining, nor welcomed. Q, instead, remained silent and meditative: clearly something was on his mind. The air of compunction was unmistakable about him: perhaps he now regretted all the foolish and bizarre notions he had imparted upon his now-deceased stepson.

Bunnu wanted to say something more, but bit his tongue. mon seigneur didn't even know the half of it. There were things he would never know, perhaps things that Bunnu would never know. There was so much more to all this than what was being said, and it troubled him deeply, but he couldn't find the words for it either. Perhaps, he never would. Either way, this was not the right time for it. Durga looked like she was doing everything she could to hold it together. Bunnu continued carefully and with the heavy restraint that befitted Yamian solemnity at a time of mourning, "What happened to him is...unfortunate and...beyond our understanding. You have my sincerest condolences. If there will be a funeral service, please allow me to attend so that I might pay my respects."

Durga's eyes were somewhere else. Possibly, she didn't hear what he'd said. It appeared as though she were unaware of what was transpiring all around her.

Q spoke for the both of them: "Yes, there is one. It starts in one hour. I apologize for the short notice, but that is why we came to see you today. We can wait here while you get dressed."

### * * *

After the accordionist's death, people spoke well of him, those very same people who had earlier partaken in his mockery. He was honored in a special ceremony by the mayor of the town and given the endearing nickname which people would use to refer to him for decades thereafter: the Bittersweet Melodist—apparently, the city council had voted unanimously on this change, but did not feel the slightest bit compelled, before or after doing so, to consult mon seigneur-Q or Aunty Durga so as to ensure that this change in moniker would be in concordance with the family's wishes, which, if the pair's stunned expressions at the ceremony were any indication, it was decidedly not. This new nickname was nonetheless carved on his gravestone in lieu of his actual name and melodies were composed in his honor. Unfortunately, he had never committed any of his actual compositions to paper, therefore no one could remember his songs well enough to reproduce them authentically, but the odes that were done on his behalf became substitutes adequate enough to suit the needs of those wishing to honor whatever, in fact, it was they sought to honor.

Said the mayor in his rousing eulogy to the citizens of Yami: "Proud Yamians, the Bittersweet Melodist, as he shall hereinafter come to be known, was a deeply spiritual man; a man whose music and lyrics evoked our profoundest dreams for the great potential of our human endeavor. Of his immediate family, he was the sole survivor of a pestilence that befell our town many years ago, a pestilence that has since begun to infect again our beloved populace: the dreaded Red-17 virus. He understood then, as we all do now the utter foolishness and short-sightedness of those who seek to flee a town at the first sign of disease. He stayed on and did that which came most natural to him: he composed music."

Bunnu flashed a questioning look to mon seigneur-Q, who responded with an impatient shake of the head and a sigh. Q looked peeved beyond measure, but not the least bit surprised. It was clear that none of this was actually being done for the purposes of honoring the deceased.

The mayor continued with a plastered grin: "...And in his music he conveyed to all a message that has rung true in the hearts of every human, Yamian or otherwise, since our very origins: that humankind shall prevail over the forces of nature which threaten us, that we shall, by every means at our disposal, obliterate those species which only seek to exploit us as hosts, that we shall otherwise tame all lesser organisms of our natural environment so that they would abide by our will always, for there is no other species more befitting of dominance over this ecosystem than our own!" He paused as the cheers of the crowd reached an ear-splitting volume. "Thank you...thank you. The Bittersweet Melodist, good citizens, was not a practical sort of man like you, or me, or our forefathers. He was not even nearly as pragmatic as his own father, B.N. Shakti, who, by the way, was one of the key figures in Yami's pre-advancement. The Bittersweet Melodist was an idealist—a dreamer, who infused everything around him with beauty. The magnificent jewel of town his father crafted for us, this Yami that we live and breathe in today, our young Melodist bejeweled further in the divine pulchritude of song as though to tell us, 'Yes, we've done well, but we've still a long way to go! There are still steps yet to climb in the hopes of achieving higher Virtue.'" The crowd cheered again and the mayor's pitch reached the tone of a master orator, "...as though to tell us, 'Yes, we have achieved so very much, but the best is still ahead of us. Humankind has yet to reach its ultimate potential!' as though to tell us, 'My brothers and sisters, we are only at the starting gates. The race is just beginning!' A race against what, might you ask? Why—a race against ourselves, of course, for we have always outpaced and will continue to outpace anything Nature can throw at us in the hopes of dethroning our kind as the dominant species! We shall employ the very same forces wielded by Nature in order to bring forth her ultimate subjugation. Nature shall be our obedient mutt and we shall kick her in the ribs when she barks in defiance against us! We shall manipulate all waters, fires, and the four winds—we shall bring all these deterministic elements to our beckoning call, we shall laugh in the very face of Fate, for it is _each of us_ who controls our individual destinies and none other: we shall never be subject to the whims of Nature's elements while there is even the shallowest breath lasting in our bodies (even if said breath happens to be a breath of wind); if ever there were a creature resilient enough to stick it out through a brutal war against that she-bitch, Nature, surely, it is humanity!" The cheers reached a frenzy pitch, until the congregation sounded less like mourners and more like a mob of rallying supporters.

The mayor continued: "Now, the scientists of our noble Republic tell us there is a cure for Red-17 just around the corner, and I must ask you all today to place your faith in them, and aid their efforts, for the cure they say is another organism, with which Red-17 is a bitter rival. Do not fear this second organism, for we shall play these enemies against one another, while we stand aside and watch and laugh. With science at our disposal, there will never be any need to evacuate the town, you see! Red-17 will soon surely be on its last legs. It will become a laughable pest that future generations will regard as a mere stumbling block to our greater human advancement, for surely we must stumble innumerable times before we can achieve greatness. It is through enduring such challenges that we evolve into a hardier, more resilient, more courageous species. We shall rise from this valley and ascend to a greater height than our forefathers could possibly have envisioned. And I will tell you this: as I stand here today looking at a sea of faces from many a land who found for themselves greater opportunities here and a higher standard of living than they might have enjoyed otherwise had they not undertaken their great migrations, I think again of this blessed musician who sang not only for us Yamians, but for all those who have sought a better life away from their motherlands, for all of those who have joined us in this wonderful collective human experiment here on the banks of this great river. Now is a time when the divisions that separated us must surely be vanquished. We must love our fellow man, as one does a brother. We must cast aside our petty grievances and abide by the greatest compassion of which we are capable. We must be brave, we must be strong, we must love each other, and we must let the spirit of the Melodist carry us on! Thank you all for your attention and god bless!"

Immediately after this speech was the grand unveiling of a bronze statue of a smiling accordionist with tears in his eyes. The face, it was said, was sculpted using the death mask of the accordionist as its mold, but Bunnu and Q failed to see the resemblance.

As groups of foreign musicians, who had never even glanced upon the accordionist when he was still alive, ascended the stage to begin their musical tributes, the audience commented on how lifelike and realistic the statue looked. It was as though the spirit of the Bittersweet Melodist were watching over the town. Bunnu, however, was less than enthused.

"Each time I confront a disheartening truth, I swim deep in a sea of writhing porcupines!" Bunnu puled under his breath in helpless outrage. This whole scene affected him greatly, and yet in spite of his frustration, it was difficult for him not, out of automatic politeness, to moderate the volume of his sniveling so that only those immediately around him would be within earshot. "The Patron Saint of Horsefeathers! For all the time they had to find out what was really there bubbling under the surface of that face while he was still alive, all the time they could have sought to connect to the enigmatic origin of those melodies he composed, for all they could have known of the person he was aside from that façade he maintained for fear of their judgment, for all that time they wasted, they never once bothered, or else they bothered, but only half-heartedly so and gave up without putting much time or thought or love into it: and all they can do now is reverse-engineer their own asinine image of him, so that they might remember it fondly. They've achieved something remarkable, no?—they've created a fictional character to replace him, some seraphic entity to whom they can direct all miscellaneous prayers outside of the jurisdiction of other spiritual figureheads: look upon him now!—The Patron Saint of Horsefeathers! That is what they should call him at least! We may invoke his spirit whenever we like, and for whatever suits us. His metallic visage shall be waiting for us always here in the main square, waiting always to listen to our greedy prayers and our shallow ambitions, looking back at us with that stupid and understanding and quizzical expression sculpted in bronze, neglecting the transmigration of his own soul to a freer, unencumbered state of consciousness for the sake of all the petty worldly gains we seek. How noble! How altruistic! And how lucky he was to be chosen for this fate!" By now, Bunnu's venting had grown loud enough as to cause minor embarrassment to cross the face of Aunty Durga, who was just to the right of mon seigneur-Q. Q himself, who stood to Bunnu's right, remained seemingly unaffected through all this. Bunnu, upon realizing this, reiterated his rant as succinctly as he could manage: "This is all just a travesty! I guess that's what I'm trying to say." This declaration, too, prompted no response from Q, but only a tired sigh. Heartened by this seeming cynical affirmation, Bunnu pressed on with emboldened, tearful acrimony: "There is nothing at all exceptional about our species! Nothing worthy of our self-congratulation at least! We are all a bunch of bloody opportunists!"

"You're preaching to the choir." Q uttered finally, "Still, the mayor may have been right about one thing. If there is a redeeming quality for the human species, it is our potential: our potential to be better than what we are, to evolve physically and spiritually. Other than that, we are about as purposeful to the landscape as a mild case of eczema." mon seigneur's eyes drooped sadly, "Of course, you and I dwell just as much in this pit of hypocrisy as the others here. We stood by and let it happen too, his death I mean. We are just as much to blame as the people around us, if not more so. In fact, if there is anyone more blameworthy than us, perhaps it is Rat Man Miyazaki. However, I refuse to entertain the possibility that any of this could have been for the Greater Good, whatever the hell the Greater Good happens to be."

"You're right about that, but still...still, you must admit that all this pageantry is simply over the top. They are just using him to satisfy their own self-serving ideals. It's almost as though his actual life meant nothing. All the experiences he had, all that he held dear, all those sad and mirthful and poignant moments are gone. And in their place is this face cast over him, this face no more intricate or nuanced than that of the bronze statue over yonder. It barely resembles..." he wanted to use the name _Bhakti,_ but instantly remembered that this was not his friend's actual name, "barely...resembles... _Him:_ the clothes the figure appears to be wearing bear some similarities to the sort he used to wear, but the similarity ends there. That face is too plain and without expression, but I am told it was taken from his death mask. Of course a death mask should be without emotion, it is a mask made from the face of a person from whom every drop of life, every drop of spirit has been drained away. And yet, this death mask is already inspiring people more than his true visage in life. It is not him that is doing the inspiring; it is some other ideal for which his physical form has been mindfully appropriated. Just as most of these people who barely knew him can so easily accept this expressionless face as being emblematic, they can just as easily lend relevance to the moniker adopted on his behalf—the Bittersweet Whatever—in favor of his real name." Bunnu blushed after saying this, for he did not know the true name of his friend either. Just like everyone else, he had also failed to see his friend as anything but a projection of what he wished to see.

Q assented, adding, "He was neither worthy of their ridicule nor their reverence, but he is special to his family, and to those who'd loved him as such. And so, it's up to the rest of us to remember his name. It's up to us to remember the times we'd had with him, the things he said, and, most importantly, all those things left unsaid in the fleeting moments which passed between us. Unfortunately, in time, the precious and unique memories we have of him will be overshadowed by the falseness of this new identity which has been commandeered on his behalf. They have already erected a statue in his honor. I'm told they are also planning to teach the tribute songs being performed at this ceremony in schools—and to teach them as songs he had written himself for the glory of Yami, which, as you well know, is not the case. The Bittersweet Melodist, that fictional creation devised by the people of Yami, is soon to be immortalized. But this representation, too, on a long enough timeline, will one day be forgotten. One day the stars will swallow us whole again and we shall return to those celestial bodies whence we came, with no greater wisdom attained, none to give. So, as you can see, all is for sweet vanity. We must savor what treasured moments we have shared with those we love, we must live passionately and we must know always that our idealizations are filled with self-deception. Everything we ever do and say and think and feel will fade away in the infinite span of time, but there is something liberating in knowing that, something that makes it all seem as though this chemical process known to us as life is merely a game played by its own internal particles and nothing more. We are those spinning electrons which cavort and commune and fight and fuck—always in spin, ever uncertain! Nonetheless we must continue on as though it all matters, we must continue to idealize, we must continue to dream, we must continue to love—for we are all too human and we know not how else this game of life is to be played!"

"My darling!" Aunty Durga suddenly burst out with teary eyes. It was the first time Bunnu had heard her speak that day. It was the last time he would hear her speak again: "Never have I heard such compassionate words from you! And never shall we forget this moment!"

### * * *

Bunnu left Yami soon thereafter, or at least there was little else to remember between the funeral and his subsequent departure from town. Thoughts of the streets and the faces and the people and moments experienced would come to him infrequently over the years that followed. Whenever he thought of the place, he was overcome with grief at the possibility that it would be different if he ever tried to visit it again. People would have aged. Streets would look unfamiliar. He was saddened by the thought that there was no way to reclaim these lost moments.

In dreams, however, he spoke again with those people long dead or otherwise long out-of-contact. He revisited old moments which had fizzled away. He used obsolete machinery. He smelled the exotic fragrances of Durga's old teahouse on afternoons when it was still full of life. Everything in his dreams was always there waiting for him with fresh energy the way he'd left it in Memory: preserved and unquestionable and pristine. And each time he returned, those moments were rejuvenated in their remembrance. Colors gained vibrancy, sounds great melody, people grew young again with noble symmetry.

What heartened him most, however, was that, in dreams, events never recurred in the way they'd actually happened. For that, it was less the permanence of his memory for which he had to be thankful than its utter impermanence, for those gaps in recollection were sure to be filled with nothing less than unadulterated imagination.

The original facts were blurred and smudged with every attempt at revival, but it was his fantasy that touched up these growing imperfections with layers of images he'd rather see. And with time, the restoration overwhelmed more than just the depiction, it unified with the canvas, until it was as though the original had never been. These newer images were more pleasing, more sentimental, more calming.

Memories of experiences became more delightful than the experiences themselves could ever be. And thus, all events of the past withered to mere skeletons, veined and fleshed of fancy.

For, after all, of what use was memory anyway than as a template for one's most reassuring self-deceptions!

### X.

The heat of midsummer carried, in its breath, a suffocating and balmy atmosphere of such texture that a man at the moment of waking from a deep sleep—in this particular case, an escaped convict in his cabin hideout—may think himself, in the irrational torpor that persists upon emerging from the fugue-inducing seas of the Unconscious, no less submerged than in moments previous. This naïve passivity is, however, short-lived and the proclivity to bask in irresolute surrender to the migrating narratives of the dream state is, over time, vanquished—dashed to bits as with a crashing wave scattered over rocks.

An element of the context surrounding his physical form—sounds, textures, and the tastes of charged particles in air: all immutable and familiar in their consistency—descends upon the frontiers of Awareness until he feels himself enclosed by invisible, albeit recognizable, borders, whose finite, impervious surfaces uphold therefrom a stack of elaborate layers to be consumed by the perceptions: layers, which, when separated to their bare components, would otherwise yield very little in any effort to anchor the wandering, fugue-induced Intellect amidst the dueling currents of recollection and fancy, but which, in concert, seemed to possess a weight sufficient to arrest the drifting soul, in spite of such tides, and to moor it, as one might a sea-faring vessel, to the waiting shores of Wakefulness, until the discomfited drifter was left looming listless and lurching knobby-kneed.

In the case of this weary fugitive, the first inklings of waking fell upon him, not with a sound—as one might readily expect—but with a smell. Summer airs were ripe with a host of aromas, some of which could be called _delightful,_ but most of which, unless one was subject continually to hygienic conditions, were a terrible affront to the senses. However, as time progressed, one became accustomed, as with any nature of smell, unless some new element suddenly presented itself. On this particular morning, the agent that offered itself as prelude to his waking was a heretofore undetected smell, albeit one that he recognized with great familiarity. Its pungent odor was sufficient to arouse a momentary wince, and its saccharin undercurrent a flutter of the eyelids, but there was no lasting wakefulness to be brought from it.

Nonetheless, this ineluctable resurgence of the external inclined the Waker to a heightened sensitivity to the surroundings of his form. His eyelids fluttering again, he became aware of his position in space. He was parallel with the ground, he was facing upwards and his arms were at his side. He became conscious enough to open his eyes to let in the light, but found himself otherwise unable to move.

A paralysis gripped his body: his eyes were able to look straight up at the fuzzy light that formed his ceiling, but none of his muscles would contract, even with his greatest attempts at exertion. In fact, the vision of his eyes felt distant from his conscious self, as though he were viewing everything from the inside of a long tunnel. How could he push himself forward from that tiny point he occupied deep within his own body and spread his awareness outward so as to reclaim the whole of his frame? It seemed possible, but at the moment, his awareness was so very much pulled inward and away from the rest his physicality, as though succumbing to the retracting pull of a pinpoint black hole at his very center of gravity. Perhaps, his identity had also been pulled into the black hole, for he couldn't quite remember who he was or how he had gotten there (wherever this particular there happened to be).

He couldn't remember _anything_ about himself, except that he had experienced this state of paralysis and memory loss before. Yes, he now remembered how often, in his deepest state of sleep, he would be roused by some sound in the middle of the night which would bring him for a few weary seconds to a state of groggy consciousness. Unfortunately, his mind, in such a state, was absolutely adamant about getting back to sleep as soon as possible, and seemed to thwart quite skillfully any attempts on his part to reestablish connection with his waking identity, until fatigue finally overtook him again and he passed back into the depths of sleep. If memory served (which, for some reason, in this case, it did), this whole process would generally last about a half minute at the very most. Never, however, had he experienced this strain of amnesia in the morning, as he was now, at the moment of waking, and never for such an extended period of time. How long had it been now since he'd first opened his eyes? Three minutes? Five? Yet, he still couldn't move; he still couldn't remember.

Apparently, something was amiss.

Could it be that he had detached from his identity completely? Could it be that there was no identity at all from which to detach and that the present moment was just one more of those temporary molds he had to fill, no different from the sort he otherwise filled when passing between one narrative and another in the phantasmagoria of experiences thrust upon him by what his logical and linguistic _self_ referred to in naïve ignorance as "dreams?" Maybe he was No One at all. Perhaps, he was just a bundle of energy that occupied molecules, skipping from one body to the next, inheriting the experiences, the memories, and the biochemistry of his host. _Host—_ yes!—perhaps he was some kind of parasite, a Consciousness Parasite that lived vicariously off the meaning his host ascribed to its life.

There were so many possibilities, or maybe, none at all.

From somewhere behind his head came the snarls of wild children. They were coming from outside the cabin. He recognized these snarls—perhaps his host had heard them before and knew about them. These were the feral children who came about in the early morning everyday to forage for berries and nuts beneath the brambly patch just behind the cabin.

The children paced back and forth a few times along the outer wall, until one of them—presumably the leader of the bunch—snarled at the rest commandingly. They quickly trotted off somewhere, and the sounds immediately ceased. In their place came the melodic crooning of a solitary bird close by. Perhaps, the children were waiting for their moment to pounce. The realization of this made the Waker want to pull his head upwards from the mat on which he was lying, but all attempts to affect muscle contraction in the neck seemed to fail due to the lingering paralysis. He still couldn't remember who he was, or why he was there. But then, why did he know about the wild children? And how did he know that he was in a cabin in the woods? None of this was stirring up any recollections in him.

A new sound came from somewhere else in the room. He knew this sound well. He recognized it immediately: it was the sound of an ant clawing helplessly at glass walls. Yes, it was unmistakable. It was a very distinct sound. So, that must mean—

OF COURSE! The ant in the jar!

His muscles suddenly tensed and relaxed again as he felt the paralysis leave and his memory return. He remembered now that his name was Bunnu. And he remembered briefly that he'd had some unusual dreams about an abandoned ghost town he'd passed through once called Yami—odd dreams about events that had never transpired in reality that included an unlikely mix of characters he knew from various other places and moments in his life (including an oddly heartfelt cameo by his ex-wife, Pinky Satyajit), in addition to a host of other characters whom he had never known or met, but whom he could only assume were elements of his imagination, perhaps even reformulations of people he already knew—one of the characters told a lot of digressive stories, which reminded him of Rakesh-7, and another character had reminded him in some ways of his mother, Yuri, but only when she was angry. There was one central character whom he couldn't seem to relate to any person in particular, but who seemed to exist independently. He thought he remembered the name for a few brief seconds: _The Bittersweet Melodist, was it? Maybe._ But then, it left his mind. He could no longer remember the names of the other characters, but he could recall some strange talk of a rat deity for whom the characters in his dream seemed to possess both a mystical reverence and a bitter annoyance. There was a strange complexity to all of this, and part of him almost wanted to think that the experiences he'd had while asleep were real, and had existed in an independent realm from that what constituted _him._

There was a deep nostalgia to them, however, from which he couldn't seem to separate himself, though surely these experiences were not his own. Was it possible to feel nostalgic about something that had never happened to him, possible for nostalgia to be taken in by the body as a free pathogen to infect the consciousness with stray sentiments? Perhaps, in his dreams, he had traveled back in time, or even drifted into another dimension of _space-time_ and inhabited the body, experiences, and nostalgia of another. To even envisage so allowed the trauma of those lost moments, though not his own, to draw from him a certain envy for the entity in whose memories he had basked vicariously. He remembered now something that had been said to him in his dream: _"Maybe you have mistaken someone else for yourself, or vice versa."_ Could this have been true? In the depths of Collective Unconscious, had he drifted into and commandeered the identity of another person from another time? And, if so, how could this have happened? And why?

Perhaps, nostalgia was a microorganism just as communicable as the common bacterium. Perhaps, nostalgia _was_ the bacterium that infected the body of its host. Yes...maybe he was sick.

Sick?

Bunnu now remembered that, in the days prior to this, he had started to suspect he'd come down with some kind of metaphysical Ailment, presumably unrelated (but not necessarily so) to that infectious strain of Nostalgia with which he was currently grappling.

The true nature of this other Ailment still eluded him, but some part of him had started to feel that it wasn't so much an infection of the body as it was an infection of his essence, which was to say, that he'd begun to sense that _He_ was a part of the Ailment—not a host to it, but rather a minute component of some vast megaorganism whose name he did not know. In the weeks previous, he had been asking himself continually how this possibly could have happened.

How did this Ailment manage to claim him as its citizen? How did it gain control over him in the first place? Was it something he had caught in prison? Was it something he had breathed in, something which prevailed in the atmosphere all about him? Did it arise from that strange smell, whose scent was pungent and alarming at the moment of waking, but whose perceptibility grew fainter to recognition as the day progressed?

Worse yet: was it an Ailment with which he had been conjoined from his very conception? He hoped not. This last possibility was the most frightening. But if it was true, how could he not have realized it sooner? Maybe he had simply failed to notice. Or, maybe he had noticed it briefly, but had grown accustomed to it with the passage of time, thereby forgetting about it completely: much like that revolting odor he perceived every morning, but came to ignore by late afternoon. Perhaps, he had always been part of the larger Ailment, without once realizing the instrumental role he was playing in its proliferation.

Maybe _HE_ was the Ailment.

A lump formed in his throat. It was dry to the point that he was ready to choke. His eyelids fluttered as stinging tears formed in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks.

A strong chill shot through his body as his airy thoughts sublimated to a state of more manageable, concrete consistency. Suddenly, he knew that he had allowed his ruminations to stray too far from his comfort zone and into the strangest recesses of the abstract and the hypothetical. Of course, it was sensible to argue that the prospect of him being a Consciousness Parasite—or even, for that matter, an embodiment of a larger metaphysical Ailment—was not an utter impossibility; but surely it could, when held up against the weight and seeming authenticity of his daily experiences, be safely deemed improbable. These last few minutes of creative reasoning he had humored himself now seemed a good deal more given to specious and unfounded assumption, as the rational borders of waking now descended upon him—it was not unusual for such musings to come to him when his mind was most flexible in those first bleary moments of morning. But now, his memories were returning and his desire to explore the unlikely was diminishing. Perhaps, he would have felt greater motivation to continue in the pursuit of these eccentric ideas if he were still young. However, at the moment, the uncertainty and doubt they engendered were too much for this aging mind. The anxiety that had locked itself in his breast now deflated, and he felt his body grow lighter. He sighed in relief, for he knew again where he was, knew again how he'd gotten there, knew, for the moment, where he was expecting to go. That little was enough for him.

" _Boo-ga the Calamity!"_ a voice chirped from behind thick glass.

Bunnu cocked his head up and looked at the ant whose muffled, emphatic chirps at him from inside the jar conveyed nothing at all meaningful, though they seemed meaningful to the ant. The ant was motioning ardently at the side wall for some reason, where numerous other ants appeared to be grazing on mold. Bunnu couldn't be bothered to care what the noisy pest was going on about at this hour of morning.

He smiled contentedly and looked away from the frantic insect: that ant had been his arch nemesis in the prison; yet, now he couldn't help but think that it was the sudden recognition of this ant in his proximity which had opened the floodgates of those other lost memories attached to his ego. He supposed it should only be natural that thoughts of the ant would elicit the return of his other ego-bound recollections—his dominance over this pest was possibly the crowning accomplishment of his lifetime, thus far. He had undergone years of petty humiliation at its hands (at its _pretarsi,_ to use the proper nomenclature) before he was finally able to trap it. Of course, upon capturing the little terror, the initial temptation to kill it was nearly overwhelming, but, in the end, he decided against doing so out of sheer mercy and respect for his adversary.

It was much more gratifying to hold the ant captive, for doing so afforded Bunnu numerous occasions to marvel over his own magnanimity. In fact, he took every opportunity possible to pat himself on the back for being such a generous individual—though, to be fair, he was more than deserving of his own self-congratulation. He had, after all, acquired a remarkable facility at treating his captive well, at spoiling him even. He kept the ant well-fed and granted it every luxury imaginable, so that the captive might even come to enjoy his imprisonment. The more comfortable the ant felt, the better Bunnu felt about himself. Soon, Bunnu felt less like a captor and more like a host. He did not deem it ironical that the captor should go to such lengths to see to the comfort of his captive. He only assumed that this was natural, for this was why so many detainees at his previous prison had scoffed at his own attempts to escape: they couldn't understand why he'd wanted to leave in the first place. They loved it there! Comfort, Bunnu had realized during his imprisonment, was the key ingredient to making the prisoner crave the prison. And so he used similar devices in the hopes of bringing the ant to accept—and even delight in—its own situation.

In doing so, Bunnu succeeded at lulling the ant into embracing his dominion. The more comfortable it became, the deeper its dependence upon him grew.

And as the ant grew needier, Bunnu, too, acquired a certain breed of dependence that worked on two levels. On one level was the dependence that arose from his satisfaction at having assumed authority over his lesser. Certainly there was a stimulation to be had in exerting absolute control over the environment and behaviors of another. And one could scarcely doubt that out of this stimulation blossomed a kind of powerlessness in the face of a burgeoning power addiction. On the second level was the dependence which manifested out of Bunnu's budding compassion for this ant who depended on him so much, and who so eagerly awaited his return whenever he had gone out on errands. Bunnu very much liked being needed: he therefore started to grow dependent on the ant's dependence.

And so, over the course of weeks and months, this mutual interplay of dependences, upon each and the other, fused between these former foes an affable bond which grew so deep that Bunnu almost didn't mind viewing the ant as his 'pet,' so long as the little ruffian knew its place in the ecosystem of this household and did nothing to disturb the pax he had established by weight of his authority. The thought of killing the ant no longer gave Bunnu pleasure. After all, if he did so, the glory of besting it would surely fade with time; on the other hand, with this ant in captivity, the glory would almost seem renewable and everlasting. Bunnu would continue to have the best of both worlds: he would have both a captive and a companion all at once, just like any zookeeper or pet owner or dominatrix!

And how could any human possibly crave anything more?

Bunnu now blinked his eyes several times, propping himself by an elbow upwards from the surface of his uneven, tattered mat. The light poured in from between the gaps in the wood planks which formed the walls of the cabin, for the surface of this space was as riddled with discontinuity as the surface of these scattered recollections from which he was emerging. He wondered briefly if his own skin was as equally discontinuous, his own insides as equally permeable to contamination from that light which sought to penetrate from the outside. He rubbed his eyes as the cries of the birds and those of wild children coincided for a brief, violent second of predation.

A sudden knock came at his door. "Bunnu, are you in there?" It was a female's voice. This was followed by a series of garbled mumbles. She was speaking to a man. He recognized the voice of the man immediately as that of Ottoman-13: the detective who had arrested him nearly 10 years earlier. He remembered now that the detective also claimed that they were quarter-brothers-in-law. An odd fabrication certainly! Really! How was he expected to believe such nonsense! Perhaps it was some kind of intimidation tactic he'd learned in his training: the use of disinformation in order to disorient and further manipulate the suspect!

Unless of course...

"Bunnu! It's Didi! Will you please open up?"

"Think he's seen your note yet?"

"Even if he has, he probably couldn't read it. My sources in the prison tell me he's forgotten how to read."

The ant sighed upon hearing this, for he knew that there was nothing left on that note for Bunnu to read anyway. Soon after the note had been slipped under the door, word-ants had crawled out from underneath the facedown page, happy, presumably, to be liberated from the confines of paper. At the time, from inside his jar, the ant had been eyeing up a civilization of mold on the wall, over which he dreamt of presiding as king. Now, however, the wall was being overrun by an army of pillaging word-ants who picked the civilization apart, reducing it to near nothingness. Naturally, the ant in the jar, now, had no recourse, but to admit defeat: the word-ants had beaten him to it.

The ant sighed again, wondering if future generations of the surviving mold's descendants would ever really grasp what horrors their forefathers had endured; or, if they could possibly fathom how their fates might have been better, had circumstances favored his own aspirations to preside over them as their protector and benevolent dictator. As he considered this, the black semioplasmic substance comprising the word-ants separated and scattered in different directions, disappearing between grooves in the walls of the cabin. The roving hordes had dispersed.

" _Boo-ga the Calamity!"_ the ant whispered to himself sadly.

"Poor chap." This was said in reference to Bunnu, of course, not to the dejected ant of whose existence the speaker was, as yet, unaware: "Yes, I heard that can happen in those experimental detention facilities. Lots of ex-prisoners tell me there are many cases of Acquired Illiteracy. Terrible affliction that! Hope that's not what he's got. I say, have you tried yon doorknob?" There was a pause. "Sorry," This was said possibly in response to a look of annoyance. "I suppose that was a silly idea?"

"Don't you have _any_ consideration? We can't barge in on him like that! Especially not with Bunnu. He likes his privacy! This is not the way to get a positive response from him."

"Right. I suppose banging on his door at this hour of morning is no less an intrusion then?"

"We've waited here quietly long enough. Usually, I don't mind waiting on doorsteps for long periods of time, but I can't stand another minute in this sun!"

" _But-"_

"If you've no good ideas to offer, then why don't you just go back to the inn and restring your banjo! We don't have much time until we go on anyway. Besides I never said you _had_ to come!"

"I wanted to see him too. I told you that! I like to think of myself as more than just his arresting officer. I'd like to think of myself as...you know...as... _family."_ There was a momentary pause, "So...you...er...reckon he'll be interested in coming to our evening show?"

"I don't know. We'll see. We've a lot to talk about." Then the knocking resumed, "BUNNU?"

"Lots to catch up on, too, I suppose. How long's it been since you've seen your quarter-brother?"

"About 230 years."

And as though to declaim to all, with lasting fervor, the astounding nature of this statistic, the knocking suddenly became harsh pounding. Even the ant in the jar began to cower at its intensity.

Bunnu lazily sat up on the mat and stretched for a moment, in the hopes of regaining his wits before this new intrusion from the outside had any opportunity to gain access to him. A clarity slowly flowered in his mind and he suddenly felt different now than he had a moment ago, though he couldn't precisely understand why. Whatever it had been, those recollections of moments earlier, though important at the time, were far away. Almost gone completely.

Now, there was the moment at hand with which to contend; now, his brief, however fleeting, hiatus from the events of the day had reached its sudden and forgettable terminus; now, it was time to forget again and time to re-remember: for, now, he was a different man from that of moments prior.

Now he was awake!

### About the Author

Ashim Shanker has never been, and probably isn't yet, but certainly aspires to be. Surely, one day he MIGHT be, but there is no guarantee he WILL be. He was disappointed to find out yesterday upon waking that he still wasn't, nor would he be for the rest of the day. But still, today has not yet passed. So we must wait and see. In the meantime, we cannot rule out the possibility, however negligible, that he will have been at some point in the distant horizon. Yet, for the present, we are still faced with the bleak and disheartening probability that he never was, nor shall ever be. Whatever comes of such confusing matters, he nonetheless appreciates the interest of the reader and apologizes in advance for any time that is sure to be wasted in pointlessly deciphering the befuddling prose of this trifling wannabe.

