Migrations, Volume III: Inward and Toward

By Ashim Shanker

"There stands upon the horizon a new figure of self yet to be unfolded that one must...honor. All of this will be the same, but it will look and feel different upon one’s return—it is important to know this now. One can stand upon a ridge high above the valley, upon a formation of jutting rocks and look over the precipice of what one has known. Even in its multitude of permutations, all looks familiar: the mountains, the fields, the skies—all of it connected to one’s eyes as though by invisible threads. The idea of breaking free from them is now rather troubling. Do those threads have the tensility to endure the stretch of a journey? Will these specters of recognition remain immutable and intact and hitched to the undulating satchel through one’s peregrinations to yet unseen territories, or do these delicate snares snap, relegating these identities only to the wake, sequestered in their purity even from one’s keenest reminiscence? Irrespective of the case, one should assume there to be a reconstitution of both identifier and identified over this inexorable trek—the unyielding essence of each layered, nevertheless, by the sediment of accumulating circumstance until there exists an uncertainty when they meet again. The landscape of then is a petrified visage—the organic layers of tree barks are supplanted by crystalized molds of mineral simulacrum, grass stalks of ages ago have dried and yellowed, autumn blossoms breathe new scents unaware of previous aromas whose places they now occupy, ambling figures have crumbled to bone whistles stacked in cylinders in muted sarcophagi with their predecessors. Faces meet landscapes—there is a vague recognition between the overlapping partners, an attempt at translation to identify elements once apprehended, but inevitably no solution is available in the moment that can bridge pristine artifacts with reconfigured forms."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashim Shanker
• Release date: Mar 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005834029

Ashim Shanker

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.

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m i g r a t i o n s

Volume III: Inward and Toward

ashim shanker

Migrations, Volume III: Inward and Toward

Copyright © 2019 by Ashim Shanker

All rights reserved

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.

Table of Contents

Part One: In Union

The Escaped Inmate

Entreaty to the Snuggledogs

The Domesticated Immigrant

Feral Jestering

Escape Artist!

On Forces of Intention

The Accursed Lands

At the Sallow Falls B&B

The General’s Questionable Motives

A Long and Curious Message

A. Part One – Disregard what you have already been told

B. Part Two – On our Perpetual Shifts and Transmutations

C. Part Three – The Waterfall/Orange Simulation

D. Part Four – On Epistemological Preference

E. Part Five – The Bunnu – O. Dynamic

F. Part Six – The Second Moon and the Narrative of Sky

G. Part Seven – On the Insurmountable Gaps between Bubbles of Paradigm

H. Part Eight– In Constant Flux

I. Part Nine– A Separate Manifestation

J. Part Ten – The Fractional Bunnu

K. Part Eleven – Our Overlapping ‘What’

L. Part Twelve – From Fringe Terrorists to Collaborating Researchers

M. Part Thirteen – My Retreat in the Hills and a Fit of Digression

N. Part Fourteen – The Cybernetic Divinities, Applied Poetries and other Burgeoning Fields of Research

O. Part Fifteen – On Our Provocation of Bilious Humors throughout Academia

P. Part Sixteen – Our Work on ‘Mirror Experiences’ and Beyond

Q. Part Seventeen – Your Former Acquaintance

R. Part Eighteen - At first flight

S. Part Nineteen - Your part in this

T. Part Twenty - So…?

On the Way to the Airport

In Union?

Part Two: To Separation

A Clarification

Prolegomena to any Future Eviscerations

The Accursed Moon

Reconstruction of the Spectacle

The Seasons

Adrift

Tangled Branches

Ways out

Connection

About the Author

Part One

In Union

The Escaped Inmate

The door opened: 3 people entered the room.

Until now, it had been a rather peaceful morning here in this modest cabin in the woods, but these 3 new interlopers seemed to care very little about preserving the simple dignity of this dwelling and were not at all reluctant to barge in and make their affrontive presence known. Among them was a rather persistent little crone who apparently saw fit to prevail herself immediately upon these surroundings with little reservation over her jarring impositions upon the ecosystems of fungi and insects and small rodents proliferating here. There was an unrelenting importance she carried with her—not a self-importance, to be sure, but rather an urgency to her every motion, to her every breath that was simply too exhausting to bear.

She and her retinue bore with them also a multitude of cycles and systems alien to the dynamics of this cabin. Their shared demeanor betrayed a complex intermingling of routines and affiliations and networks and dependencies and obligations and liabilities and transactions and handshakes and compromises and leniencies and mandates and terms of sale and qualifications and exceptions and vagaries and certitudes and cravings and disillusionments. The oppressive weight of these cycles overwhelmed rather quickly the more delicate workings that had shaped the ‘balance’ of this chamber. However, there was no recognition of this among these trespassers, for the cycles they carried with them defined every particle of their presumptive social being, and there was, for them, simply no envisioning an existence deprived of these systems.

This was not to say that it was impossible for them to do so, but simply that they seemed rather dependent upon them like travelers who had overpacked for a journey. There was a need for assurance ‘just in case’ something unfortunate should ever occur, and so there was a self-imposed necessity to keep one’s baggage packed to the hilt and to carry along any and all known quantities in the remote hope that they should prove useful in the negotiation of values yet undetermined. Naturally, the concern underlying this way of thinking seemed to betray a kind of fear of deprivation, and it was difficult not to think that maybe that they were all truly worked up over something for no good reason.

They all seemed to think that their being ‘here’ was important.

Was it?

The indefatigable little crone spoke for the first time now: Bunnu, we heard a groan…we took that to mean we could enter. Are you- Waylaid rather suddenly by an unseen menace, the incessant pest covered her nose and exclaimed: Goodness. My goodness, Bunnu! Your place reeks of urine! You have to do something about this. And this terrible mess too! How the devil have you been able to live like this?

The crone’s eyes now silently scrutinized the clump of flesh she seemed to be addressing, presumably in the hope of eliciting a ‘reasonable justification,’ but, of course, there was none to be given. She pursed her lips, and a scowl pinned itself between her brows. Arms akimbo, she swiveled on her heels to address some gangly accomplice she referred to as Ottoman, You! Think he’s still catatonic?

Wasn’t catatonic in the first place: heard he was just giving everyone the silent treatment. Never spoke once, they said. This Ottoman fellow remarked, whilst calmly covering his mustache, concerned perhaps that this dense and unrelenting ammoniacal smell should infuse itself into its whiskers. There was a certain charm in his lack of immediate panic.

But he looks so gaunt! the crone whispered back emphatically. And…he’s aged so much. I thought they treated them well there!

As well as could be. He looks no different than when I last saw him.

When was the last time you met him?

Same as the first time I met him: on the day of his arrest. Ottoman shrugged his shoulders. He removed his hand from his mustache now. Clearly, there was no way around this scent. It was the most overpowering presence in the room. He could rationalize no other action, but to yield to the authority of this unseen entity. A wise move indeed!

His shoulders slumped now with despondence as he sighed. Something about having to succumb to the whims of a mere scent—foul-smelling or otherwise—appeared to depress him terribly. His attention returned to the escaped inmate: Now that you mention it, he does look a smidgen worse for the wear. That could also have something to do with the season. He was wearing much heavier clothing when I saw him last. It was winter, so naturally—oh! His legs look a bit shorter too. Think he’s shrunk?

I just hope he hasn’t gone feeble-minded. Just look how old he is! The process of mental decline must surely have begun by now.

But he’s younger than you, no? This statement didn’t appear to go over well at all, and noting the piqued look now spreading across her features, this Ottoman fellow back-pedaled: "…and younger than me, for certain. Yes? He’s our younger brother. That’s…what I meant to -"

Sighing, the crone turned to the man standing behind her. We aren’t being billed for time yet, are we?

The man, a seemingly self-possessed gentleman in formal attire, whose sheen of costumery was only exceeded by that glint of brightness erupting from his pomaded hair, removed his spectacles and began to polish them with a handkerchief he produced from the pocket of his blazer: The clock’s been running since we left my office this morning. What time was that? About half-past 39. Possibly closer to quarter till 40. I just made those units of time up, didn’t I? Right, I’ll not distract you with false times. I’ve known a few who function in the time racket, and it’s not as lucrative as most would imagine. Nope, not for me. No time racketeering here, dear Madame Didi. No, no. Allow me to assure you that my assistant has made note of the true time. We can check with him later. Reliable fellow. Good with clocks.

Is that man your assistant? Didi pointed out the door, which still stood ajar. It was difficult to determine from this vantage point the object to which she was referring.

Oh, good Lord, no. Dear me, no! That’s my valet. He’s no good with clerical duties. Not with clocks either. My man over yonder is better for a journey over rugged mountain terrain like this. He’s an excellent tracker, no? Liked the possum meat he trapped up for us, yes?

Admirable, yes. And he really knows his way around these woods. We probably wouldn’t have found this cabin without him.

"Come now! You give him too much credit! Finding this place would have been childishly simple! I could have found it in my sleep, but of course it would be silly for someone like me to do it myself, don’t you think? It is much better to have a tribesman like him sniffing the warm feces, analyzing the muddy footprints, picking through the discarded bone fragments and rotted apple cores for hints; better to have him otherwise dealing with all that dirty, uncivilized wretchedness along the way. I wouldn’t want to ruin these new gloves. Like them? Hard to find bright whites like these at this time of year. It’s made from a blend of fine Wormdrool Silk and a newly discovered eukaryotic microorganism called Saccharomyces-55. Very soft on the insides: which is good because I have to keep my fingers delicate and nimble for the purposes of tender lovemaking. Anyway, as you can see for yourselves, my valet would have had great difficulty doing all this without my supervision, training and direction. In fact, there are others besides him who could have found this place without all those needless detours we took this morning. I’ve worked with more skilled tribesmen than him in the past. You could not begin to fathom my plenitude of resources. But…of course, you must have some idea. Otherwise, well…" He half-smiled, as his eyes narrowed. He removed his gloves and placed them in the pockets of his blazer before pulling a small nail file from the chest pocket. He started sculpting his nails, then blowing on them gently.

Naturally, yes. Didi admitted with wide-eyed deference. Ottoman also seemed to cower slightly before the presence of the Fancy Man. There was a peculiar power dynamic at work here.

They were clients of this man: a fact, which in and of itself, should have been sufficient to imply that they were the ones most in control of the current situation, if not for their shared uncertainty, which seemed to reverse the power dynamic in such a way as to grant him an inordinate amount of influence over what was in the best interests of all parties involved. This, of course, was naturally compounded by his handsome physical presence and the impressive sense of assurance with which he carried himself.

For the amount of trust they instilled in him, he could have done anything he liked and had their full consent: he could have created a whole new species of beings from the mud outside of the cabin, with prehistoric limbs shaped by scattered fossils, with three heads of acorns, spiny tails of brambles, and a formless heart of no substance, but composed rather of a scent—the scent of deep-sea Gigantactis erraticus perhaps—and he could have given life to this new race of creation and presided over it like a god and ignored blatantly the legal issues pertaining to this brother of his clients, and they would have stood by, nodding their heads with approval, expecting that this was all a part of the larger process of serving their needs, and they would possibly even have abetted him in the assembly of these tiny anathemic organisms. In short, these rubes would have done anything he asked of them, however irrelevant and absurd it may have seemed, and, at the end of the day, he still would have gotten paid for it!

* * *

At the apparent sting of this sudden realization, the Fancy Man now snickered under his breath, for the first time absorbing a multitude of new possibilities hitherto beyond his grasp. For some inexplicable reason, he had these poor rubes under his spell. And now, the clock of billable time was running. In order to ensure that it kept running, it was essential that he did everything in his power to engage them deeply in the legal matters of their brother—for if he could get them mired lastingly enough in the tireless mechanisms of this process, they should most certainly deem, in their eternal perambulations of the legalistic labyrinth, his services utterly crucial. They had signed the contract: every service he performed for them thenceforth, however menial, became billable! It was doubtful they would question him on this point. Apparently, they’d been taken in by his professional attire and solemn demeanor. They’d found it impressive, maybe! Of course, it was foolish to judge a person on the sole basis of appearance. Any child knew this! And yet, for some reason he couldn’t possibly deserve, they respected and trusted him implicitly. He had never been in this situation before, had never been endowed with such reverence by strangers: thus, he knew he would have to milk this opportunity for everything it was worth. He wondered momentarily how he must have appeared in their eyes, wondered what it was about him that actually impressed them. He wished truly he could be the thing that they saw, wished he could transform lastingly into the image they projected onto him with the focused beams of fancy. Maybe it was possible. Maybe he could actually metamorphose into the impressive individual they saw. Maybe he had already started this magnificent process of evolution and hadn’t realized it yet. If this was the case, all that seemed to be required of him now was to maintain that façade of unshakable confidence. And surely the emotional wherewithal to do so should not be too difficult to muster! Hmm hmm hmm…yes yes yes! He now said to himself for no reason in particular. His ears were suddenly tickled by the sound of his own voice.

Yes…there could be no doubt: he was already evolving!

* * *

In contrast to the Fancy Man’s nearly delusional sense of optimism, Didi’s face betrayed an utter lack of self-confidence. She bit her lower lip and addressed the man now with a dejected and subservient tone: Um, so…what do we do now, Sir? Do you believe it would be wise to get a doctor?

That rather depends on you, he sniffed with unflappable confidence. In the harsh glare of his condescension, it was nearly impossible for his clients not to shield their eyes, blinded by the vehemence with which he radiated redoubtable expertise in matters such as these. His voice, no less commanding, he asked: Just how long did you intend to stay in Vasalla?

W-well, that’s a difficult question to answer at the moment, given our current family circumstances. Money is tight. We were searching for a place in town, but that’s on hold for the moment. Meanwhile, we’re staying at that new inn in the cavern behind the waterfalls.

I think I know the place. Is that the one just beyond Coelacanth Isle?

No, that one’s a bit steep for us.

Pity. They have a fantastic breakfast there. How could you miss out on that? He managed to carry in his deportment a sense of authority, even in saying something as trivial as this.

I’m talking about the one behind Sallow Falls. Across the River Mandayya, out beyond the reclaimed land. It’s a manmade waterfall actually. In fact, that whole part of town is manmade.

Oh… he said with a wince. He looked briefly offended: "Yes I…Yes I know that part of town. But I suppose someone has to cater to…well anyway! Sallow Falls…is that the Sallow Falls B&B?"

Why, yes. We get a special discount since we are working temporarily for their parent company.

Guni Corporation, eh? Can’t imagine anything more than a peasant’s breakfast there. How unfortunate for you. Lot of synthetic Mumta meat, no?

Guni Limited Liability Corporation, Didi corrected. The breakfast is passable. I’m not a big fan of this new mock cannibalism fad. I don’t think these new joints popping up all over the place will last long… but I’m just the entertainment. What do I know?

Yes, indeed! the Fancy Man assented happily. His voice suddenly lost its commanding tone. He continued in a gentler, somewhat suggestive whisper, So…you are a dancer then? Singer? Acrobat? Man Tamer? Contemptress? Hospitality girl? He licked his lips as his eyes moved up and down her costume.

Didi’s eyes momentarily registered with disappointment the sudden change in his persona, but she answered his question nonetheless: I…well…I entertain. Her tone suddenly seemed to indicate that she was less impressed with him now than she had been in moments previous, "Anyway… (sigh) … to answer your earlier question more specifically: I am not sure how long we will be in Vasalla. We’re in town for the moment, but circumstances may require us to leave for Bahlia sometime soon. Family emergency. But we want to get all this business with my brother sorted first. Of course, now that we’ve successfully tracked him down—thank you very much for your help with that, by the way—er…so, now that we’ve done that, of course it seems tempting to just make a run for Bahlia without worrying over his legal problems, but I would prefer to handle this the proper way. I don’t know what that involves exactly, and for all I know this could get our family lost in a mad shuffle of documents and penalties and fees. But it…it just feels right. I want to make sure there is no confusion: my brother Bunnu is not a criminal and we want to see to it that any paperwork indicating the contrary can be attended to in the proper way, assuming we have the resources to do so. That’s why we’ve commissioned not only your tracking services, but also those additional services we talked about in your office this morning. She paused again, presumably contemplating something. A hint of regret seemed to manifest itself in the way her eyebrows arched. The curled downturned tug at the left side of her mouth signaled a growing mistrust. So, just out of curiosity, why did you want to know how long we’d be here?"

W-well…if…well… he began to stammer self-consciously. His mind suddenly spiraled in a fury for fear of losing the upper hand, …y’see….if, we had the luxury…of time at our disposal…well, we could see if we could get your brother… here… into a sanatorium. Y’know… in one of the nearby mountain villages and monitor his progress from afar. Well, I mean… not too far! Being in Vasalla keeps you within a half day’s journey. He patted his forehead nervously with his handkerchief.

Didi frowned, as her eyes narrowed with suspicion: Y’think a sanatorium would do him any good? You mean he’s sick or something?

I’m not qualified to make that sort of determination! He said curtly, in an aggressive attempt to assert control back over the situation. Judging by their surprise, it seemed to work. The power dynamic had shifted now twice back and forth in a matter of minutes.

Naturally. I didn’t mean to-

But if he were ill… the Fancy Man chirped with redoubled vigor. His excitement swelled rapidly and he repeated this phrase again with the sort of emphasis a dramatic actor might give to an important line of dialogue: "If he were ill—not that I hope he is, of course—but if he were, that might serve as reasonable grounds for an appeal with one of the judges. Of course, we would have to make our case before a judge who was willing to hear your brother’s case. We’ll worry about that later though. There is no shortage of judges about. Anyway, if we are able to find one, we might be able to leverage a bit of influence over him in the hopes of getting a warrant issued barring your brother’s recapture. Actually, more specifically, it would be a warrant countermanding any other warrants issued for his recapture. I guess when I put it that way, it sounds somewhat confusing."

No, not at all, Didi said, intrigued by this refreshing display of competence. She did not know such a thing was possible. "Well…that would be really… erm…great. I just don’t want him to go back to that awful place. I do sincerely hope we can get one of the judges to issue that order. So how does one go about making this happen? You told us back in your office that you might know a judge in one of the courts over whom you’d have some influence. So, is this where you come in?"

Oh, yes. Er…that. Well, not…exactly, the Fancy Man said with a hint of feigned embarrassment. He had anticipated this last question long before and had decided already how he would go about deflecting it. First, it required him to show moderate surprise at having been asked so bluntly about his connections. In effectively faking embarrassment, he was able to elicit from Didi a slight gesture of apology in her expression for not being tactful enough in her method of inquiry. Now, he altered his tone of voice to resemble that of an adult patiently instructing a child who behaved foolishly, but who didn’t know any better, I must caution here that… he cleared his throat authoritatively, …it is…er…essential that we not get ahead of ourselves at this juncture. We must carry forward this process carefully step-by-step. If we grow too impulsive, or we inadvertently miss a vital step along the way, all could be lost…or, at the very least, delayed indefinitely. Also, I ask you to keep in mind that each case—especially in view of all the mitigating and exacerbating factors which are bound to come up over the course of the legal proceedings—is subject to a different outcome. Therefore, it is beyond my powers to guarantee a favorable outcome, especially if you have not been one hundred percent forthcoming with me about his situation. Something as simple as unpaid back taxes can even serve to make the situation worse for him. So...I urge you to proceed with caution and to trust that I am only moving slowly because I want to ensure that nothing vital is overlooked. You understand this, do you not?

Oh yes. Well…of course! Didi said, pulling her breath in through her teeth and holding it nervously. This need to move slowly was only too clear now to her. She now felt a little foolish for jumping the gun and asking him to reach out to his connections among the judges. Surely, there was a process to all this that she did not yet understand.

So, first things first! the Fancy Man continued, "First…first…first, we need to show proof of illness. This would require a doctor’s note, which is another process in and of itself. I must warn again—I cannot warn often enough!—that this whole endeavor, from start to finish, should prove to be a rather lengthy process. I want you to set your expectations accordingly! Patience is extremely important! Along the way, there will be no shortage of frustrations and petty defeats, but we must not lose our resolve. We must battle on! Are you prepared to do that?"

Certainly. Certainly.

Excellent. Well, I just wanted to make sure you understood that it might not be as simple as you think. I admire your commitment to your brother’s case. In fact, I am quite proud of you! He paused for a moment and put a finger to his chin, Ah, there’s one more thing, and…well, I do not know quite how to put this—and let me tell you, I am somewhat embarrassed that this requires mentioning—but I feel it is my obligation to remind you that one of the stipulations of the contract you signed back in my office stated clearly that there would be no guarantees about a ‘favorable outcome’ and that any time spent by me or my staff in any matter relating to your brother’s case, regardless of the outcome, is still very much billable. Of course, you know I will do my utmost for a favorable outcome either way. After all, we have already located your brother! Yes?

"Yes, you have…we have! As for the contract, yes… I read and agreed to those terms. Thank you for reminding me. I really do appreciate all that you’re doing for us, regardless of the legal outcome. You found Bunnu! For that alone, we are forever thankful!" She glanced at Ottoman briefly. They became aware momentarily of this man’s seemingly desperate desire to maintain their confidence, whilst also owning up to certain yet-to-be-revealed shortcomings. He seemed to be delicately lowering their expectations in the hopes of preparing them for a display of incompetence somewhere down the road. They said nothing about this, but in that brief knowing look, they were able to convey intuitively to each other that they recognized it. In a peculiar way, they felt slightly empowered by this realization. And to a certain extent, there existed even a degree of inexplicable excitement for the spectacle of ineptitude soon to be presented, as though it were some performance for which they had waited on pins and needles to see; why they should feel such glorious anticipation for a failure that was sure to bring them severe anguish, they could not imagine. And yet it was there: a certain gleeful expectancy for the cracks which were sure to appear in the surface of a well-crafted facade, a rapturous openness to disillusionment. For a moment, the needs of their escaped inmate brother were forgotten, for greater enticements lay afoot!

* * *

Excellent, excellent! So, anyway… the Fancy Man exhaled, half-relieved and half-enthused, but wholly insensible to their counter-conspiracy: A simple note from the attending physician at a sanatorium could go a long way in helping your brother’s case. Depending on the nature of his condition, his escape from the detention facility could be overlooked so long as he seeks the appropriate medical treatment. But I cannot make any promises about this. There is no way of knowing what will happen until we try. Unfortunately, we can’t get him registered at a sanatorium without consent from his closest legal relation. By Republic law, that would be his spouse. You did mention he was married, did you not?

Is and isn’t, Ottoman replied. His eyes were now scanning the cabin: the sloped ceilings were fastened with each wall obtusely by thick beams of mold-riddled wood; the sun-spotted wooden walls met the perimeter of cracked and black tar-stained concrete floor foundations at acute angles and were conjoined with one another in a strange geometry which one could hardly call symmetric. This befuddling absence of right angles was enough to cause concern as to the integrity of this structure. The shape it maintained managed to remain impressive for as long as it failed to collapse inward on itself, but surely the support required to keep the building standing for much longer was severely lacking. What was more: the insulation in this shack was terrible! It wasn’t half humid in here: difficult to breathe even! How one could manage to deem this a sufficient shelter was beyond imagination! Perhaps its builders had abandoned it out of shame; or perhaps, Bunnu had built it himself. No, he didn’t have the hands for it! Jumbles of momentary impressions crowded into Ottoman’s mind like ruffian man-boys at a cramped telephone box, but these musings were not of sufficient measure to linger beyond a few seconds. There were more pressing matters that concerned him. His eyes began processing the surroundings carefully in an attempt to piece together the sort of lifestyle his brother-in-law lived, the sort of dealings he had had. It was this latter point which concerned him more: the last thing he wanted was to see another set of wrongful affiliations land Bunnu with any more charges over top of the ones already existing. Our files mentioned a Pinky Satyajit. She filed for divorce decades ago, but her request is still pending with the courts, so technically she’s still his spouse.

What do you mean by ‘our files?’ the Fancy Man inquired with a smirk. His manicured hand was now concealed by his vest. It seemed he was attempting to warm it, in spite of the sweltering summer heat. It was a wonder that he wasn’t broiling in that suit.

Our police files, Ottoman said matter-of-factly. It may not look like it, but I used to be a detective with the Morellan Intercultural Settlement Police Department.

Oh dear! Oh my! The Fancy Man began to snicker with exhilaration. In his amusement, he temporarily forgot that he was attempting to impress his clients, And I suppose you quit to pursue your dream as a banjo player at a family restaurant?

That’s just my current gig. I have done other things in the past. In fact, I’ve even got theater credentials! You might even be surprised to know that I was promoted to Deputy Commissioner for the Performing Arts Division shortly before I left the force.

And you left because…

Personal reasons, Ottoman said, looking fretfully at Didi, whose expression betrayed a disapproving consternation over this current line of questioning. That look of mistrust was creeping back over her face. In seeming reaction to this, Ottoman swiveled around until he was face-to-face with the Fancy Man, Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me, as you well know.

Good lord, no! the dapper chap yapped, caught up in the throes of his own levity. In the high tension bursting forth from this sudden swell of jocularity, he’d ceased to notice he was making his clients uncomfortable. He continued gibbering like a dumb chimp: I would not have the audacity to charge you for this inestimable pleasure, sir. On the contrary, I should be paying you. You, my dear sir, are the most entertaining individual I have encountered in many years. And the best part is you need not even say anything: from head-to-toe, you simply ooze…er… entertainment. In saying this, he was possibly referring to Ottoman’s unusual attire. Ottoman-13, since being dismissed from his post with the Police Department, had managed to evolve into a tall and lanky man in an overly tight linen shirt of brown, purple and red vertical stripes. Instead of buttons, the shirt had strings of lace bound tightly at each hole. Between the fastenings, the shirt stretched outward to openings which left almost nothing to the imagination: the flesh of his torso was almost completely visible from his abdomen to his rib cage to his sporadic patches of chest hair. Leading down from this shirt was a pair of bright purple baggy parachute pants with gold stripes on the pockets and down each side. These pants were incredibly loose, but were held up by turquoise suspenders. Atop his head, his hair was bleached at the tips and spiked with excessive amounts of wet goo. He also wore lustrous anklets which jangled like tambourines whenever he moved his feet. None of this, naturally, went well with his mustache, which was thick and black like the bristles of a brush one might use to polish the boots of his superior. The Fancy Man wondered briefly if he could find a way to get his new dress shoes brushed and polished by the mustache of this man. Would it be possible to gain enough authority over him in order to leverage him to do so? Could he get him to do it, if he convinced him that there was otherwise absolutely no other way he would be willing to assist in their case? Perhaps this would not work, and even if it did, this Ottoman fellow would probably not do a very good job with the brushing. After all, his heart would not be in the task: this was the key problem! So, then, what exactly would be required in order to get this man to do an honest job of it? Maybe it would be necessary to get him to want to do it on his own: this would seem easier than pressuring him to do it. But how did one go about doing that? Well, it would seem the most logical solution was through excessive flattery. He was an entertainer, of course, and flattery worked extremely well with these sorts. Employed successfully, this flattery could allow him through Hyperbolic Suggestion to make it seem to the man as though polishing the boots of another was a lasting gesture of his own generosity of spirit. The Fancy Man now snickered again at the possibilities, his eyes still fixed on the mustache.

Well… Ottoman meanwhile blushed happily, somehow completely missing the mockery being directed at him. I…must…thank you. Ours is an oft-misunderstood craft. It takes a refined gentleman to appreciate these things, I suppose. Didi’s eyes, however, suddenly filled with contempt for both men. She folded her arms in annoyance.

You do honor me by saying so, good sir, the Fancy Man replied to Ottoman with a sardonic grin, which prompted a questioning look from Ottoman. That tang of ridicule borne about his features had been, this time, too pronounced to miss. Ottoman’s face turned bright red.

So, what do you think we should do about Bunnu? Didi continued with a hint of impatience, I don’t think a sanatorium is going to do much good. And even if it would, we can’t move forward without his wife’s consent.

The fancy gentleman seemed to ignore her question. Still giggling to himself whimsically, he began wandering around the cabin, inspecting its various odds and ends. He spoke as he moved about the room. The two of you are husband and wife, no? Ottoman and Didi looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

The Fancy Man no longer showed any interest in impressing them, causing Ottoman to grow briefly and irrationally concerned over whether the Fancy Man respected him or not. Being the client, this was not something that typically should have mattered to him, but for some reason, in this case it did. Even though the amount of respect the Fancy Man held for him should have had little or no bearing on the quality of service being offered, Ottoman couldn’t help but wonder if the sudden whimsy he’d inadvertently aroused in this unpredictable gentleman had distracted him from his duties and if it would thereupon affect the seriousness with which he thereafter took his prescribed role. Maybe this frivolity was just a momentary phenomenon. Maybe not. After all, a minute earlier, the Fancy Man seemed to be addressing their needs with remarkable poise and competence. Now, he seemed to be gadding about the room, giggling stupidly and asking fatuous questions. Well? the Fancy Man’s eyes fell on Didi expectantly. While he maintained an amused look about his face, there remained in it an undercurrent of aggressive authority which frightened her somewhat.

Yes… Didi muttered through her teeth in response to his question, That is true. She was now breathing heavily through her nose, her heart racing.

Meanwhile, the man’s eyes fell on a stack of old newspapers that Bunnu kept next to the coal stove. He knelt down, opened the stove door and inspected the contents with a pronounced Mmm-hmmm…yes. He became lost in thought for a moment.

No children though… Ottoman added. Then he paused, Well, at least, not yet.

No response came from the man. Ottoman’s and Didi’s eyes met in the long silence. She shook her head in frustration as steam vented from her nostrils.

Are you even listening? she snapped.

Am indeed, my darling Frau! he sang jubilantly into the stove.

"I AM somewhat concerned… Didi started speaking with a striking intensity, eyes glaring at the back of his head. She paused for a moment to compose herself, and then continued, saying something different from what she had originally intended: I’m concerned…you know…about this Coach fellow. I hope he won’t interfere with…with…whatever it is we’re doing. I don’t mind telling you, I’m a bit concerned about whether or not he’ll intervene. I-I am told that he’d been to visit Bunnu twice at Asoka Plains—which I find strange anyway, as we attempted numerous times to see him and were refused not only by the staff of the facility, but also by the mid-level bureaucrats in Mehta City whose support we were told we could count on for a moderate price; we were even shooed away from the grounds when we attempted to get a peek at the facility through the chain-link fences. And yet, it seems this Coach was not refused visitation. He must have had a certain pull that we did not. I suppose that goes without saying though. And apparently…apparently, on both occasions he’d visited, Bunnu had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the visitation area, and physically restrained. I do not know what sort of gentleman this Coach purports himself to be, but, I must say, I’m quite concerned! My husband here said he had met this strange man before. He made quite an impression on him!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath after saying this. She could not let her emotions get the better of her reason. This was no time to blow a fuse. That, she knew, would achieve nothing, except to slow things down…or worse yet, to alienate this man whom they had hired to assist them.

Oh yes, indeed… Ottoman chimed in, On the banks of Placenta-C. Powerful presence, that chap! I still cannot understand exactly what sort of leverage he had over the situation. Says he was with Mr. Bunnu’s Football League. I can hardly see how that related to the case.

Football League...you hadn’t mentioned that part to me before. Well, then, that makes perfect sense! You should know all about the football leagues of Kaiiba! You spent half your childhood in—but wait! But…then... Didi turned to Ottoman, Knowing what you knew, why did you take Bunnu to see him? Her breathing grew heavy again. Her face was bright red, her eyes growing fierce. I mean on the day of his arrest! Why didn’t you just escort him straight to the police station?

Come now, darling! He said propitiatingly, You knew he was a ‘Coach,’ right? I mean—what did you exp—now now! Don’t pick a fight! I know that look! Let’s not go down this road again please. I thought I mentioned this to you before, didn’t I? Yes, I did. We’ve been through this enough times already! Have we not?

Then remind me! She demanded. Her voice became a growl: Remind me! Why would you take my brother before that sort of sociopath? A sociopath from the Football League, no less. You most certainly never mentioned that tidbit before!

I can assure you that I very well did! Ottoman retorted heatedly, And I can only say to you again what I’d said previously: I had my orders. Now, what are you sneering about?

Orders, you say! Ha! Didi spouted bitterly, You’d take orders from a mutt, if it barked commandingly enough! Did you question even once what you were being told to do? Instead of getting him involved with these shadow militias?

Shadow militias? What the devil are you-?

"Oh please! Wipe that clueless ‘I-don’t-know-what-this-crazy-woman’s-on-about’ look from your face! Nobody’s that dense! You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! That Greater… Kaiiba…Football… thing!"

Greater Kaii—! They’re a Shadow Mili—? I thought…they were just a regular sports lea—well…I thought— Ottoman, in his surprise, briefly forgot his anger, but then paused for a second, remembered it again and continued with calculated stridence: He was already involved with those people before we’d even met!

That’s beside the point!

Is it? Listen: if you want to blame someone for his association with them, then blame your mother! Not that it matters, because they’re just a sports organization anyway!

What does my mother-?

Oh come now! Is she not the one who insisted that he join the football team in the first place? Didn’t she even make their uniforms?

Wha-? I-I can’t believe you’d even- Didi started, stunned slightly by the effectiveness of her husband’s dodge. She often forgot how masterful he was at blame transference: apparently this had been one of the most important survival tactics he had acquired in his duties as a police officer.

See? You can’t find anything to say to rebut that. No, it’s much easier to blame your husband for your brother’s problems than your mother! Ottoman grinned contentedly. He knew he had her on the ropes now. The power dynamic had shifted once again.

Listen! she said, recovering from her stunned silence quickly enough to resume with ferocity: Don’t make things convoluted by bringing up my mother now! We were talking about the day of Bunnu’s arrest. Not about her! And certainly not about the uniforms!

Nice attempt at evasion…but there’s no denying at least some responsibility on her part for Mr. Bunnu’s affiliation with the Football League. Anyway, I might add that, as far as I know, they were simply a sports league: nothing more. I don’t know where you got all this Shadow Militia business from. I mean, in spite of the fact that the uniforms your mum made bore the crest of the Kaiiban royal family. Loyalist yes, but Militia sounds rather far-fetch-

Come on! I mean how else could the Coach have—?

The Coach is an individual. Not everything he does should necessarily be representative of the team or militia or whatever we’re calling it. Ottoman paused. He had omitted, from this assertion, the fact that on the Banks of Placenta-C, the Coach had promised to use the power of the League to get Bunnu’s charges dismissed, so long as he cooperated with them in the satisfaction of some kind of debt. That was almost ten years ago now though. The details were fuzzy. For the sake of fair disclosure, Ottoman proffered with an appeasing smile, Anyway, the Coach seemed interested in trying to help Bunnu get his charges cleared. Of course, he did have some transaction in mind. Maybe he’s not such a bad chap. I think maybe we are blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

Oh please! Don’t be so naïve!

Who’s being-? Ottoman’s face quickly flashed to rage, There’s no need for name-calling! You know I hate when you -

OK, OK…Fine. Calm down.

No no no…don’t do that either. You’re just trying to make it look like I’m overreacting!

Aren’t you?

Well, you’re the one who started this, so I don’t understand-

If you’re so above all this petty arguing, why even bring up my mother? What does she have to do with anything? I thought-

I never said I’m- Ottoman barked abruptly. He clenched his teeth and exhaled through his nose. You’re just being defensive! All I’m saying is if you are so concerned about the Greater Kaiiba-8 teams, why not direct a little bit of the blame on the person who got him involved in the first place?

OK! Fine! Yes…she got him involved with the team! Happy now? Didi conceded peevishly, What do you want me to say? I mean…how could she have known at the time that the Greater Kaiiba-8 teams had aspirations beyond the boundaries of the playing field?

They’re just a sports team, darling. They have no political-

They do, OK? I can’t believe that you actually deny this! And, if everything my family does must be justified to you-

"I never said-

- then fine! Yes, my mother got him involved. But she only did it in order to distract him from the Heisenpigs! To keep him away, so they’d stop trying to seduce him!

Wait…what? Heisenpigs tried to seduce him? Ottoman suddenly became perturbed. Forgetting briefly their minor tiff, his voice lowered to a nervous whisper: Why didn’t you ever tell me that? Unhinged by the embarrassment of having this conversation overheard, he looked over at the Fancy Man, who seemed to be preoccupied still by the contents of the stove. Satisfied that he was not paying attention, Ottoman continued in a whisper: Don’t tell me...that...that... Mr. Bunnu became their political fuck-puppet! Actually…if he did, that would explain a lot. I’ve heard Heisenpigs have the ability to use propaganda pheromones to control whole species of creatures, to make them do their bidding. That is why they must remain confined to the countryside, where the human populations are sparse, the people are simple and there is not a military camp to be found within miles. The Heisenpigs can be very dangerous, after all, if unleashed in the middle of a major metropolitan center. Their mere presence would incite a riot, and bring forth bloody revolution; the rivers would flow red and every human achievement would be reduced to ashes, or—in the case of metallic substances—otherwise melted and forged into novelty slop buckets. All they need is one confederate of the human species to do their bidding and to bring them within striking distance of a city, or military encampment. And engaging in coitus with them is the worst thing you could do: you become their lifelong slave, sympathetic to a cause that goes against your own interests. You begin to betray your own kind. Perhaps that is the root of Mr. Bunnu’s indiscretions. Perhaps that is why he conspires always against the human race. Maybe he used to-

NO! H-he did…no such thing! H-he… Didi became apoplectic. Ottoman attempted to shush her, his eyes darting nervously at the Fancy Man looking into the stove. Didi, unfortunately, was too livid to allow herself to be calmed. Her face grew beet red: He d-didn’t have coital discourse with—well…or at least, I don’t think so! My m-m-other got him involved in sports before anything like that could happen: for better or worse! Understand? Anyway, my mother had her reasons. Perhaps she lacked the foresight to imagine that he might have been better off rolling about in filth and fornicating with wild animals than joining an organized team sport. If only she had realized that organized sports could be a fiercer, more sadistic forum for one’s bestial passions. But how could she have known this? There was no way. And anyway, she couldn’t have imagined where this all would take him; she was too naïve to envision the sort of bestiality that comes of unseemly acquaintanceship. She only had his best interests in mind…or what she presumed to be his best interests.

Or maybe it was Yuri’s jingoism that- Ottoman started loudly, seeming to forget about his previous attempt to keep the conversation private.

Oh, would you stop with that? Every time we have an argument, you always bring up…hurrrh! Rawwa! Her words broke down into a series of irascible growls. There was a resounding double sonic boom overhead as the cabin started shaking, "SHE IS NOT JINGO - But suddenly the rumble cooled and Didi became calm again, speaking emphatically but with a tone of controlled civility: -istic! And I’ll thank you kindly not to refer to my mother by her first name!"

Pffff. Not your real mother anyway. His face was growing red too.

Another of your favorite topics! What does our lack of blood relation matter to you? She is my mother nonetheless. And she has a great love for her country. Maybe you might call that jingoism: I don’t know, but she wouldn’t appreciate that label. She just has a strong sense of pride.

Pride! Ha! In what? Not the Republic certainly. Ottoman lost himself now in the heat of fury, as he attempted to win this insignificant battle. The small matter of clarifying the situation no longer interested him. The details were not important, so much as how they were argued, how they would lead to victory and how decidedly so. The end goal was not to achieve a victory for reason itself, but to achieve a victory for ‘this exposition of reason’ over the other by force of vitriol and through persistence of the moment’s wit. Meanwhile, the facts in their totality remained of peripheral importance, for they were less soluble to the resolvents bubbling within, which, catalyzed by one’s bile, combusted and drove projectile phrases forth from one’s breast with such muzzle velocity of frantic conviction that their impact might strike one’s counterpart upon the jaw with an intensity similar to that of a mule kick.

How many times must I explain this to you? She comes from a different generation! Kaiiba was a very different sort of country when it was under self-rule. Bunnu was named after one of its greatest monarchs. My mother had a lot of pride in her heritage! As a Kaiiban, and more specifically, as a Vasallan.

Oh…please. Heritage! Laughable word, that one! I have pride in my shadow. Does that count for something? Might as well. But I don’t prefer the shadow of yesterday to that of today. Not like your mother.

You’re one to talk of shadows, aren’t you? One to conspire with them even? Didi spewed. This shut him up momentarily. By this, she was certainly reminding him of his involvement in the demise of his former clan. Didi’s eyes grew menacing, "Enough about my mother, darling! she punctuated that last word in a way that sounded far less than affectionate. I’ll not have her used as a scapegoat for your incompetence! Just because you were too spineless to question your orders every now and again…"

Orders! Muh-muh-my Orders! You can’t-! He sputtered, seething with indignation. Yes…that’s another thing! I wanted to mention that earlier, but forgot. Thanks for reminding me! You’re always saying, ‘Oh, why didn’t you do this?’ or ‘Why didn’t you do that?’ like it’s so bloody simple. But clearly, you don’t understand how things worked in that station. One didn’t waltz into the Office of the Commissioner and question the orders he was given. One did not show any preference at all as to which orders he wished to follow and which he didn’t. If everyone did that, we’d have chaos! Shriveling in mien, his physical presence seemed to dissipate rapidly: No, the boys wouldn’t have stood for it. Wouldn’t’ve liked that at all! As it was, they had this strange habit of pinching my love handles and calling me a mollycoddle. Bunch of brutes, they were! Just because I had chosen a life of monogamy, I was looked upon as overly sentimental. They ridiculed me endlessly, twirling my mustache, pinching my cheeks and making kissy faces, or bringing underage girls up into the locker room and encouraging them to point and laugh at the size of my genitalia…

Didi’s entire body had flushed crimson by the end of this. Her hand now concealed her face. She regretted the whole conversation. It had been the wrong moment to bring all this up. What could possibly be achieved in airing out all the family laundry in front of a stranger like this? And how could she let herself lose control in the heat of the moment and start spouting off about private things in a fashion that common sense would otherwise forbid? She felt incredibly stupid just now. In the fury of agitation, she had expelled that ghost of rationality from her body, but now those vapors of its essence seeped back in through her nostrils and reached deeply into her lungs, bound inseparably now with that rank substance of shame and self-loathing, which had tarred and further maculated her insides oft before, but for whose removal she could find no agent of purgation. And how at all it could be that she would hereafter brook of herself any other sentiment than that of pure self-abhorrence was, at the moment, well beyond her capacity to fathom. But she had easily forgotten such intense feelings numerous times in the past: perhaps it was best to assume that this occasion should prove to be no different.

To do so was in her nature!

Meanwhile, the Fancy Man looked up again, mid-kneel. Though he had appeared oblivious to their quarrel as he inspected the ashes of the coal stove, it seemed now that he had been listening all along. His comportment bore a wicked amusement: a light danced in his eyes as a fierce smirk tore lines through the placidity of epidermal abyss. Yesh yesh yesh, he said smugly to no one in particular, possibly to himself. Then, he addressed the pair who stood before him, seeming simultaneously to register in his tickled gaze the fact that the smallish Didi was eye-level with her husband’s belly button: So, do tell me, how it is that you two met.

Well, that’s a story in itself, Ottoman said, scratching the back of his neck. You did say that this time was billable, yes?

Oh, most certainly, sir! Yesh! The Fancy Man’s exuberant face now projected an impish arrogance and ignoble elation that was almost impossible to miss.

Excuse me, Didi interjected politely, seeming to acquiesce to the force of his rejuvenated superciliousness. The power dynamic had now completed several full oscillations, and like a pendulum, had returned finally to its initial state. Your tribesman must be getting hot out there. Perhaps we should invite him in.

Are you daft?

Pardon?

I mean unless you see it fit to insult the noble savage with your condescension…but I suppose you don’t know better. The Fancy Man rose to his feet again and patted his forehead with a handkerchief. In that suit, it was almost inhuman how little he was sweating in this heat. Perhaps he had inefficient glands. You don’t invite a tribesman indoors, unless it is into a dwelling of lesser sophistication and of shoddier architecture than what might be found among his own. His people are a war-like bunch. The slightest hint of condescension is seen as an act of aggression. They don’t take to hegemony well, least of all to the sort that is apt to make them feel patronized. They don’t like being talked down to; they absolutely despise being made to look inferior.

That’s rather unreasonable, Ottoman remarked, Aren’t they being a tad oversensitive?

That’s what I thought at first, too. Yes.

But then, what about your suit? That is a nice suit, by the way. Ottoman sighed, looking at his own costume, which he had been asked to wear by the owner of the restaurant for their nightly performances. Didi was clad in a low-cut dress with iridescent spangles. Her head and rump were decorated with bluish Soricine Condor-89 feathers, which were infused with a variety of animal pheromones. In fact, she’d had quite a time getting to this cabin without being pursued for the purposes of romantic wooing by every nature of shrew, bird and Ambulatory Goldfish.

This old rag? Oh…it’s nothing at all. Well, I appreciate the compliment, of course, but I assure you the tribesman does not feel the slightest sense of inferiority with regard to my style of dress. Fortunately for him, the simple-minded fool still sees his own crude garb as more superior. He often laughs at the impracticality of my apparel, assuming perhaps that I am either soft in the head, or of inadequate means to dress in a way befitting of my station in life. I do not mind it! Let him think what he likes!

But he is your valet, isn’t he? Does he not see his position as inferior?

Quite the opposite! You should get yourself a tribesman of your own. To them, self-imposed servility is the ultimate form of domination over rival factions. He actually believes that by performing tasks on my behalf, I am accepting his hegemony, for most certainly he has taken on the role as my caregiver, and I as his child. To them, it plays out in a similar fashion as would the relationship between the welfare state and its coddled citizenry. Of course, being viewed in this way does not exactly do wonders for my self-esteem, but, then again, so long as I can endure it for the sake of keeping in my employ a most proactive and attentive servant, I stand to benefit greatly. For one thing, he does a splendid job of premasticating my food for me. He even takes a certain pride in it: a regular Masticating Exhibitionist, this one! The enzymes in his saliva are possibly even more effective than mine at breaking down the food and priming it for digestion. For the particularly hard stuff, he’ll actually swallow and regurgitate it like Mama Bird!

How much do you pay him then?

Whatever he asks, but again this is very little. He can hunt or trap his own food. He already has everything else he needs in terms of resources. He will take my money only because he thinks it pleases me. The money actually has no value to him. And yet, even though he believes himself to be the dominant one, he does not wish to strip me of my dignity. So, he allows me to pay him a little bit, just so I might still be able to call myself a man.

Very considerate of him.

It might sound that way, but I assure you that he has only entered this contract of servility out of sheer self-interest. Fiendish devil! From his end, this contract indicates that I am ceding to his dominance by allowing him to see to my every need. For his kind, servitude is the dawn of self-actualization. Laboring for the prosperity of another is not seen as slavish, but rather an investment in one’s future claim over that person’s soul. I find that way of thinking rather honest, refreshing even. Somehow, even though we deceive ourselves otherwise, we, as humans, are preconditioned towards servility. We seek always to subjugate ourselves to a greater force, be it a force of matriarchy or politics or popular opinion or celebrity or sport or idolatry or faith or ideology or reason or mathematics or noise or scent or lust or romance or monogamy—but we are too proud to recognize that we are doing so. We are wont to seek self-aggrandizement through pure and utter subservience to something external to us, something whose importance we must raise above our own, though simply for the sake of effectively raising ourselves correspondingly against it. It is a strange paradox: the pride born of selfishness that gives way to unintentional altruism. I suppose that is why our species has not yet gone extinct. It is a simple, clever device of primal instinct.

An uncomfortable silence swelled between the 3 of them: sufficient time to turn their attentions to the patient sitting on his bed.

The emaciated peasant who sat before them in a seeming daze was clothed in a grayed tank top shirt with fraying straps speckled in a mysterious bluish green—presumably these were fungi that coexisted with him— and a pair of tattered shorts. Hanging from a hook on the wall above his mat was what appeared to be a colorful baggy jumpsuit of orange and blue with red frills; also hanging from the same hook was a pair of strings attached to an eccentrically patterned cap which, in its inversion, extended downward to bifurcate into two new and independent regions, each of which held to its own unique