Rohort went to France

  The boundaries of human knowledge are always shifting, they grow ever outwards, what is known becomes ever more. There is unceasing probing of the human body and that of animals and plants. The search for increased output never ceases and for tastier items to titillate and tempt, the ever increasing dimensions of our waistlines is the measurement of its success.

  This has brought the question many ask.

  `Which is more dangerous fighting in the pub or a diet of its pies?'

  Combat would be obvious then ponder the well known saying.

  'We dig our graves with our teeth.'

  Is food our succour or a hazard?

  A refugee from a land torn by conflict or strife would not hesitate to answer.

  But how safe is that person with the frontline far behind, there's food, it's plentiful but its flavours, the temptation, it's a hidden danger. War is not the only hazard that we can face.

  But science does not always win and one documented failure coms to mind the attempt to breed a chicken that can think. And so the saying `He’s a Hen brain' remains. Thus an effort that might have modified the language failed.

  But I digress, I will leave the study of etymology and return to what most would consider a more important leitmotif the human anatomy and more specifically our genes.

  First I will explore an unexpected realm, politics and a recent era of a dark past. The Nazis had theories of racial purity, of racial hygiene and eugenics. But alas their methods were so horrible no one wished to believe there could be a shred of truth.

  And so it remained, but gradually the importance of the genes became obvious. They could not be denied and the dark era I have referred became distant and for many a time unknown. And so it became if we can breed animals and plants to more productive, what about ourselves?

  Having children it is sometime said is a lottery, its outcome random and unknown. From the screaming infants mouth can later come forth words that bring money, laughter and applause. We do not arrive at birth with a label there is no designation that says what we will be. Time and only time is the determinant then the translation of our efforts will be known. Has our little darling become a comedian, an entertainer or does the world have to make space for one more annoying clown?

  But the new age of science has arrived and with it a changed arrival of children...

  The mechanics of reproduction remained unaltered, I.e copulation etc. What was different was the predictibility of its outcome, it was no longer random or as the well known chant went.

  `Fuck and hope.'

  The randomness of reproduction was gone. Couples genes could be matched I e his with hers and the output of their efforts would be known.

  The mantra changed, it became. `Prepackaged children with labels.'

  Thus it became possible to breed a world without criminals, but policemen would discover there were dole queues.

  But alas, like the chickens, there was another notable failure. There are some who stray into the incorrect bed.

  You might ask why was this urge not bred out? It was agreed there should not be a total elimination of fun. But there was a reduction in the crime rate, fewer policemen and a redeployment for prisons and their staff.

  One notorious lockup became a hotel, it was very popular with honeymooning couples, it was known as The Life Sentence.

  The wish to create a perfect world did occasionally hit the buffers.

  This matching of a couples genes caused problems few considered.

  But I will return to the world as it once was, its culture and its movies. In them there were bad men, they were distinguished by their hats, the heroes wore brown the villains were in black, but with a shortage of little nasties, the ones we wish to hate, whose heads would the black attire adorn now?

  But I have meandered and I will return to the theme, the elimination by breeding of problem people. It has largely succeeded and has brought changes in the language, how often do you hear a person referred to as a goat?

  Boy meets girl, they fancy each other, fall in love, it’s timeless. They marry and have children, past tense, they would have had children. In the clinical world of gene’s testing it might be revealed there’d be an unsatisfactory outcome.

  What then? Tricky.

  Some prefixed dating with a genetic matching, jumping the gun perhaps, too clinical.

  It might be possible of course that perfectly matched genes might belong to couples not matched for married life.

  They might not love each other. At least this would eliminate bedroom battles and missiles in the kitchen.

  The possibility of improved children changed behaviour. The unconventional became the conventional.

  Love someone, live with them, but make sure the outcome of making love is by the best matched genes and this of course is possible because of the gene’s bank.

  Science does not give up. There are incremental increases in our knowledge. Eventually the outcome of matched genes became predictable.

  Thus came the gene’s bank. Its purpose the collection and dissemination of information.

  But the records might be stale, they might not be updated. The most common omission was an unreported vasectomy. This failure could cause disappointment and definitely if the man was handsome.

  So A and B marry, but the output of activity in bed or wherever might not be entirely their own. The wife’s partner for the purpose of procreation might not be her husband, the decision with whom and in whose bed would be made entirely by the gene’s bank.

  And the husband in turn might get the summons from further down the street.

  The solution was practical, it became acceptable and most times it worked.

  The new world had arrived or in a nutshell, science deciding what went on in bed.

  Homo sapiens had attained a new level. The Garden of Eden as a domain of residence ceased to be a mirage, man might yet return.

  Then came Hombo, the dream slipped, it vanished.

  Hombo lived in Ita Isha land. It was rich, it had scarce resources that were valuable and few to enjoy it’s benefits and it was the inhabitant’s intention to keep it so.

  The citizens of this land had no callouses, few know where the contents of the toilet went, such was their disconnection from the world.

  But being born in Ita Isha land did not necessarily confer wisdom and Hombo’s was questionable.

  His gene’s code revealed that with the right matching he would Father a monster. I do not mean a hairy object with five mouths and a constant quest for blood, but a person with unquenchable ambition, a focused love for power to be attained and retained by any means possible.

  Who you might ask would wish to uncage such a person. The world might have problems but a further multiplication might for most deter.

  But alas not so for Hombo. It’s outcome was too distant, its impact remote.

  His ego demanded attention. He craved to outperform all those around. His progeny would shine, he or she would stand out and he, the Father, would be noticed.

  The search came for the right match.

  You might think that in a very poor country few would know about, let alone file genetic information. The cost, the sacrifice would be too great, but you are wrong. The inhabitant of such a land might have a gene’s code sought beyond the border, perhaps in a palace where money grew on trees or was even used for decoration.

  And if you thought it was only the female who made the journey, another blot, the male was sometimes sought for the resonations from his bollocks and for both it was a route from need and want.

  So Hombo searched and it took him to Ichorochary. It was well known, its size defined significance. It’s citizens teemed, many spilt beyond its border.

  And so he went. He found Olif the lady that he sought, there was also a husband and children.

  But the ambient of awfulness repelled him. He had never seen nor could envisage such a comprehensive totality of nothing, desperate
mice would have difficulty such was the absence of succour.

  Hombo shrank. There was darkness and a spreading shame. He wished there was an exit, but Olif and her husband saw money.

  But there was worse, if that was possible. There were whippings, Olif’s back bore testimony.

  And so he explained his putative intentions. He needed general assistance in the house, for instance the making of beds, not mentioned was the time that would be spent within them.

  Olif and her husband did not confer. There was an unequivocal, instant decision, Olif would assist. The prospect of the money was too great.

  So Olif returned with Hombo to Ita Isha land. Her duties were fulfilled, but it was not possible for her to remain.

  The horizontal slog with imported labour was OK, but if the intended evolutionary outcome resulted, I.e: pregnancy and birth, there could be problems. The progeny of such a union was not welcome, it was unlawful to remain, few would risk the exactions brought by breach.

  So they returned together to Ichorochary.

  There was a payment to Olif’s husband for the loan of his wife and there was a promise of more. There was a stipulation of a ban on the whipping.

  Occasional visits by Hombo confirmed this.

  The infant arrived and Hombo was now a distant dad. It was a boy, its name Enam.

  The child grew and it was soon obvious he’d be more than ordinary such was his urge to control.

  The route to power in Ichorochary was through the party, Enam joined at the youngest possible age. His commitment was total he had time for little else. No meeting was too long, no speech too boring, whilst others slept, he would remain attentive and alert.

  Then came an unexpected opportunity. There was an assassination of someone senior in the party Enam’s plucky action spared the lives of more.

  He was now the trusted lieutenant, protecting those he wished to supersede.

  When the transition came there were no farewell speeches. It was swift brutal and ruthless.

  Enam had attained his ambition he was slotted right in at the top. His Father or who he thought was his father was appointed internal security chief. His mother was parked in idle comfort.

  But it was not enough to rule one country, the tyranny was spread, Ita Isha land became a vassal. This did not sate the Tyrant’s ego, like his Father’s it demanded more and more. There were images of him public places, The Great Achiever, his example was upheld there were exhortations, he would lead there’d be further triumphs for the nation unfortunately, the urgings and reality were mismatched.

  The inhabitants of Ita Isha were not convinced. Their life of ease and comfort had been replaced the transition was to work and little else. Ita Isha land had an unofficial renaming, it was known by its citizens as ‘Wish it wasn’t land’

  This enraged the Great Achiever the lack of gratitude was unbelievable.

  There were more images and greater exhortations.

  Hombo quaked, he saw the images, there was no doubt, there was a genetic connection the Tyrant was the mirror of himself.

  Others noticed, Hombo was nicknamed the Lesser Achiever. It was not known what had happened.

  But there was restlessness and dissatisfaction and a triumphal insurrection, the Great Achiever fled and definitely no valedictory speech.

  There was general relief, but not yet for Hombo. There was interest in his resemblance to the Tyrant. This brought a probing of the gene’s bank. Hombo’s secret was out. He trembled, but he needn’t, he was hailed a Hero. There had been growing disenchantment with the gene’s bank, many chafed at its diktats with whom, when and in which bed, Hombo had revealed a dangerous weakness. It was the catalyst, it brought change. There could not be a next time, Tyrants could not be intentionally bred, the bank had to go and unequivocally it did.

  And so today at the movies there are men in black hats, on the screen there is no camouflage, no covering of tracks, the villains are identifiable we know exactly who to hate.

  Scattered in the rubbish