-Plains…Asoka Plains…Asoka Plains…
(“Asoka Plains!” he slammed an invisible fist upon the podium.)
Bunnu’s head snapped up in alarm.
The man on stage wore a shoddy-looking purple tuxedo with dust piled upon the shoulders. A stone menhir held him aloft like some unfinished puppet—which is to say, that he had no legs and no head and no hands, at least none that were visible, though his sleeve could be seen reaching down uncomfortably to the podium to slam upon it emphatically. It seemed conceivable that whatever it was that was occupying the space within the suit—or conversely, whatever frame the suit had chosen to wore—it was, in fact, an entity (or the inverse thereof) that visually appealed to one’s recognition of its absence (or in some cases, to one’s disregard of its presence) by means of abstract overtures which crescendoed to the undeniable inference that in some anti-matter, contrapositive space-time, there was most certainly a similar, visibly naked organism in a conversely inverse circumstance, who consisted only of legs, hands and a head, but no torso and who had want for nothing more than a purple tuxedo (or, at the very least, one that was magenta).
(“Asoka Plains…” the voice insisted again.)
The floor was a gray cloud of concrete. Near the windows, where the sun shone down in slanted rays, the sound of the talking suit’s words impinged heavily downward upon the field of light throwing off the balance of a surface that had once—at least, if the perpendicularity of walls was any indication— seemed level. Bunnu’s seat lurched to the side and he had to lean left to avoid falling off his chair outright. The man at the far end of the row had already succumbed to this fate and was now rolling helplessly, as though in a dry, gaseous whirlpool, down the curve of the surface’s depression and into the bright field of light, unable to halt his own inertia. His arms were at his sides and his body remained limp, as he seemed to find the prospect of putting up even the slightest resistance a futile gesture at best. The old sod had surrendered himself to the pull of this diminutive, yet infinite curvature in space-time, for surely he had managed to convince himself that he was relegated to an irreversible fate and that there was little left to do, in contending with such forces beyond one’s control, than to relax and enjoy the downward spiral. And so, the man, devoid of any will to fight, spiraled slowly and blissfully and in utter spiritual devotion through gray oblivion and to what he hoped would be the light beyond.
All eyes were back up to the talking suit. Seated behind him on stage was the medical staff, all of whom already seemed terribly bored with his presentation. Or, maybe they weren’t bored. It may very well have been that the heaviness of his words was draining for them. This would not be an unreasonable assumption as the hint of panic that pervaded his tone as he spoke the words Asoka Plains seemed to bear with it a sense of import that was burdensome to all who encountered it, as though by simply listening, one had acquired affiliation with something that he would otherwise have avoided under normal circumstances. It could have been the tone with which he spoke that caused them to react with apathy, for conscious participation would only have been exhausting for them. On the other hand, it was also conceivable that they had heard this speech many times before and that their reaction was not at all an attempt at premeditated indifference, but rather a genuine sense of annoyance at the tedium of these proceedings. Truly, it was difficult to determine which the case was. Either way, they slumped down in their folding chairs and tossed crackers shaped like animals to the guards who stood at the sides of the stage. The guards, seemingly bored as well, cocked their heads, sometimes hunching over and sometimes jumping, in an attempt to catch the crackers in their mouths.
(He continued: “Asoka Plains is an area in perpetual flux: a place in bitter conflict with its own Past. A place where the young consume their elders. Not just consume, but, in fact, devour. It is a place where the young devour their elders, as this has become the tribal custom of this ill-fated paradise.”)
An invisible fist slammed the podium again and a cracking sound could be heard. Ants suddenly began scrambling up the sides of the menhir. Or perhaps they were termites. They may have occupied the hollows of the podium. Or, they could have been part of the act. Another possibility was that they weren’t ants…or even termites, but simply the words on the piece of paper from which this man was reading. They had fallen through a crack in the podium and were scrambling about in incoherent jumbles in search of the nearest medium that could contextualize their existence. Without this, the words would collide randomly with one another in a purposeless panic. They knew that there was safety in numbers as one word standing defiantly alone from the rest could only do so for so long before withering to obsolescence. These fossilized words could be reanimated, but only through the thoughtful and concentrated intervention of their other compatriots. To avoid the necessity of such measures, alliances were forged in the form of phrases and expressions, both of which were hollowly reinforced by clichés. And so, these phrases, expressions, and clichés clambered en bloc up the sides of the menhir (for there was no space to be afforded between the hidden inscriptions that languished in the darkness of its stony, hollow interior) and back in the direction of Paper, for they sought solace for their physical forms between the fibers of wood cellulose and confirmation for their spirits in the sounds that met with air when spoken. Nonetheless, it still remained to be seen whether these entities were, in fact, words at all…or if they were actually insects.
Or even a hybrid thereof.
(He continued: “Asoka Plains lies deep in a grassy valley, separated from the outside world by the Panta Rhei-21 mountain range, which extends hundreds of kilometers outward in all directions. Due to its remote location, the area, which stretches to a diameter of roughly 250 kilometers, had remained undiscovered by the Morellans for centuries until a flamboyant aristocrat by the name of P.K. Asoka happened upon it by chance, while attempting to traverse the Panta Rhei-21 mountain range by way of helium balloon.”)
Whether these facts about Asoka Plains were inherently true or not, this man’s words seemed to be imposing themselves upon the surrounding reality—scrambling about excessively like a congregation of obsessive compulsive ant-zealots—to make whatever alterations necessary to its framework so as to ensure not even the slightest variation from the description he gave. The word-insects (not to be confused with the word: insects) performed their appointed duties unconsciously—the hormones that they secreted, actually, did most of the work by reacting with the surrounding atmosphere to create the intended reality-altering effect—in their mad instinctual rush for the Paper.
And yet, upon arriving at their destination, they—now numbering far beyond the seating capacity of a mere sheet of bleached pulp—were left with no feasible recourse but to seek asylum elsewhere. So they covered the man’s phantom appendages whole until the shape of his head and hands became visible, his features being molded by the scurrying of little black dots of code rushing adamantly in every which direction, some even crawling over the backs of others to get wherever it was they sought to go. It, thus, became evident to all in the audience that the suit had, for better or worse, somehow come to wear a rippling body of black semioplasm (otherwise known as “semiotic protoplasm”).
(Syllabic insects and Word imago crawled into his invisible mouth, over his invisible tongue, and down his invisible throat and he continued: “Seeing upon its vast elliptical plains a variety of flora and fauna, heretofore unknown, Asoka, a self-proclaimed man of science, believed this area to be a refuge and breeding ground for the more enlightened species of creature. He wrote thus in his journal…” he cleared his throat and took on a mockingly effeminate tone, which was presumably his attempt at a humorous voice characterization of P.K. Asoka, “’It seems to me that the birds of these Heavenly plains, being of the bluest feather, are remarkably naïve and trusting in their nature. Their song swells melodically from their breast with a kind of purity of essence, a delightful innocence, ab
sent in birds from other regions. These tiny birds, though seemingly unaccustomed to the presence of Man, cater to his delight with great ease, as though equipped with an instinctual recall that allows them to treat one to a beauty of such magnificence that God could only have intended it for Man to appreciate.’
“’Last evening, as my man-servant and I were setting up camp, one of these enchanting creatures, alighted upon our tent to greet us in such a friendly manner, that we were immediately moved to tears—which, I, given my typically masculine disposition, would otherwise be hard-pressed to shed at the mere song of even those Goose-necked Warblers that had roosted just outside my windowsill, last spring. I knew, then, that this land was unarguably removed from the suffering and torment of existence in the outside world.’
“’Similarly, as we gathered water from a nearby creek, a species of creature with horns [the likes of which I’d never seen], approached us meekly and stood next to us, gently sipping the clear water, as though offering itself up to us as sustenance. My servant, too, understood this strange animal’s cues and we found ourselves, consequently, feasting upon its flesh by the light of campfire, that very evening. The meat, itself, had an unusual consistency, as it was unlike any other that I had ever tasted. It occurred to me, then, that we had been destined to discover this wondrous plain.’”)
Having said this, the man began to snicker uncontrollably, as though enjoying some sort of private joke.
(And, in his normal voice, he continued: “On his journey back home, P.K. Asoka came to the conclusion that he had been chosen by God to lead a pilgrimage of enlightened men to the untouched, untainted splendor of these plains. He returned to the excesses of social life in his hometown of Medvar with tales of this mystical place that served to arouse the imaginations of his dinner companions and the bitter envy of his rivals. And it was soon thereafter that he returned to the valley: this time, with more men who found themselves equally awe-struck by its beauty.
“These individuals—all enlightened souls in the eyes of Asoka—explored the land together, murmuring amongst themselves wondrously as they beheld its many exquisite splendors: whether in the mist of the waterfall that plunged from between two rocky cliffs of the mountains down to form the river below, or in the delicate spindly petals of the Vociferous Findepuhl—which treated the ears to the most joyous chime-like melody as the wind bristled through and its hollow cylindrical petals clanked together gently to give way to a sweet ethereal tune that dispersed in air like seeds of a dandelion. Nothing could seem to frustrate their sense of delight, not even their trek into the mystical depths of the Esophageal Caverns, whose humid, fleshy interior glowed in bright pink phosphorescence day and night.”)
The black semioplasmic dots began crawling into the invisible mouth of the suit, slowly disappearing from the surface of his form, only to render his appendages invisible once again.
(The suit continued in a garbled voice: “All of it seemed perfect. And so, Asoka Plains [as P.K.’s companions had taken to calling it] was, to them, a kind of paradise. A land of dreams one didn’t even know existed. And Asoka, who had served as their guide throughout their excursion, couldn’t help but feel delighted himself at his friends’ reaction to his discovery. This would, certainly, be the beginning of a new era.”)
His voice became clear again, as the semioplasm, having gained access to his insides, had now disappeared completely from the surface of his invisible skin.
Meanwhile, a group of excessively clean and sprightly angelic twerps hovered down from amidst the snowing dust particles in the beam of the stage lights and proceeded to negotiate with the medical staff about something or the other. One of them, a particularly aggressive little prick bore a briefcase and seemed to be demanding top Julep for the benefit of their cleansing and purification services. His associates, meanwhile, began to form a blockade in an attempt to intercept any animal crackers that might be thrown in the direction of the guards, in the hopes of cutting off their supply until both sides were able to arrive at mutually agreeable terms.
It seemed that the little buggers had gotten to the climate controls, too, as the temperature of the room was starting to rise. Bunnu could feel beads of sweat forming between the hairs of his chest.
(The suit continued: “Over the course of the next few years, ballooning became the sport of wealthy thrill-seekers, as those with the resources to do so, had their own elaborate flying apparatuses made from the finest materials and embroidered with such intricately-crafted designs that the balloons themselves were a sight to behold in the skies. To the effect that Asoka Plains soon became the endpoint for numerous balloon races and fanciful excursions.
“In fact, Asoka Plains gained such incredible prominence throughout Morell that even the Crown Prince Mitsuo, of the Morellan Royal Family, eagerly decided to make the perilous journey through the Panta Rhei-21 to witness the exquisite grandeur of this area. Naturally, as news of his upcoming visit reached Asoka and his peers, it was decided that they must, at all costs, afford the Crown Prince the greatest luxury and extravagance possible, so as to make his stay a memorable one. And so, a complex that eventually came to be known as the Asoka Plains Royal Resort and Banquet Hall was built at the approximate midpoint of these elliptical plains. Of course, given the time constraints with which P.K. Asoka and his associates were left, the complex could not be completed to their full satisfaction. Nonetheless, upon his arrival, the Crown Prince found himself not only delighted at the hospitality with which he had been attended to, but charmed greatly by the grand dinner reception that had been thrown in his honor in the Banquet Hall, the very first evening. He, thereupon, declared these plains a ‘protected area,’ entrusting their care to P.K. Asoka, himself.”)
The cherubs now flew over the audience. In their left hands, they held out skimmers to pull the dust out of the air. The screens from which these skimmers were made had perforations that were too small to view with the naked eye but were, nonetheless, effective in filtering the air of its stationary dust. In their right hands, they held spray bottles filled with a potent solution of antimicrobial disinfectant mixed with deionized holy water from the sacred river Placenta-C. The administrators had become rather concerned of late about the effects of airborne particles, spores, bacteria and negative orgones upon the free exchange of pheromones in the environment—which was something that they deemed essential to the therapeutic processes that occurred on the biochemical level between inmates.
Sitting in a folding chair on stage behind the invisible man in his purple tuxedo, Archimedes-5, the chief practitioner of the Asoka Plains Detention Facility, glanced nervously at his associate and Facilitator of Coital Discourse, the beautiful and voluptuous Dr. Aganashini, who, contrastingly unconcerned by the state of affairs, tossed animal crackers to a guard at the side of the stage. After staring at her for a few moments, she finally looked over and could understand immediately what he wanted to say without his having to utter a word. She looked back compassionately and her lovely mouth whispered, Yes, but what more can we do? She then resumed the tossing of crackers, eliciting an overzealous grunt of appreciation from the guard as he caught it in his mouth.
Archimedes sighed and looked over at Dr. Narciss, the Chief of Gene Expression and Communication, who was tirelessly performing calculations on particle dynamics, in the hopes of accurately calibrating his Molecular Reactive Discourse Amplifier (MRDA). Surely, his calculations hinged on the success of the cherubic mercenaries in ridding the air of its impurities and the inmates of the negative energy particles and dust-begotten plaque that had caked themselves like soot on their insides.
(The suit continued: “Over subsequent decades, Asoka, with the aid of his business partners, invested a great deal of money into building a railroad that curved between the treacherous mountains and back to the comforts of civilization. This marvel of modern engineering stretched to a distance of 1,379 kilometers between its endpoints and soared to elevations
in excess of 3,500 meters above sea level to make it the highest elevated railroad in the known world. Along the length of these tracks, a series of telegraph posts were installed, so as to improve the ease of communication with other major cities in Morell. Despite having taken 23 years to complete, this railroad and the telegraph cables gave way to easier access to outside resources and brought in a whole new range of visitors, who had previously been apprehensive about making the excursion by balloon.
“The area was, thus, forced to develop quickly, as a result of increasing demand, and accordingly resorts and villas were built to cater to affluent families looking to get away from the bustle of everyday life. In its heyday, Asoka Plains became a luxurious hotspot for weekend trips and an ideal locale for country homes. Enormous mansions were built along the mountainside on the inside perimeter. These homes became ideal venues for evening soirees and lavish dinner parties, complete with big bands and ballroom dancing. Protozoan architecture began to dot the landscape as the style was becoming a symbol of status amongst Morell’s elite, largely due to the influence of groundbreaking avant garde designers such as Vivek-13 and the Zuzumebachi Design Group, who were renowned for the creation of aesthetic installations using only living organisms as building materials. These materials—which would one day be allocated a taxonomic classification of B2C-34—were known for giving way to incredibly good acoustics and so the sounds of the dinner parties would echo throughout the valley, sometimes even reaching houses over 200 kilometers away on the other side. The sounds carried the cavalier tones of the men, who clad in their best tuxedos, pulled their shoulders back in a dignified manner, held their drinks properly in their hand as they admonished their lesser associates for one thing or another. Interlaced with this was the bitter, gossipy chatter of their elegant wives. The women, too, had once gazed upon this breathtaking plain and seen an unspeakable beauty, but now that previous enthusiasm had come to be replaced by this endless boredom with the mundane existence that had been wrought upon them by its lack of newness. Worse than that, all of their friends from home were now here, so it no longer felt as special as it once had and the lack of convenience of being away from civilization was simply annoying. The women complained endlessly to one another about this and, in their boredom, had taken once again to spreading vicious rumors, as they could find no better way to pass the time. And amidst the resonations of their fervent voices, the band played loud and wailing. Drumbeats thundering across the valley, in the darkness of the night, so loud the local animals, as yet unaccustomed to this kind of racket, scrambled about to take cover.”)
D-8….Q-987…B-13…J-377…R-4181
Bunnu had taken to silently cataloguing the behaviors of the inmates around him and filing them into the cabinets and drawers of his brain to be further examined, sub-categorized, correlated and cross-referenced. He designated each cabinet according to faction; each drawer by sub-faction; areas within the drawer itself were thereupon labeled by personal traits and tendencies—for example, those with the histrionic propensity to overreact to everyday situations for the benefit of either getting the attention of others or bolstering their own self-importance had their files affixed with a ‘D’ and were often filed in the back of the drawer where they could be easily ignored.
Determining the number that was attached to each letter—as in the case of, say, a D-8— was, in and of itself, a painstaking process of observation and speculation, as there was no way to concretely designate each prisoner an appropriate number without, first, knowing about his past and more importantly, about the circumstances that led up to his very existence, which was—to be sure—a daunting task to take on for any man who had been relegated to silence for as long as Bunnu. After all, he was aware of the futility of asking questions in the hopes of obtaining reliable data. He was more confident in his attempts at active observation than what could be achieved through the elicitation of a response and so he was left with no recourse but to gather whatever information he could by the means at his silent disposal and make an educated guess as to the number that would best categorize those factors that were out of the immediate control of the inmate himself. These factors included ethnicity, caste, birth order, eye color, blood type, birth weight, history of illness in the family, mother’s dietary preferences during pregnancy, and environmental factors from his childhood (which, in and of itself, included a variety of sub-criteria to be considered at great length).
The number, once arrived upon, allowed for the inmate in question to be filed into his respective place in his appropriate cabinet. Regardless, it often happened that new evidence about a prisoner came to light that made it necessary to revisit earlier approximations in the hopes of correcting any discrepancies in the data. In some cases, the new information may have made it necessary to reevaluate the number that had been previously decided upon and even to change the position of the person in the drawer of the cabinet. Nonetheless, such instances were rare and any adjustments made were abidingly minor as most new information had a greater likelihood of confirming previously held assumptions than discrediting them.
Bunnu had, thus, in the 39 months since he was forced out of his cell by the administrators, become so obsessed with his own methods of classifying and organizing data sets in his mind that, despite his silence, he had started to become more and more inclined to attending social gatherings for no other purpose than to gather information about his fellow inmates to aid in the process of effectively categorizing them. He made his motives known to no one, for he had no way of doing so, but he had, as a result of this compulsive pastime, become an incredibly skilled eavesdropper, which is not to say, that he sought social contact itself, but more precisely, that he wished to be a more effective judge of character.
(The suit continued: “The youth culture of Asoka Plains was beginning to become increasingly prominent, as the economic upturn that Morell was experiencing, prior to their war with the Republic, had given way to a generation of bored youth with an enormous amount of disposable wealth to be spent on luxuries in great excess of those available to preceding generations.
“Thus, Asoka Plains became the backdrop for some of the newest and most groundbreaking fashions, status symbols, and even dance crazes brought on by this young community of well-heeled showboats. Soon, the dance halls were packed with the trust-fund society kids: these Dowry Daddy-O’s and Bob-haired Baby Dolls, strutting their limbs to spastic extremes to the rhythms of the Drippy Juice Pipe, the Ball-jangle, and the ever-popular Mammary Mambo. The band leader, a humble and retiring gentleman who went by the name of Scabby McGraw, was the master of ceremonies as he and his acclaimed ensemble, the Magna-poops, were destined to become legends in their own time with such dance hall classics as ‘Ethereal Scapegoat for Sale,’ ‘Magistrate’s on a Bender,’ and ‘Who put dat Dookie in my Test Tube?’ Dance halls were packed to the hilt until morning as the music echoed loudly through the valley at night: so loud, in fact, that it even drowned out the commotion caused by their parents’ dinner parties.
“Divine Nectar was the substance of choice and—though in limited supply—became a kind of staple at the dance halls as its availability seemed to make the distinction between an evening of moderate excitement and a night of unmitigated ecstasy. During his frequent visits to Asoka Plains, Crown Prince Mitsuo, himself, couldn’t resist a night out with the young socialites and insisted that every function he attended be fully stocked with casks of the Nectar. Though tradition forbade it, Mitsuo took a kind of defiant pleasure in mixing with the common people to the delight of all concerned. In fact, he spent hours each day with a dance instructor, learning some of the latest moves, so that he might showcase them the next evening at the dance hall.”)
Against the wall, between the windows, one of the inmates was grimacing painfully in his reclining chair as a tattoo artist dipped a needle into a steel bucket of hot melted black rubber and fashioned with it, upon his shoulder, a stylized, albeit crude renderi
ng of “The Choir of Diminished Shadows,” that famous work by the born-again Algorithmist painter, Carlotta Wakefield. His comrades, who were adorned with similar designs upon the shoulder and chest, sat around the man to provide moral support. Some held, upon their laps, pink potted tulips that they had signed out from the Yard for the purposes of indirectly expressing empathy for their compatriot.
Their eyes, however, were not on the man getting the tattoo, but in fact, hovering about the room, looking at members of rival factions. The factions were one thing that hadn’t disappeared with the institution of Free Love in this facility, despite the best hopes of the administrators. In fact, the factions were as strong as ever, albeit in a different way than one might imagine. They no longer battled in the Yard, as they once had, but instead evolved into more complex organizations that aggressively competed for members, money, diaper lotion, and, most importantly, pheromone-enhancing substances.
One faction member’s eyes fell upon Bunnu, as a knowing smile broke across his face. Bunnu did his best to ignore him and continued focusing on the conversations of the inmates sitting around him.
(The suit continued: “With the invention of the horseless carriage, Asoka saw to it that the roads were paved over and soon, the streets were packed with automobiles. Car culture swept through Asoka Plains and it was only a matter of time before local interests decided to sponsor their very first Auto Race and Motor Show. On the main boulevard, crowds lined the street to watch the motorcade of competing race cars, with souped-up engines and premium parts, some handcrafted to perfection to allow for acceleration to incredible speeds. The candy-colored cars passed in procession to the cheers of onlookers, honking their horns, with revs of the engine that were deep and gravelly like thunder. Silver tailpipes gleamed in the sunlight of springtime as black clouds of exhaust streamed out and the smell of pure unadulterated speed drifted throughout the streets. It was the smell of excitement. It was more than that: it was mankind poised to tear across the landscape at incredible speeds, to cross great expanses of land in very little time and outpace even the fastest of all God’s creatures.
“However, this enthusiasm wasn’t shared by all. The older generation, who watched these contraptions litter the boulevards of the town, scoffed at the foolishness of this idea of making sport out of the horseless carriage. The candy-colored paints, the racing stripes, the loud engine noises: it was all lost on them. The flare of it, the baseness of degrading oneself to cheering for the performance of a machine was just too gauche for their refined sensibilities to process. To them, sport was best left in its purest form: that of human trials, victories, and defeats. This was the arena that suited them best. A horse race, for example, still required skill, breeding, and intense training: all of which were overseen by people. And so, while the children flocked to the stadium for motor sport, their parents engaged in more civilized sport by watching horse races, or perhaps even an equestrian football match.
“But what started, at first, as civil disagreement between the younger and older generations soon started to degrade to out-and-out rivalry. A motorway was built along the perimeter of the valley, past the mountain villas and winding around the equestrian football stadium. The Asoka Plains Motor Sport Association [APMSA] had, with the support of local sponsors, put down a lot of money for the purposes of building a track upon which weekly races could be held. And no sooner was it built than the APMSA was already making the preparations for the track’s inaugural race. Not to be outdone, the Equine Football League [EFL] organized an all-star match that started exactly one hour before the race. The attendance at both events was unprecedented and the fans of each could even be seen rallying together outside the football stadium to taunt the other, as though to claim supremacy in their choice of amusement. Minor skirmishes occurred, but no one was seriously injured. That is, until the race began and the cars sped noisily around the horse equestrian stadium. The noise from these engines spooked the horses, which from the influence of steroids, thereupon went on a merciless rampage through the stands, trampling dozens of spectators and laying waste to the concession stand. 22 horses were killed, 12 injured and later euthanized and 38 spectators were seriously wounded. But the conflict didn’t end there…
“In the weeks to come, the noise from the races would again-and-again prove to be sufficient to drive the older generation away from their time-honored sporting events. Sometimes, the events themselves would be cancelled on days in which a race was to be held, leaving the older generation with little more to do with their time than take up refuge from the noise in the quieter corners of their homes; or, in some cases, even leave their estates entirely to make their way to the Asoka Plains Royal Resort and Banquet Hall to attend community gatherings addressing the growing threat to their way of life. At these gatherings, community leaders remained cavalier in their tone, yet persistent in their appeals that the town’s founder and governor, P.K. Asoka, do something about this state of affairs. Asoka, however, remained staunchly dismissive of any kind of threat, as he seemed to be doing his utmost to distance himself from the situation, afraid that he might otherwise lose favor with the Crown Prince Mitsuo—who, himself, was a great fan of motor sport. And so, the community leaders, left with no alternatives, planned demonstrations and staged sit-downs along the tracks in the following weeks to prevent races from being held.
“And despite their best efforts, the auto races became more and more frequent to the point that drivers, engineers, and mechanics alike started flocking to Asoka Plains from all over the known world to seek their fortunes in Auto Racing. Many of the drivers had once been gun runners from the Outlands, who were renowned for their ability to elude the authorities in high-speed car chases along mountain passes with hairpin turns and loose gravel as they made their way full throttle for areas controlled by their client guerilla factions in the jungles below. Now, here they were, in the lap of luxury, in the paradise known all over the world as Asoka Plains. Being of such a humble background, these drivers didn’t know how to react to the adulation they were suddenly receiving from the young and wealthy. They were invited to parties, filled to capacity with Divine Nectar, and shoved—willingly or unwillingly—into their cars for midnight spectator street races. Parents flocked to the streets from their villas to grab their respective children by the ear and drag them home. The young spectators, hopped up on the Nectar, however, resisted the suppression by their elders and violence ensued. This was the beginning of a series of violent clashes and terrorist attempts between the rival tribes of young and old.
“Despite the surge in violent conflicts between the tribes, over the years to come, the motor shows would come to be increasingly popular. Empty lots were developed and turned into moderately-priced accommodations as the events had become a source of tourism for the common people. Hotels, restaurants, bars, casinos, salons, fashion boutiques and souvenir shops soon lined the main boulevard, causing the population of the area to triple and sometimes even quadruple whenever an important event was to be held. Needless to say, the demand for labor brought on by this increase in tourism brought in trainloads of migrant laborers from other lands, looking to make enough money to send to their families back home. Prince Mitsuo, who himself had become a rather avid enthusiast of motor sport, often attended and—on rare occasions—even participated as a driver in some of these races. He also brought with him, by freight train, his own collection of custom cars to be displayed alongside all the other entries in the annual competition, earning him 7 first place trophies and 3 honorable mentions.”)
The cherubs began making their way through the rows to scrub down the inmates with their sponges and rags. The larger ones wiped bare chests and shoulders, heads and legs, while some of the tinier ones crawled into orifices—ears, nostrils, and skin pores— to scrub the insides clean and scrape away any encrusted debris with wire mesh. Two rows ahead, Bunnu could hear one of the inmates in the midst of being cleaned, let out a relaxed, “A
hhhhhh…” It had maybe been ten months since the last time the cherubs had come to clean and rain their sanctifying blessings upon them and presumably, in that time, a lot of filth had built up.
A bioarchitectural engineer, who was in for shooting himself out a cannon without a license, tapped Bunnu on the shoulder repeatedly, all the while, leaning forward and whispering in his mountain accent about the mechanics by which the talking suit was able to sustain itself, “What we be talking ‘bout here, Cuz is…da living suit. You wit me? Da living suit dat respire by means of dem perforations. Breev tru dem air holes in dem sleeves, see? But den, inside da ting you got dis extensive vascular system made from dem starched arteries.”
He craned his long neck over Bunnu’s shoulder and his coconut-shaped head dangled and bobbed as though hanging from a thin branch. He continued in a whisper, “Dem arteries and capillaries, dey got 2 purposes…dey. Support and transport, you wit me?”
Bunnu nodded, if for no other reason than to placate the bumpkin and end the conversation then and there. He didn’t like to be distracted from his eavesdropping.
(The suit continued: “One year, however, the Motor Show was cancelled suddenly due to safety concerns, as news had reached the town of rising tensions between Morell and the Republic. Prince Mitsuo, insensible to the threats of the Republic, insisted that the event be held, nonetheless, as he wanted to showcase some of the newest models that he had acquired over the past year. The stadium was, thus, re-opened and a special event was held by invitation only for those spectators who had been longtime residents of Asoka Plains. The motor show went off without a hitch, earning the Prince an unprecedented 3 first place trophies and special recognition for his unwavering commitment to the future of this sport. The awards ceremony was well-received by the crowd, who admired the Crown Prince for his unmatched bravado and his ability to easily assuage the people’s fears regarding the escalating situation with their adversaries. That evening, however, during Mitsuo’s victory party, news came over the wire that troops from the Republic had taken the Royal Palace in the Morellan capital of Mehta. The King was under house arrest and plans were under way to banish him to the Isle of Deposed Kings.
“Mitsuo, upon hearing the news from one of his advisors, remained confident that the Royal Guard would regroup and recapture the palace in due time. The best recourse, he felt, would be to stay put and pretend, for the sake of his guests, that everything was under control. And so, he returned to his companions at the party, carrying on with them into the early morning.
“And he had only managed to get about 2 hours of rest in his private quarters before being awakened with news of a second transmission over the wire. Several bridges that connected the railway station in Asoka Plains to other key areas had been blown up, presumably by the Republic’s troops. The telegraph wires were, for the moment, still intact, allowing him to give the necessary orders to make provisions for his safe return. Mitsuo, however, still reeling from the effects of a Nectar-induced haze, ignored the pleadings of his closest advisors and insisted on staying in his villa, for fear that his sudden departure may alarm his friends in Asoka Plains unnecessarily. Instead, he commanded that more supplies be flown in by balloon. He was not ready to go back and assume the throne yet… and his supply of Divine Nectar was running dangerously low.”)
Bunnu felt a tapping on his shoulder again and he sighed. “Listen, Cuz! Whachu gotta understand ‘bout da suit is…”
Bunnu had now spent 5 years awaiting trial in the Asoka Plains Detention Facility and he had maintained his silence, simply because he didn’t have the inclination to speak anymore. And despite his thirst for information, he simply detested the idea of speaking to others. He implicitly accepted the assumption that any data that could be gathered by such methods would inherently be skewed by personal motives.
Of course, this did not stop others from attempting to engage him, somehow in conversation. In fact, they all seemed intent on getting his attention, as they seemed to think that their factions would benefit greatly overall by winning him over and achieving his “blessing.” And to use the word blessing was no exaggeration: For some bizarre reason, the other inmates had come to idolize him…or at the very least, they had come to idolize some romanticized construct that had conveniently been projected upon him, perhaps due to his mysterious, silent nature. And the attention he was now receiving from them, as a result of it, was proving to be a terrible nuisance.
The staff, too, insensible to his annoyance at the intrusions of others, had encouraged him these past 3 years to make a greater effort to make friends, as this could help pull him out of—what they assumed to be—his depression. Yet, for him, depressed or not, it seemed a far better thing to remain miserable and foul in temperament in the depths of one’s solitude than to seek to be any other way for the purposes of making others, or even oneself, comfortable. The consequences of performing a role to satisfy the expectations of others, the repercussions of going through the motions of social interaction, after all, could be devastating and monstrous. Attempts at being diplomatic by feigning bliss could actually give way to repercussions that were the exact opposite of the intended effect. Consider the example of the Genki Phantom (seated just left of middle in the front row).
This gleeful wraith, though well-intentioned, sought to defy its metaphysical role as a force for malevolence by attempting to be good-natured and friendly, making his trespasses upon the Will, his deceptions, all the more frightening than they might have otherwise been if he had undertaken such endeavors sincerely and with pure, albeit malicious, intentions. What brought this phenomenon on was presumably a nagging sense of denial, an irresolute cognitive dissonance stemming from his inability to reconcile himself with his very nature. Instead of embracing his vileness, he made a concerted effort to mask his abominable features—his three-pronged nose, his sharp cheeks, his harsh, pointed jaw—with a forced attempt at a soft smile that more closely resembled a sneer than anything else, in the hopes of affecting a calm and pleasant demeanor that would otherwise be reserved for those who were not, in fact, Evil Incarnate. Voices of desperation howled throughout him in sorrowful agony as he nodded an affirming, yet intimidating nod, crooned a scrap-iron clank of a trill, and stretched his lips to their limits to manufacture what was meant to be a grin, but more closely resembled a grimace.
Looking now at the back of his oblong head, Bunnu could see that the Genki Phantom had slicked back his wild rubbery hair in an attempt to make himself more presentable. Concealed, too, were his glistening neck fangs, which would otherwise protrude from the posterior of his neck-face. He had chosen to cover this with a brightly-colored, lacey ascot, which the prison guards had afforded him the privilege to wear, in part, due to his supernatural status.
Bunnu did not seek to be the menacing social butterfly that the Genki Phantom was, nor did he seek to forge alliances or to be liked by others.
To him, it served no purpose.
(The suit continued: “Mitsuo waited for days and weeks for the supplies, but they never came and soon, even his own reserves of the Divine Nectar had been depleted. And it was only a matter of hours after the effects of the last dose had worn off, that a great hunger had overtaken him—one so severe and painful that it seemed worse than starvation.
“Clutching at his abdomen, he got up from his bed and went immediately to the dining room. On the dining table, he found to his great relief, his morning feast, which usually consisted of much more food than he was capable of digesting. Today, however, he was particularly famished. So, he quickly devoured the first course, the Man-telope breast, finding upon finishing that his appetite hadn’t diminished. He turned to his servant, motioning to his empty plate, demanding his next course. The servant expediently served him a generous helping of Jellied Eggs which the Crown Prince slurped up in a matter of minutes. Next, was the Mumta marrow consommé. Followed by some green rice pudding. Then, Aloo Magenta with Mole Fly larva
flakes. After that, steamed crickets with fondue.
“Mitsuo ate throughout the day and into the late night. His advisors, concerned that perhaps he had sunk into a depression because of the tragedy that had befallen his kingdom, stood by his side silently, giving each other knowing glances from time to time.
“They pitied the Prince.
“The eating continued into the dawn and the Prince took a break to empty his bowels and take a power nap. He commanded the cooks to have the table ready with his next meal within the hour. And with this, he left the dining room.
“About 20 minutes passed and the Prince burst back through the door with his pants around his ankles and a ravenous look in his eye. One of his advisors proceeded to replace his chair with one with a hole cut into the center of the seat, while another placed a bucket underneath to catch his feces.
“And so, never feeling the need to leave his chair, the Prince resumed his eating: Pineal Gland Sarada, Piddle-dowsed Scuppernongs, Minced Flatworm with Powdered Shouyu, Dark Matter Giblet Pie, Lesser Bison Makhani, etc. After days of this intense feasting, however, his servants and advisors were beginning to get rather nervous as the food supplies were starting to run low. So, servants were sent out to all the houses and shops within the vicinity to obtain as much food as possible, explaining to all that inquired that the Prince had recently been taken ill and, thus, had a slight increase in appetite. The surrounding residents were not at all surprised at news of his ‘illness’ as a similar situation had inexplicably taken shape amongst the youth of the region, leading to food shortages throughout the area. Relieved to hear that this malady did not only seem to be plaguing the Prince, the servants gathered whatever food they could and returned to the villa’s dining room to find Crown Prince Mitsuo feasting on what appeared to be a human leg. His advisors were still standing nervously by his side, sweating profusely, though apparently relieved to see that the servants had supplies with them.
“But the food could only last so long and, as such, it was only a matter of days before Crown Prince Mitsuo—having finished every last morsel of food and still craving more— had somehow managed to devour all but 2 of his remaining servants, both of whom were cooks. Mitsuo looked at the two of them angrily and screamed as he slammed his fist against the table, ‘I’m the King, dammit! Where’s my food?’
“‘I’m sorry, your Majesty. We have nothing left,’ one of the cooks pleaded.
“‘Terribly sorry, sir. Perhaps it’s time to leave the area,’ said another.
“’You know who you’re talking to, Boy?’ Mitsuo demanded. Folds of fat were now hanging from his cheeks and jowls and upper lip, weighing down his mouth and consequently making it difficult for him to speak without obstruction. The words came out muddled by flesh and it seemed that his tongue may have swelled making it difficult to pronounce certain words. For example, You know who you’re talking to, Boy? sounded more like Yo doh hoh yoh thawkik thoo, bwa? Simply uttering these words, in fact, made him sweat and gave way to a great sense of frustration, as though it were the fault of the other person that he was made to expend energy like this unnecessarily.
“’Yes…your Majesty’ the cook said nervously, ‘You are the King!’
“’Tham rah ahl em!’ Mitsuo responded. Translation: Damn right I am!
“One of the cooks patted his sweaty brow with a handkerchief and pleaded, ’But you see, sir. We are out of servants. Giorgio and I: we are the only two cooks remaining.‘“
“To this, Mitsuo exclaimed, ‘Dzazha! Hukh hith ath thup!’ Translation: Giorgio! Cook his ass up!
“’Yes, your Majesty,’ Giorgio responded with a sigh.
“After eating all of his servants and advisors, the newly proclaimed King Mitsuo, decided that he would like to go for a drive. It had now been weeks since he’d eaten out and that terrible hunger of his was getting worse. However, upon pulling out of his driveway and into the streets of Asoka Plains, he found the area in a state of turmoil. Houses had been burned to the ground. Carcasses, stripped of flesh, lay on the side of streets splattered with blood. A tribe of young socialites stood by the side of the road watching his car drive by with cold, soulless eyes. Their faces were smeared with blood, their cheeks and jowls, too, weighed down by excess flab, until it became clear to Mitsuo that they, too, had a great hunger.
“Mitsuo drove down the main boulevard, but didn’t see a soul. Windows were broken. Doorways boarded up. The place seemed abandoned, but surely it couldn’t have been. And then he saw at a crosswalk, straight ahead, three giggling fat men holding chains pulling prisoners behind them. He recognized one of these prisoners as P.K. Asoka, the founder of this town. He floored the accelerator, in the hopes of mowing them over, only to miss and hit a nearby lamppost. The car door opened and he was dragged out into the street.
“Mitsuo’s subsequent demise is no great tale and I’ll certainly spare you the graphic details, except to say that when the Morellan Resistance landed on the plains in a strategic retreat from the Battle of Mehta, they were shocked at the conditions to which Asoka Plains had been reduced. They were attacked and, at first, overwhelmed by tribes of hungry young men, looking for fresh meat to satisfy their appetites. However, being in better physical shape, and equipped with weapons with a great deal of stopping power, the soldiers soon overpowered the locals. However, in the heat of these socialites’ beastly cravings, it was difficult to coexist side-by-side, as these people had devolved to the level of savages and couldn’t bear up with the restraints of civilization any longer.
“It was, thus, decided that the tribes of Hungrymen would be allocated certain areas of land that were isolated from the military camp. However, certain members of the youth faction of the Morellan resistance believed this strategy to be unwise and took it upon themselves to spearhead an all-out offensive aimed at annihilating these barbarous Hungryman tribes. However, the Hungrymen, being better educated, despite their crude ways, found themselves better capable of organizing and strategizing than the young, inexperienced officers of the resistance. And soon enough, not only did they overcome the attacks on their tribe, but they also managed to steal all the food rations from the military camp, reducing the troops to starvation. An all-out battle ensued within the chain of command and among the troops, until they, too were reduced to cannibalism.
“And when the occupying forces from the Republic finally arrived at the Plains via L'Oiseau Mecanique, the troops found no adversaries, but various tribes, all of whom had the amalgamated appearance of being indigenous to the area, though this simply could not have been the case: Tribes of Young Socialites, Tribes of their Elders, Tribes of Migrant Laborers, Tribes of Auto Mechanics, Tribes of General Infantry from the Morellan Resistance, Tribes of their Officers, even a Tribe Consisting of the Horn Section of Scabby McGraw and the Magna-poops. Asoka Plains, once the beautiful paradise of unspeakable beauty was stripped bare, gray, and forlorn. Buildings were run-down. Skeletons were scattered about the street. Ruins littered the landscape. And left with the formidable task of cleaning the place up and starting over again, the leader of the occupying forces, a man by the name of General Aziz-3, observed, ‘Human action—drained of its superfluities and absolved of the necessity for pretense—is, in its very essence, cannibalistic in motive.’ Inspired by his own words, he had this phrase carved in stone at the entrance to the Asoka Plains Royal Resort and Banquet Hall—a building that would, years later, become a detention facility for enemy combatants and political dissidents. This very facility: the Asoka Plains Detention Center.”)
The suit bowed before the audience, “I hope you found this educational.” The inmates’ applause was lacking in enthusiasm, causing the suit, humiliated by the lukewarm reception to collapse into a pile of clothing on the floor beside the menhir upon which it had sat. The menhir, too, though seemingly deficient in the sentience required to comprehend wholly what had happened to the suit, felt a soulful tremor of separation anxi
ety press upon the insides of its hollow chambers; and with a solitary fissure creeping up its mid-section, the monolithic structure began to crumble to its lonesome rudimentary fragments. A cloud of stone dust soon enveloped the stage and when it cleared, countless black semioplasmic dots scurried out from the collar and sleeves of the suit and in every which direction to disappear somewhere between the stage and the walls.
Every Good Boy