The Warden’s office looked like any other cell, only it was cluttered with numerous astrological charts, maps, and volumes of dusty old books with pages hanging out, dog-eared and marked in pen. The room was different from the other cells, however, insofar as it possessed that musty feel reserved for places where old things were kept. The aroma of decaying wood cellulose fibers permeated the room, as though each printed word within had indelibly insinuated itself upon the surrounding atmosphere.
This was a room in which codes were not only exceedingly prevalent, but even hell-bent on the prospect of making their presence felt to all who dared impose upon what one could only assume to be their domain. There was a manner with which one was to enter, a decorum to be observed in the way one conducted oneself, a procedure by which one was to inhale, a discipline to be followed in the pause between inhalation and exhalation, and subsequently a protocol underlying the social mechanics of expelling one’s breath, even a set of guidelines with which biochemical processes were expected to fall in line—as evidenced by a sign on the wall, stating authoritatively in large black letters: ALL TRANSPORT OF INTERCELLULAR MATERIALS IN THIS AREA MUST CONFORM WITH CLAUSE 8, OF ARTICLE 33-C OF THE CYTOPLASMIC IMPORT-EXPORT ACT (REVISED 133.5.21.1), with a stamp underneath that said in tiny red letters: from THE INTERSTITIAL PORT AUTHORITY OF ASOKA PLAINS.
The regimented atmosphere of this office, however, was greatly contrasted by its physical appearance. The office had a rundown, makeshift look about it: a fact that was strikingly apparent upon even a momentary appraisal of the room’s furniture. The bookcase, for example, was composed of a series of milk cartons stacked one upon the other. In place of a mattress, there was a tiny desk and a small wooden stool, both of which had books and papers strewn upon them, leaving no space to sit or write. The warden, himself, was crouched in the corner of this office, presumably having been left no other place to sit, as he stared at the charts and maps on the wall. He, too, was rather diminutive in size, his wiry arms cradling his knees, and his ribs protruding from an emaciated chest devoid of hair. He wore the same prison issue diaper as the other inmates and nothing else, save for the silver plastic toy badge that was loosely taped just above his left nipple. His pointy nose hung down from his decaying gray skin, punctuated by this look of imperious despair, festooned by a patchwork combination of facial features that led one to the immediate conclusion that he had forced a shit sandwich down his own gullet at some point in the distant past and still wasn’t sure, as it languished in stasis in his system, whether to digest the wretched thing or give in to his latent urge to spew it out into the nearest vacant receptacle. This breed of indecision seemed somehow to be the fulcrum upon which all that rotated about his immediate axis seemed to be anchored.
“I can see now from the size of you that I have shrunk a great deal since my last encounter with any inmates. I assure you that I used to be much larger…” he said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat and continued on in an even harsher voice, “Dr. Archimedes has asked me to meet with you both. Frankly speaking, I can’t understand why they can’t handle this matter themselves, but now and again, they leave these things that they can’t be bothered to deal with to the old Warden, because maybe they think I can identify with the inmates. If I had an open line of communication with them, I might tell them that that ship sailed long ago…but I suppose I’d best make myself useful, or they’re bound to forget about me until I’ve shrunk away to nothingness. Well…not nothingness, per se, but a half of a half of a half of something so infinitesimal that it might as well be Void—which could only be a fate far worse, as one’s presence could easily be misunderstood for absence. And that certainly would be the greatest injustice of all!
“Injustice…” he said, suddenly pondering something, “justice…injustice…” His nose started to whistle for a brief moment, before he silenced it with a proactive grunt and he exclaimed with renewed vigor, “I have no frame of reference, however, when I speak of such things. If such concepts as justice or injustice ever even existed, they’ve been overwhelmed by the weight of clauses, subclauses, precedents, and revisions.” He jumped to his feet and dusted off the cover of a book sitting upon his desk. He paged through it casually for a few minutes, seeming to forget that Makhan Singh and Bunnu were standing before him. “My friends, I’ve been here a very long time. In this room, operating upon principles that are said to be rooted in the fundamental truths necessary for the successful functioning of a society. And yet, in that time, I have been a servant to many regimes, all of whose values differed from the others in enough ways to cause one to wonder if there was a universal truth by which civics could be set forth. But that’s a tired old academic matter. It’s simply not for us to decide right here and right now. To be honest, I’m too tired to worry about universal truths and blah blah blah…I feel foolish for even bringing it up!” He let out a puff of exhaustion as though suddenly deflated and his back hunched as he put a hand to his head.
Suddenly his voice became very clear and quiet, losing its previous rasp, and he said slowly and carefully, “As I’m sure you lads are aware, the current administration has been in power for the past 10 years. And a lot has changed under the rule of Archimedes-5. Before he came along, the Yard was a veritable battlefield between the factions. Aggression was the factor that determined where each inmate fit into the society of this detention facility and everyone was satisfied with that. We certainly didn’t have a team of behavioral scientists calling the shots here. But times change: even in here. And my role in this place is to uphold the law, regardless of what I feel. I don’t ask questions. I simply perform my duty. Somehow, duty always manages to be one of those realms of human action that, from the perspective of those bound by it, can be rationalized well enough to elude one’s own scrutiny, regardless of the seriousness of its repercussions and the self-interest underlying its cause. And so, since I am beyond the reach of any earnest attempt at self-scrutiny—immune, as it were, to the slightest hint of fallibility—let’s take a look at the matter at hand, shall we?
“The two of you stand before me because you have seen it fit to resort to aggression to solve your problems. Now, off the record, I see no problem with resolving conflicts by violent means. Boys will be Boys, after all. But you do know the motto here, right?” He sighed and recited painfully the dictum: “‘Every Good Boy Does Fine’…and?”
“Good Boys Do Fine Always,” Makhan Singh recited by himself with his arms folded. Pointed, bony elbows protruded at his sides, digging into Bunnu’s arm, as he stood silently wedged between Makhan and the doorway.
The warden didn’t object to Bunnu’s silence, but instead scratched his head and continued, “To be honest, I don’t really know what they want me to tell you boys. But I guess we’ll figure something out.” He moved the stool out of his way and made his way to the toilet by the side wall, swiping from atop the seat, a couple of file folders. “I apologize for placing your files there, but you see, since we started wearing diapers in this facility, the toilet has been useless to me, except as extended desk space, so I try to make the best use of it that I can. Speaking of which, do either of you baby boys need a change of diapers before we begin?” His raspy tone seemed to have returned upon uttering this last part, as though he were eager to get down to business.
Bunnu remained silent as Makhan Singh shook his head. Bunnu made it a point to change his diaper twice a day, discarding the used diapers in the chute that connected his cell with a vast underground waste disposal area. Bunnu now found himself wondering who tended to the refuse, but soon dismissed the thought, as more important things were at hand.
“Right then…” the Warden said, perusing Makhan Singh’s file, “so, we’re in for treason against the Republic. Freedom fighter, are we?”
“Was a freedom fighter…sir,” Makhan Singh said respectfully. “Was…past tense. I was with the Morellan Liberation Front. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of us.”
> “Yes, I’m familiar with that outfit. We have our fair share of enemy combatants here. So, you still get along well with the other lads in the Morellan Lambasting Flabajaba, then?”
“Uh…” uttered Makhan Singh, seemingly unsure, at first, how to respond, “Well…yes. As a matter of fact, we still have dealings together. We’re running a business.”
“A business in the confines of our detention facility? Running a business like a big boy, are you? And may I ask what you deal in?”
“Well…in diaper lotion.”
“Diaper Lotion? It says something else here on your file,” the Warden squinted slightly as he brought it up to his face. “Before you entered, you were a merchant of Akihito’s Oil.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is that?”
“Surely you’ve heard of Akihito,” Makhan Singh said. The Warden shrugged. “You know…Akihito…? The Prophet of the Outlands?” The Warden shook his head and sighed out of boredom. Makhan Singh continued, “Well…I suppose it’s all rather ancient history now that he’s been proven a fraud.”
“AH! That Akihito!” The Warden exclaimed, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. “The Snake Oil Demagogue! Yes…yes…” he said with relief, “I know all about him. So, you got yourself mixed up with that lot, eh? Rather embarrassing, I imagine.”
“Well, we all ‘got mixed up in it,’ so to speak. All the other men from my garrison, that is. Actually if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.”
The Warden tilted his head, “Well, that’s for me to decide, given the circumstances. Humor me…”
“Well…”
Akihito the Prophet of the Outlands