Brutally Haggard, Part 3

The Bird Endures

The Bird, fearing immediate pursuit, did not stop when he reached the apartment. He went to the front door, opened it with the special beak adapter Kiplough had bought for him, and bolted out into the hallway. There the strong aroma of pastrami brought him up short.
Where would he go? Who would he consult? It was no certain that he could communicate with any other human, much less be seen by one other than Kiplough. He looked left and right down the hallway. The ends were so far away they appeared to be tiny dots. As he was debating whether he should knock on Clementa’s door, her being the only other apartment in which he had some knowledge of another human presence in the complex, the door across the hall opened. Klaster, bookbag slung over his shoulder, emerged.
“Hi.” Said the Bird.
Klaster looked down at the Bird, which still had the beak adapter on. His immediate thought was that it was a kid in a costume. He did not wonder whether the kid had gotten the date of Halloween wrong or whether it actually was Halloween and he had forgotten it in his absorption in his studies, because there is no Halloween in Shedge. No Christmas either.
Then Klaster realized, by looking at the wetness of the eyes and the fleshy realism of the skin around them, that this was a real bird and that it had spoken to him.
“Hi.” He answered dubiously. “Is that thing stuck on your beak?” He asked, betraying a nature both solicitous and sensitive, something he was normally forced to downplay among his rowdy roommates.
“Oh, no.” The Bird said, snapping off the adapter. “Uh, how would you like to help me out?’
“Well, I’ve got to get to class.” Klaster shook the shoulder strap on his bag as evidence of this. As the Bird held his eyes he added, “And then I’ve got to go to work.”
“Oh, well, maybe you can give me some advice. I’ve got a problem; well, my roommate Kiplough has a problem.” In saying this he jerked his head at the door behind him.
“You live in that apartment?” Klaster looked at the door eagerly.

Klaster Calls Work

Stodge Merrit answered the phone at Klaster’s place of employment, the Hose Hole Affiliate.
“Stodge, are you supervising today?” Klaster asked.
“Yeah, and Ron Gonn can’t stand it.” Stodge answered, knowing that Klaster thought Gonn as big a fool as he did. “What’s up?”
“I can’t make it in today.” Klaster said, then added, “Or maybe I can. But I might be a little late.” He was relieved that Stodge had answered the phone instead of one of the regular supervisors. Stodge was nearly the same age as he and almost equally indifferent to the job. When he hung up the phone he was more willing to spend time helping the Bird.
He had told the Bird to wait inside the apartment while he phoned work. Now he crossed the hall and knocked. Immediately the Bird opened the door and stood aside while he entered.
“I’ve wanted to see the inside of this apartment for some time.” Klaster put his bookbag down on the lime green shag carpeting.
“You want anything to drink?” The Bird, who was in the kitchen, called.
“No thank. Just tell me what’s wrong.” Klaster was confused by the lack of furniture.
“Well,” Said the Bird reentering the living room with a cup of coffee. “The big guy I live with, Don Kiplough…”
“Yes, I’ve caught glimpses of him in the hall.” Klaster interrupted.
“You ever talk to him?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s been digging this tunnel…” And the Bird went on to give the lanky graduate student all the details that you already know. Afterwards, Klaster wanted to see the tunnel.
“I’ve never seen real dirt before.” Klaster said, examining the odd loam that was the foundation of Shedge.
“This apartment complex is really old.” The Bird said. He finished his coffee. “Who knows? This may be the original inhabitation of Shedge.”
“By primitive man, you mean?” Klaster cleaned his glasses.
“And primitive bird.” The Bird added.

The Spicy Delights of Mother’s Matriculation

Although Bunt Hangurin had outlined his proposal in some detail to the ladies of the camp, there remained many questions, none of which he was in the mood to answer.
“If I may be excused a moment?” Hangurin pinched the bridge of his copious nose and held up his other hand in supplication. Of course, there was no objection, although after he lumbered out the door of the conference room one of the ladies, Enduma Schooner, turned to her closest friends among those gathered and said,
“I think he’s drunk.”
Hangurin, however, was not drunk, but was recovering from a recent poisoning engineered by one of his enemies. Which one he wasn’t sure of yet, but be assured that he was determined to find out and exact a revenge of grim responsibility. Even as he violently vomited into the trashcan just within the men’s room across the hall he was sifting through his mental files. Was it Phellipe Goosen? Could he discount the jealous machinations of Malder Stang? Or was it Dud Dubotic? There were others. As he gave his last heave some nondescript character without much of an identity or purpose in his thin existence other than to get his ass kicked for being a busybody came into the men’s room. Hangurin was snatching a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser when this newcomer objected to his use of the trashcan.
“Couldn’t you make it to the toilet, buddy?” He said angrily.
“No, I couldn’t, buddy.” Hangurin growled through his sloppy mouth and teary eyes.
“It’s just another step or two.” The voice became more strident.
Hangurin threw a heavy fist into the man’s gut, then picked him up by the sleeves of his stupid businessman’s shirt with the body of the shirt colored blue and the collar white, and slammed him down on one of the sinks, smashing the sink from the wall and badly bruising the man. He pulled a couple more paper towels from the dispenser and returned to the conference room.
“Excuse me, ladies. But my mother died two days ago and I’m still shook up.”

Present with the Detractors’ Own Witness

The small lawn was regularly dotted with short, single stalks of white-and-yellow flowers. Enduma Schooner, perceptive as always, looked at the flowers and thought to herself, “it must form a pattern when seen from the air.” She tried to imagine what the pattern or picture was as she walked along the brick path to the front door of Dud Dubotic’s ancient cottage.
Two men in a balloon, Burl and Duke, passing overhead at that moment, could see nothing more than a simple checkerboard pattern on the lawn. It barely registered as a point of interest with either of them. They were drinking soda out of cans and studying the topography of the region.
“That looks like the Codvokan district.” Burl pointed at a mass of structures rising from the lower mass of the interconnected city.
“Yep.” Duke nodded. “We sure are high up.”
“Can’t believe we haven’t seen any naked women yet.” Burl said sourly.
Enduma Schooner took no notice of the balloon, which bore the symbols of the university and its municipology department. She pushed the button by the front door and waited.
“Enduma? Come in!” A white-haired man had opened the door. He wore green pants and a faded old shirt patterned with small unicorns ringed by horseshoes.
“Did you find your way without too much trouble? Dud Dubotic, the man, whose whiteness of hair extended even to his eyelashes, asked as his guest stepped into the foyer.
“Well, I’ve never been in this neighborhood before, Dud. Such unusual architecture! I’m not sure I like it.” Enduma held her turquoise colored, vinyl purse before her like an offering she was confused about where to offer.
“This area is extremely old.” Dubotic explained. “The temple I have planned for your organization will be modern, nothing like this.”
“I hope not.” Said Enduma. “Still, it is cozy.” She looked around at the furnishings, which were all period pieces.

Stupidity Labors to React

“I love to smell the mopwater.” Mr. Groaf commented sarcastically.
“I don’t mind it.” Mavez Abuelia replied. They had just completed an act of carnality on the sofa in the closet adjacent to Groaf’s office.
“What do you want to do now?” Groaf asked, knowing, that on his part, his first course of business was to reclothe himself, get Ms. Abuelia to leave, and resume his day. He hoped that her plans were in agreement with his.
As they re-entered the office Groaf asked,
“What are you going to do about this interview?”
“What do you mean?” Mavez asked, thinking that the Director General might be asking her to doctor the interview to his own benefit.
“I mean it’s so short. It doesn’t justify the time we actually spent talking. I mean it doesn’t match the time it took.” Groaf glanced at his schedule on the desk.
“Oh, I’ll fill it in with description, what the office looked like, some kind of interpretive biographical material.”
“I don’t expect you to… be overly or unduly positive towards me.” Groaf wanted that made plain.
“I won’t. Even though I’m inclined to be.” She made what Groaf considered to be a sexy face. He smiled.
“When can I see you again?” Mavez Abuelia asked, knowing that she must be going.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to meet here again, and, I want this to be clear: I don’t want to have to hide, to be… ashamed or made to look like I’m ashamed to see you. Or to be seen with you.” Groaf walked Mavez to the door of the office that had remained unlocked during the interview. “Why don’t we get together at my private residence? My family’s ancestral home.”
“I’d like that.” She answered, wondering it she knew exactly where that was. In fact, the house Groaf referred to where his grandparents had once lived, was right next door to Dud Dubotic’s house.

The Peregrinations of One Falconer’s Machismo

The illustration chosen to accompany the first page of the article was a diagram of the new oxygenating bond agent addendum to the city’s energy pump facility, which was, as I think we all can recognize, an aging facility, perhaps even an outdated one. The diagram, rendered in a semi-exploded and cut-away style, was surmounted and partially overlaid by a photograph of Bunt Hangurin, looking determined and wolfishly elegant, despite his big nose and ears, his unfashionable hairstyle, and the button on his lapel bearing a picture of Jean Dubuffet.
“Is that a homemade button?” Photographer Pellis Eaton asked and editor-in-chief Endino Parway later echoed when he saw the resultant picture.
“Yes.” Said Hangurin looking down at the button much as a young woman in a t-shirt does when she catches sight of a man looking at her chest, as if she cannot figure out what the man is looking at.
“You made it yourself?” Eaton continued to snap shots as he talked.
“Yes.” Hangurin’s secretary Milana Ludad stood to one side watching. Of course, she and Hangurin had been in love for years, but any romance was kept in check by their professionalism and the greater thrill of making the business grow. Call it (if you aren’t sick of the phrase “call it…” yet) a mutual appreciation society. Eaton suggested something a snap or two later.
“How about getting some with Miss Ludad and you together. It could...”
“No.” Hangurin squelched the idea abruptly. He said nothing more; the look on his face said anything else that was needed.
“OK.” Eaton, a thin older man with a silk rag about his throat, glanced at Miss Ludad again before changing cameras.
“Mr. Hangurin, could you make that face again? The mean one?” He asked as he looked through the viewfinder.
“No.” Hangurin said, less emphatically than before, but with a growing sense that the novelty of this experience was rapidly dissipating.
“Relax, chief.” Milana Ludad said in a low voice. Hangurin looked sideways at her and growled.
“Oh, that’s a good one.” Eaton declared.

White Paratroopers in Cahoots

One of the stipulations in Huck Feral’s contract was that his manager have his own personalized chair on the set of Grimalkin and Goth, which was to begin the filming of its third season on the day this page occurs. Malder Stang settled himself into this chair and then reached out his hand for the paper cup of expensive coffee that a young flunky standing nearby held in readiness.
Stang took the lid off the cup and examined the contents below.
Grif Oberon, manager of Ben Stupor Little, sat opposite Stang in a chair similar to the latter’s, but the only stenciled name upon it was that of the Chad Ragalag Productions Company.
“Something wrong with your coffee?” Oberon asked.
“It’s too hot to drink.” Stang said in a sad voice. He sniffed close to the surface of the coffee. “And they forgot to add my special ingredient.”
“What’s that?” Oberon asked.
“Here, would you mind helping me?” Stang asked. He handed the cup to Oberon. “Just hold that a minute, please.” Stang reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew an expensive silver flask. He poured a generous measure of dark brown liquor into the coffee.”
“Careful.” Oberon cautioned. The hot coffee was nearly sloshing over the sides.
“Thanks.” Stang stuffed the flask back into his coat. “The flask has a special thermal lining that keeps the brandy cold.” He explained as he took the coffee back. “Mmm.” He sipped.
“Alright, what was it you wanted to talk about?” Oberon rubbed his hands together.
Before Stang could begin discussions about their clients’ respective deals with the production company, Bunt Hangurin appeared out of the darkness behind Stang. As he clapped his massive hand on Stang’s shoulder, he began speaking.
“Watch it!” Stang shouted.
“I’m watching you, Stang.” Hangurin said simultaneously. “I think you’re responsible for poisoning me last week.”
“You’re spilling my coffee!” Stang shouted. Hangurin took the cup from the man’s hand and downed it in on long swallow.

Zeus and Zellner, Forgotten Again

“I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like.” Mundig told Kiplough. He was referring to his two children, whose framed photograph stood on the desk in his office. This office was to the right of the hold Kiplough had made in the corridor. The large room that held the multi-armed device was to the left.
“But when this is all over I’m going to take my family on a long vacation.” He now held the photograph in his hands. He looked at it with a crooked smile on his face. As he replaced it Kiplough averted his eyes for a few seconds, pretending to be studying the rug. He was afraid to embarrass the man.
“So, what do you think of our plans?” Mundig asked him.
Kiplough looked up and ran his tongue over his teeth.
“I don’t mind.” He said.
“That’s usually the attitude towards the Bolsis assuming control of a new world.” Mundig chuckled. “Even among those being annexed.”
“To be honest, Shedge could use a big change.” Kiplough mused.
“That’s generally the attitude.” Mundig stood up. “Let’s go take a look at this tunnel of yours.”
As they reached the midpoint in the corridor they met Klaster and the Bird emerging.
“Kiplough!” The Bird said, stunned.
“So this is the famous bird.” Mundig laughed.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Klaster extended his hand to Kiplough.
“Who are you?” Kiplough asked.
Explanations were made, even as to the function of the device over the pit and its place in the upcoming invasion. The group trudged back up the tunnel so that Mundig could take a look at Kiplough’s apartment.
“From now on, my friend,” Said the technician. “You may consider this an official extension of the domains of the Bolsis. But that’s not official. At least not yet.” Mundig glanced at his watch as he laughed.
“But who is this Paraftylloben?” Klaster asked. Although Mundig offered to show him, Klaster insisted he had to get to class.

Paraftylloben and His Attendants

“How are things going?” The message, written on a large piece of paper with brush and ink, came down to the master operator on duty clipped to a rope that moved on pulleys around and around through Paraftylloben’s interior.
“Things are going wonderfully, Great One.” The master operator on duty, Drake Rammelson, replied by means of typing out the reply on specially coded buttons in the main attendance room. Through a intricate series of gears and pulleys, ropes and belts, the reply was entered into Paraftylloben’s consciousness.
“How soon do we invade?” Paraftylloben asked, again on a piece of paper which a wooden arm, deep inside his vast structure, had written with ink and brush.
“I am told we are to invade in thirty days, Great One.” Rammelson typed.
“This man in charge of forward operations, Turk Mundig: is he going a good job?”
“Yes, Great One.” Rammelson remained respectful, but in between typing his responses to the monolithic thinking mechanism, he was reading a humorous novel called 1,000 Men Are Above the Ground, by the minor Hurrer author Jerk Languid. It had become obvious to the master operators many years before that, although a sentient being, Paraftylloben wasn’t all that smart. He had the mentality of the average forty-year-old. Well, perhaps slightly more than that. Sometimes he did come up with some brilliant ideas.
What neither Rammelson, nor any of the other master operators and their assistants, juniors and underlings; the executive engineers, and their assistants, juniors, and underlings; in fact, the whole of the Paraftylloben maintenance and interaction ministry knew was that for years Paraftylloben had set aside part of his operations to engage in a secret project. Deep, deep inside the labyrinthine interior of the gigantic wooden computer Paraftylloben had created a separate space where he could draw pictures and dream. The light of the sun made shadows passing through Paraftylloben’s drawings, falling onto heat sensitive receptors which enabled him to “see” them. It was these images that informed his dreams.

The Annulment of Candied Satrapy

And then I wrote “The Annulment of Candied Satrapy.” It was to have been a chilling advisory about unrestricted logging to provide timber for the expansion of the Great One’s brain, but evolved into this beautiful comic fantasy in which Tracy Governor, in the film version, was at last able to prove that an older actress can play a convincing astronaut.
Having read the synopsis of the following plot sent to him in a doubly sealed envelope bearing many official seals, Klaster, with the thoroughness of the veteran student that he was, began questioning the remaining details. I told him no to worry about it, but he insisted, after he had compared depictions of several dreams, on at least one detail being clarified. Carefully inserting this detail between the sheets of an old book, Klaster then combined his heart-wrenching decision with a plutocrat’s ambitions and nailed the resultant combo to a mighty tree, slated for destruction.
“It’s all so easy, a child could understand it.” Klaster whispered, settling back down into his bed, his glasses still on his face, still wearing the dirty t-shirt with the faded image of an outdated cartoon character. This cartoon character, Huckner Felm, had featured in an old TV show from Klaster’s parents’ time, The Bright Ligament Hour. Klaster’s wearing of a shirt with Huckner Felm’s image on it was a sign of Klaster’s disenchantment with the modern world and his embrace of an earlier time, a time he had just missed out on (relatively speaking, considering the apparently vast span of human history).
Of course, Klaster reflected, when he reflected upon these things, he couldn’t do without certain modern things like Rock music and air conditioning. He also suspected that people in those days when women wore dresses and men wore suits with narrow lapels and thin ties were more suspicious or confused by behavior outside the norm. Did Klaster romanticize those days? Did he have an unrealistic vision of what it was like then? He let Sydney Falco answer that question for him:
“The cat’s in the bag and the bag’s in the river.”
As he turned over in his bed Klaster smiled with Zen understanding.