Garden of Chaos

By HM Clay

Beware of the Final Exam!

In a countdown towards cerebral conversion, a college student must decide: shall he wager his freedom—and his life?

Gauge Alabaster, freshman at Madian State University, makes one mistake. By joining an alley cat-racing ring, he unexpectedly plunges into a brutal turf war with the Ninjas of the Bronze Dragon Clan.

Finding refuge in the steam tunnels, Gauge descends into an even larger underworld of fanatical mobs, demented professors, clown attorneys, and criminal pop stars.

With the help of an unlikely team of misfits, Gauge fights against the mysterious forces that conspire to censor his thoughts and manipulate his mind.

Inspired by the lectures of psychologist Jordan B. Peterson, Garden of Chaos is rich with coming-of-age philosophy, cultural allusions, gallows humor, and biting political commentary. Plus it's way more fun than your average English Lit assignment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HM Clay
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386453505

Book preview

To Angela, the love of my life, this book is dedicated to you.

Tending the garden is a relaxing pastime, but it does not prepare one for the inevitable battles of life. It is easy to be calm in a serene setting. To be calm and serene when under attack is much more difficult; therefore, I tell you that it is far better to be a warrior tending his garden rather than a gardener at war.  —Chinese Proverb

Tuesday, January 27 (International Geophysical Year: 29)—49 Days after the Final Exam

My lawyer was under the interview table. Hearing the door unlatch, he awkwardly crawled out from between the legs of cold steel. The corrections officer calmly helped me limp to my seat and removed my arm chains.

I winced as I sat down on the metal chair. It was about three months ago when I discovered that I was naturally agile and elusive. Since then, those gifts have been taken away—probably permanently.

As if in commiseration, my lawyer’s joints creaked as he slunk to his chair. Getting too old for this sorta thing, he chuckled.

I managed a grin, Attorney Munder, I hope I’m worth it. After twenty-four hours of solitary confinement in the Scring County Jail, I was happy to hear a voice other than my own.

You’re the highest profile case of my life, he replied, while pushing back the few grey strands that remained on his head. Might as well go out with a bang.

Munder waited until the officer exited, then nodded to the floor beneath the desk. I was checking for bugs.

This room is completely bare, I observed.

Yes, Alabaster, and cops rarely lie. He raised an eyebrow. With the public pressure this high, however, they may not play by the rules.

Please call me Gauge.

Perhaps I’m still thinking of your father. You look a lot like him except—

—Except much smaller? I finished for him, feeling the baggy orange convict uniform hanging off my shoulders. My face, pale and with minimal stubble, also failed to add the toughness that, should I end up in prison, I would desperately need.

Recently, I’ve daydreamed of Abat Gart, like a bull through a barn, smashing through the cinder walls of my cell and carrying me to freedom. I risked my life for his rescue. I hope that he will do the same.

Munder flopped the Madian State University newspaper, The Taily Times, onto the table. It was dated for today. The headline: Alabaster Offered Plea Bargain.

Casparian prosecutors have presented the attorney of former MSU student, Gauge Alabaster, with a formal offer of a reduced sentence in exchange for a guilty plea—according to sources familiar with the matter.

My eyes shot to Munder, I thought our negotiations were confidential.

Another leak to the press, he replied. You see why I’m so apprehensive.

I resumed reading:

Currently, over fifty Casparian Security Agency officers are searching for the former MSU student Bimmian Fletch and former MSU groundskeeper Abat Gart. Both men are believed to be members of the violent extremist group known as the Squeegies and are suspected of having close ties to Alabaster.

Sources confirm that, in return for the sentence mitigation, prosecutors demand that Alabaster produce information leading to the whereabouts of Fletch and Gart.

Last month, Alabaster was arrested and charged as a conspirator behind the tragic Final Exam Cookie Break which occurred at MSU’s Naminanu Dining Hall on December 9.

Dr. Patricia Wandsworth, MSU Professor of Wellbeing, diagnosed the psychological unease that grips the campus. Our community’s uncertainty over exactly what happened during Final Exams—and who’s responsible—has caused anxiety, she stated, which I fear will lead to an epidemic of deep emotional trauma. There have been rumors. There have been recent sightings. Some say that Gart has crawled back down from the mountains. We need closure. Who will save us from these monsters?

The public’s demanding answers from the CSA; Munder cut in, answers that you can provide. That’s your only leverage. Will you take the deal?

I lowered my head in rumination. How did I get in this mess?

It was about three months ago...

PART I

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1 (International Geophysical Year: 28)—38 Days until the Final Exam

I first met Abat Gart in an alley behind Epping Hall. This was the same day I also first saw Madian State’s esteemed Professor of Wellbeing: Eno Philon.

If you are a communications major, like I was, you took most of your freshman year classes in Epping Hall. Though I was a few months into my first semester, I was still a novice at navigating Epping’s labyrinthine passages of concrete. They are like a demented architect’s drug-induced nightmare. I can imagine he modeled the build by dumping a bucket of children’s blocks and tenaciously adding more and more cubes to the pile until it defied gravity.

Some said the architect sold his design by conjecturing that the erratic layout would psychologically quell the student impulse to riot. Later that night, I learned that this was poppycock.

It was mid-morning. Like usual, I was under-slept with a spinning inner compass. I had fought against my eyelids for most of Ms. Hentschel’s lecture on, How to Give a Lecture.

Choosing the wrong door, I found myself in a stairwell, empty and polluted with the buzz of florescent lights. Instinctively, I went downward toward a one-way door with an exit bar.

As it borders the western side of Scring City, MSU evades the shadow of the Rune Mountains. This morning, the sun was aligned perfectly in the south, that one seven minute period in the day that shot a beam of light down the alley sandwiched between Epping and the smaller Godalming Hall.

The sound of loud grunting set me aback. A gaggle of students stood along the narrow passage, scribing notes upon clipboards. I was interrupting a lab session led by Dr. Eno Philon, and Abat Gart was the current subject of observation.

Compared to the more urbanized denizens, Abat was unique. His genetics made him abnormally large. Decades of harsh survival had hardened his hands, his skin, and his expression. His salt and pepper hair was crudely shorn to a minimum. Under his green flannel shirt, a torn T-shirt clung to his overworked muscles. His denim overalls completed the clichéd image of a lumberjack. Local fashionistas would have labeled him as a trite parody. One close whiff of Abat's stained coverings, though, and there was no denying that he was an authentic man of the soil.

He seems angry, remarked a female coed as she watched him forcefully tear through stacks of cardboard, uttering the occasional loud grunt. Should I not feel safe?

Though born and raised deep in the mountain range, Abat’s lack of official documents made his employment at the university illegal, but it’s not like the Casparian Department of Labor was concerned.

The university only employs members who have passed the most rigorous third-party background screening, assured Philon—a bald man with a well-groomed goatee. Both the tenor of his voice and facial expression were serene, which (I would later learn) was the professor’s near-permanent state of being. He’s currently harmless.

At this Abat grunted.

Philon continued, Given his disadvantaged socio-economical background, however, there may be an inner rage, which he has learned to channel into his work. Remember the field study in Starcadia? The clown? The animal balloons?

The students silently nodded. A male in the back asked, Where does this cardboard go?

Abat broke his silence, A forklift takes it to the storage warehouse on the East Side. The students seemed taken aback by his rudimentary drawl, or maybe they were surprised that he could speak at all.

Another male student looked perplexed. Um... warehouse? He tentatively looked to his teacher. To be recycled... right?

Yes, the professor answered. Eventually... Now, while I am not an expert in environmental engineering, I do know about the steps that MSU is taking to further reduce its carbon footprint and combat climate change. He smiled and his voice returned to a lecture tenor.

We are going to have this new thing, he explained, beaming. I represented the Human Studies Committee during one of President Deco’s Faculty Advisory meetings. She showed us the plans. It was wonderful. In the Research Park, we will build a grandiose Resource Recovery Center. Designed by MSU scientists, it will be the first of its kind: a highly technological facility that is meant to make landfills a thing of the past!

As Abat resumed the ripping and grunting, the professor prattled, In the efficient design, as much as 1,000 tons of solid waste can be thoroughly separated and recycled each day. Through chemical procedures, other wastes could be converted to ethanol and methanol, which can be used as fuel. The center is even meant to power itself! It will be thorough, efficient, and clean.

But whatta bout now? A student questioned. The warehouse?

That’s where the cardboard will wait, the professor answered. But, Philon paused to build tension, will Mother Nature wait? Several students murmured in appreciation. Abat grunted.

Sensing a wrapping point, Philon dismissed the class. He pointed towards the path illuminated by the sunbeam. Your studies continue.

I considered merging with the crowd on their way out. I found myself, however, intrigued by a single unopened box near Abat’s feet. A muffled meow came from inside.

Philon, who also lingered behind, approached Abat. He calmly looked the woods-giant in the eye and sneered, Inbred.

Pardon? Abat asked.

Philon gestured to the mystery box with Cello Bread printed on its side. Your cat’s IN bread, he stated with a straight face before exiting the alley.

Abat opened the box. A straggly mass of calico fur leapt out and meowed loudly. I then understood the reasoning behind his grunts. He was hiding a pet.

Standing next to Abat, I felt the physical contrast. Even at the age of nineteen, I was used to hearing comments regarding my childlike appearance—as if puberty had only met me half way.ru

Shipping that to the warehouse too? I asked with an awkward grin.

Nah, Abat replied with a chuckle. That there is Luna. She’s good for catching the vermin, and—he paused to ensure that Philon was no longer in sight—racing.

I was incredulous. You’re racing cats?!

Abat shrugged. Trying to. Now that I told you, you’re invited. Got any cash?

Yeah...

I didn’t want to tell him my source of blow money. My mother’s weekly support check just cleared. As soon as I received one in the mail, I went straight to the bursar’s office. There, the cashiers would often snicker at how my mother would write, Your Mama Loves You!! on the memo line. Embarrassing.

Tonight, Abat whispered, after 11:48, but only come if you’re willing to place a bet.

Uh, thanks but... heck no!

HAROLD WAS A HORRID roommate, especially when he skipped his medication or his showers. Unlike me, he was obese—though he would often interchange medical terms like gainer and trans-thin. Also, unlike me, he was very effective at making friends. He belonged to the university theatre, which had the reputation as the freakiest free-love group at MSU.

Harold’s favorite late-night amusement was not meeting up with girls, but, rather ironically, giddily watching The New Adventures of Contraceptive Mole, on Toon TV, while also hysterically jumping up and down on his bed. Thankfully, the heavily abused frame springs were not my responsibility.

Harold jiggled hypnotically as he bounced up and down on his bed. I realized that, until he passed out, my sleep would be impossible. I turned my eyes to the TV and the image of the Rubber Rodent’s arch nemesis, Sour Pussy, reminded me of Abat’s strange invitation. I grabbed my wallet and purple hoodie and slammed the door behind me. Like they say, Curiosity killed the cat. Little could I have guessed how many felines would be dead by morning.

The Carillon Tower clock struck midnight.

Saturday, November 2—37 Days until the Final Exam

Due mostly to the noise of the male voices and the reflection of their flickering flashlights, it was much easier to find the alley between Epping and Godalming in the dark. Inconspicuously, I stayed to the back of the huddle.

Abat was easy enough to spot alongside a row of mewing, makeshift cardboard stalls. The center of attention, however, was a man with strikingly long blonde hair, hairsprayed to the max—much like the rockers of glam metal. He wore the sky-blue and pink floral pattern of an Ibosian Island shirt (in this nippy weather), with sunglasses dangling around his neck. His skin seemed too tanned and leathery for a typical student. His name was Bimmian Fletch, but most of his friends called him Bimmy.

Time’s nearly diminished, dudes! He exclaimed with a smile. Which feline will be deemed most triumphant? Lufkin? Catters? Radish? Luna? Lottie? Pan? Elvira? The college boys were stuffing rupees into color-coded tin cans, which Bimmy’s excited assistant, Rael Manos, exchanged for strips of equal color.

Raise the net! Bimmy called, as two boys emerged from the top of the hall walls and dropped a curtain of sown-together tennis nets down the end of the alley. Two more boys stood at the bottom to seal the exit.

Butt to the brick, bros! The spectators snapped to the sides of the alley.

Lights out! They extinguished their electric torches. Lasers ready! Several red dots illuminated the concrete spaces in front of the cardboard stalls.

Bimmy did a triple sidewalk spin (which, at the time, seemed impossible) before dramatically pointing at the net and exclaiming, Languishing livers!

Abat lifted the cardboard gate. Six cats darted towards the laser spots, which the spectators inched gradually towards the end of the alley. Lufkin, however, panicked and darted in the opposite direction. Abat was ready, vigorously shaking a large coffee can filled with (what sounded to be) loose pieces of metal. Lufkin was spooked towards the correct direction. Abat then stomped in his oversized boots, shaking the ground behind the feline herd as they progressed to the finish line.

As I was focusing on the darting cats, the laser beams erratically scattered. I heard anxious yelps in the crowd. Within my peripheral, a rope dropped, and down slid a slender figure covered almost entirely in black, with only a slit to expose a sliver of grey skin around his almond-shaped eyes. He was carrying a wooden kendo sword. To my fortune, he chose to first strike the spectacled face of the boy standing to my right. Blood spurted from his mouth. I nervously glanced about to detect dozens of other shadowy figures repelling and slipping down the concrete sides of the brutalist rooftops. They were ninjas. Shrieks of fear emanated from the gamblers.

Like a herd of panicked cats, we darted for an end to the alley, but a cloud of smoke obscured the exit. No doubt these bombs were a visual tactic laid by our foes. I barely made out three boys running into the tennis net. The ninjas promptly utilized the webbed encasement—wrapping their victims like flies. I ducked a quick kendo strike and dashed back to the center of the action, but I knew we were trapped.

Amidst the smoke and the chaotic noise, the darkness and confusion, I glanced upwards to see a slender figure on the roof. The only female on the scene, her bleached white hat and coat glowed in the light of the yellow moon. She stood silently, observing, with her hands propped on the railing.

My attention was diverted by a single sign of hope. A ninja yelped as he was flung next to me. I looked towards the thrower. The mighty Abat was absorbing the kendo strikes. With forceful grunts he pummeled ninjas to his left and right. Sensing the threat, more foes joined the effort. Bimmy wisely stood near Abat, kicking at the ninjas with the wheels on his shoes.

Abat made a gesture for Bimmy to skate backwards before extending his trunk-like arms and performing a pirouette. His spinning fists landed four ninjas on their backs.

Yet we were still far from safe. We caught a glimpse of even more shadows rushing towards us. I noticed a door—the very same portal that I had exited from Epping’s secret stairwell earlier that morning. I pulled with all my strength, unable to budge the lock.

Abat read my mind. He grabbed his cat-spooker and shook out the rattling pieces of metal. It was a massive ring of keys. Taking another kendo blow to his chest, Abat punched a ninja directly in the face—knocking him unconscious. Abat then ran to my side and diligently filed through the dozens of keys.

Just then I heard the ear-piercing cry of Rael. He slumped next to Bimmy with a star of sharp silver protruding from his upper arm.

Heinous! Bimmy exclaimed.

Sensing that action had reached a dire level, Abat palmed his keys and slammed his shoulder into the metal door, knocking it off its hinges. He ushered Bimmy, Rael, and I into the flickering florescence of the stairwell. Then Abat moved to our backside, warding off the attackers. Once we were inside, he lifted the metal door, propping it over the portal, and pounded on its four corners, wedging a barrier between us and chaos.

With Bimmy leading the way on his inline skates, we fled into one of Epping’s hallways. I impulsively darted towards a classroom, but Abat yelled, Over here! Using the key ring, he unlocked a broom closet and pushed us inside. Rael groaned as Abat brushed his left arm.

Whatta bout you? Bimmy asked.

Luna’s out there, Abat protested. Besides, I wouldn’t fit.

We chill, Bimmy agreed.

Abat slammed the door shut, locking us inside the closet. We heard Abat’s footsteps as he ran further down the hall. Huddled close, Bimmy and I panted in the dark. I could smell his odd mixture of sweat, hairspray, and coconut lotion. Rael groaned again.

Bimmy whispered, Dude, this is bogus! We must proceed toward the infirmary.

With one of the star’s four points lodged in the dark brown skin of his shoulder, Rael grimaced in his Iboian accent, I’m not bleeding much.

Bimmy grasped and yanked, roughly dislodging the Yamaian projectile. Rael yelped as even more blood spurted.

Dumbbutt! Rael cursed.

You’re the dweeb who requires most excellent medical procurement! Bimmy countered.

If the campus cops find out, I’ll be expelled and then shipped, protested Rael. Unlike posers, like you, I’m a real alien.

Dude, then just bitch, Bimmy returned. The admins don’t have the testicular fortitude to deport anyone. Besides, it’s more preferable than laboring upon weeks of laundry, bleaching out odious bloodstains... or dying.

Shut it, Rael whimpered. Then I heard it too—a faint brushing rhythm, like someone dragging a large towel across the hall floor tiles. It