Zen, Lesbians & the Übermensch

By Frigga von Asgard

After the Flood, things have changed. Prague is the world capital.  The Chinese are enslaved and women have been sent back to the kitchen. In a world in which the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche undepins society, Zen is banned and homosexuality is punishable by exile to Britain. Enter a teenage girl with a preference for female intimacy...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Pockley
• Release date: Jul 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781539416418

Book preview

Act no. 12/2158, the Act on Public Morals

§ 581 Should a female Citizen suffer rape, her Father, Brother, Son or registered Responsible Male Kin may treat the rapist as Outlaw unless or until he surrenders himself to the appropriate authorities.

§ 582 Should the Father, Brother, Son or registered Responsible Male Kin kill a rapist according to § 581 the killer or killers shall incur neither civil nor criminal liability.

* * *

She glared at her watch, then at the slave’s stubbled scalp. Holy Friedrich – grey stubble. She’d seen her sister smirk – little Mrs Perfect with her respectable husband and a pubescent slave bought fresh from the farm.

And how long could it take to paint ten toenails? She had an article to write – she, a mere woman, trusted by the Editor with the trending theme! She tapped a foot. The slave stopped painting. The tapping ceased. The geriatric bag of bones got back to work.

Call it the Twin Centenary, he said. "A century of sea levels lower than the Statue of Liberty’s ankles; a century of hemlines lower than ladies’ ankles! You see the link?  Self-control and emissions control. Modest consumption, modest clothes?"

Bless the post-feminist world. By-lines were for boys: she’d not see her name credited with such crap. Just in the back door with her copy and out with a quiet wad of cash.

The slave creaked upright, showing her yellow face and sly, slitty eyes. Squeak by squeak, she screwed the lid on the pot. Slow, like her ancestors. Slow to heed the warnings, slow to discard fossil fuels. Yellow skin, sly, slitty eyes: the marks of Cain.

Perhaps adrenalin might help? Tapered fingernails fondled her phone as her gaze lingered on the slave’s collar: but the shadow of the whip sufficed. Lid screwed down, scurrying feet, hand in the small of the back: the mistress exhaled, the old slave heaved. Corset laces cleated, a dress tugged tight around a forty centimetre waist. A bit of a pinch, forty centimetres, but one had to stifle the rumours. A woman who could not breathe was above suspicion, incapable of paid employment.

Besides, the corset was well-made. Perhaps there was an article in that? Corsetry and comfort down the ages? A double-page spread of pseudo-scientific bullshit on carbon fibre boning, leavened with those funny photos of skinny women from that century they didn’t wear stays. Could be good for a week’s rent.

"Come on – jacket!" Were all Chinese mentally deficient? Or was it just hers? She’d not go to the auctions again: one careful owner, indeed! Still, the only other bidder was the meat-man, so she had got her cheap.

The slave curtseyed with a grimace. It was not even for sympathy – she had heard the grind in the knees. An operation, get a few more years out of her? No. That would be throwing good money after bad. Another six months, then get some cash back from the meat-man.

She nodded at the slave, who replied, Please forgive my Original Sin.

She checked the mirror one last time. You are forgiven. Grey stubble! How embarrassing! And shave your head before I get home.

And again she checked the mirror. One couldn’t be too careful – but yes, she looked like a home-maker. And one final glance at the phone - the slave was at the sink, allegedly washing dishes, but in fact had propped her scrawny ass on a stool. Six months, then the glue factory. What a false economy!

* * *

So the global warming guys were right. Boston’s under water. Harvard’s opening a faculty in marine biology. [nervous laughter] When spring tides and onshore winds team up, we lose the Statue of Liberty’s toes. And they say it’s accelerating – the rest of New York’s got maybe ten years. I gave a talk in London last week. Big audience. Mostly ducks. [laughter] But as a Buddhist, people ask, how should I respond? The Mormons find it easy to respond – Salt Lake City’s fine. God loves Mormons – no flood, great boating lake. Proves Joseph Smith was genuine. [laughter] But as Buddhists? Simple. Not easy, but simple. We let go. Sit on our little black cushions – and let go. Let go London. Let go The Bronx. Let go, soon, of Paris. Let go Copenhagen. Let go Shanghai. Let go them all, like we already let go of Holland. We all gotta let go, you know. You think New York is precious? Think you can’t let go? One day, you’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die. You gotta let go of that: no choice there. This is good practice. So listen, we’re about to sit on our holy black cushions. Let go of New York. It’ll be good practise for letting go of life - something we’ll all need to do some day.

Brad Warner, Collected Talks, Shambhala Press, 2043. Anathemised by Archbishop Hans Pavel IX. Propagation of this Zen text is punishable by Transportation, § 10, Act no. 5/2106. DO NOT COPY. DO NOT REMOVE.

* * *

A contented smile lying upon her lips, the slave peered up at her mistress through the bars of the basement window. Prague’s morning river-mist had not risen high enough to hide the shameful silhouette of a woman on her way to work.

The other slaves knew. When visiting, she shared the shame, always sent by the host’s slaves to the bottom of the kitchen table. Some obliged her not to sit but wait upon the other slaves. Yet even at this recollection, a contented smile still curled about her mouth.

In her prime she had worked for proper ladies, waited upon them as they sat proudly idle all day. Had that been better? She chuckled at herself. Yes, she had thought so at the time! Those days when she was still plagued by an ego - what a burden to carry around! Tighter than a slave-collar. More insistent than a mistress with trigger-finger.

Better now, she thought, soothing suds into a plate, quietly waiting for the meat-man. The dogs had to eat something. Why not her? And up there the young mistress was taking the air, bless her. It was always pretty mist at this time of day, drifting off the river, tinged with the blessings of dawn. Her face glowed golden, looking east across Janáčkovo nábřeží. She would be watching tiny ripples on the Vltava – light clouds were ambling across the tiny patch of sky between the bars – and watching the sun gleam on the National Theatre’s gold-flecked roof.

The slave, stuck below stairs, was momentarily wistful – but once again the corners of her mouth climbed and peace seeped from her smile. I have the washing up, she thought – and these bubbles, each is a shimmering universe. As Bodhisattva Brad said, Everything is sacred; and everything profane.

She glanced up again to see her mistress’ skirt catching the breeze. A westerly, thank Friedrich. No carbon-sink stench today.

A peaceful start for her mistress. Karma – for the mistress had given her a peaceful start to her day, just the one small reminder from her collar and, in fairness, she had been a minute late with breakfast. Besides, it had only been a tingle, with no headache after and not even the tiniest tinge of nausea. Probably the lowest pre-set on the phone. And she was already en route with the tray, so it had not lasted long. The new mistress – certainly as demanding and impatient as any child snared in Samsara! - but not vindictive.

Feeling a gentle surge of gratitude, she glanced up at her mistress just in time to see a cloud of crimson steam puff from her back.  For a fraction of a second the slave glimpsed daylight through her mistress in the space where her liver had been. Then the corpse crumpled to the cobbles.

* * *

St. Friedrich Nietzsche Academy for Gentlemen

School Rules

§ 12 No Scholar may strike another Scholar with a closed fist without Due Cause. Due Cause is defined as self-defence or the defence of one’s honour or the defence of family honour.

* * *

Across the river, Adolf stroked the first steroid stubble on his twelve-year-old chin. An observer, cowering in deep shadow, saw a proud grin playing about his classmate’s lips. Pride in what? Maybe it was the facial hair - or maybe the sight of his eight-year-old brother twenty metres up the sole remaining wall of the Prague Hilton. The observer cowered deeper in the hole, ashamed of his own skinny arms, cursing the mother he loved. She had said no to steroids. She had plagued him with a Czech name, like a girl.

Good chap! shouted Adolf. Now carve your name!

Anywhere in particular?

Is mine still there? On the left somewhere? I know it’s been three years...

Found it!

"Űbermenschlich! Put yours under mine. Then you come – but this time the easy way. I promised Father I’d not let you over-train."

It was not until Hans had scampered down the fire escape and his teeth had ripped the heart out of a soya sandwich that it was possible for him to consult the oracle. Woffah ovfa shrnng?

Chew, then swallow. What if there were a lady watching?

Here? He gestured at the bent, rotting piles of ferro-concrete.

"Everywhere. To be uncouth is a fault of youth. Are you a man?" His brother chewed, then swallowed.

I am a gentleman.

"Remember, nobody’s born a gentleman. So what were you trying to ask?"

Over-training, you said. But that’s impossible. The more you train, the stronger you get.

"Mankind is a bridge, not a goal - and if you overload a bridge, it breaks. Remember – what was his name? Anyway, he’d left St. Fred’s by the time you joined. So we all arrived for the First Year – but he had his arm in a sling. Over-training, he’d said, too many reps with too much weight. No elder brother to guide him. Mother a widow, too fat to remarry. And if you’re brought up by your mother, what chance have you got? No chance.

"This lad meant well. He did the right thing before he came, training so he’d survive St. Fred’s. But over-trained, arrives with his arm in a sling, poor sod.

"Anyway, we all arrived about the same size, but like you know the first year is at least half physical, so by Christmas, what with him being out of training and us bulking up, we all started practising our tai kwon do on him. Just bruises, so the teachers turned a blind eye."

You first?

The elder brother ground a heel into the dirt. No – to my shame, I pitied him.

"But Pity preserves what is ripe for destruction!"

Good man!

"The Antichrist, section 7. We’re all training for First Blood, so the catechism’s on the toilet door. Junior changing rooms."

"So yes, I pitied him – and remember, Hans, it’s a brave man who admits his faults. And he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and jostle nobody, so there was no legitimate excuse to punch him. But once Johann started the destruction, well...I was shamed into getting physical too. But I hit him too hard. Broke the lad’s nose. No hiding that. So I was up on the stage in Assembly - and Punching Without Due Cause is a six-stroke offence. I tell you, that cane cuts! But it was worth it. After that, even some of the Prefects gave me a ‘good morning’ – the only First Year whose name was known. Word got around. Father came home very proud – they’d even mentioned it at work."

So what happened to What’s-his-name?

It was grim. I was soaked in glory and I didn’t tell how bad the cane hurt, of course. So all the other First Years had a go. He lost teeth, one by one, until his mother moved the family to Česky Brod.

And did he get beat up there?

"Beaten up. Past participle. That’s displayed in the senior bogs. Don’t know. Doubt it – he got pretty good at fighting by the end, so I guess two-handed he’ll be a match for anyone. Probably the