Brutally Haggard, Part 5

The Bird Goes to School

If Kiplough wouldn’t take the Bird out to see the city, then Klaster would have to. The Bird approached his new friend with this aim in mind and was immediately invited to accompany Klaster, with the caveat that the only place Klaster was going was to class.
“That sounds great.” Replied the Bird. “Maybe I’ll learn something.”
“Maybe.” Said Klaster as he shouldered his burden of books.
Professor Gavial greeted the Bird warmly, readily assenting to his sitting in on the class.
“Just keep your beak shut while I’m lecturing and don’t try to participate in the discussions. OK?” Gavial leaned forward and looked the Bird in the eye.
“OK.” Agreed the Bird.
Klaster and the Bird took their seats. The Bird watched as Klaster took out his notebook, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and rolled his pen between his thumb and forefinger. Together they attended to the professor and it is debatable which of them was more interested in what he had to say.
“My grandparents lived across the street from my family when I was growing up. Some of my fondest memories are of crossing the street at might either to visit them or to return home. In fact, these memories have come back to me in the form of dreams. These dreams are to me now more evocative, having had them so long now, than the original memories. Giant walking machines; mechanized trees; the full moon in a purple sky, ringed by clouds; the autumn breeze; the thrill of rambling through other people’s houses, the possessions of strangers. In like token we may consider the early history of our city. We have no direct knowledge of its founding, we know that there are other worlds, we see their culture broadcast to our TVs on the transperipheral channels, yet we cannot broadcast our own programs to them; we know because we see no evidence of our influence on the others coming back to us. The question is: Do these other worlds currently exist or are we only seeing into the past?”

Stodge Goes on a Date with Clementa

She was nearly twenty years older than him. Stodge felt a strange enthusiasm in the light of that fact when he contemplated having sex with her. As of the beginning of the evening under review, he had not yet achieved that physical union with Clementa. They had met at the library, not during the act of browsing the stacks as if in the previous cases we have witnessed, but at a series of gatherings of the Neuron Club, which met in conference room B every other Thursday. Something about Clementa’s looks matched a template in Stodge’s brain. That her conversation matched Stodge’s in subject matter and grasp of reference, with possibly a greater facility for verbal interplay that encouraged Stodge to come out of the shell that all the stupid people in the world had erected around him—only added to the desirability of spending time with her. Her age didn’t bother Stodge; his cultural touchstones were all anachronistic anyway.
All that conversation and intellectual rapport went by the wayside once they initiated their bestial act. Those other things had only served to allow them to get close. They performed the act at her apartment. Stodge felt commanding, something he hardly ever had felt with women his own age. What Clementa felt is not recorded. Certainly she enjoyed the sex; that much is well enough documented. Afterwards, unable to converse in the manner Stodge at least had expected them to, they sat uncomfortably close on the sofa and watched TV, something Stodge usually felt guilty about, considering how mediocre TV is.
“We missed Grimalkin and Goth.” Clementa commented.
“Good.” Stodge said.
“You don’t like it?”
“Well, I’ve never seen it.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“But I’m sure it sucks.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because it’s mainstream TV.”
“What do you watch?”
“I don’t, usually. But if I do, it’s the news.”

Ron Gonn Reveals Something of His Past

A devilish light was seen in Ron Gonn’s eyes. It was at a family reunion held at his brother’s house. Ron, his brother Fedral, and some of the younger men in the family had sequestered themselves from the women, who were laying out the food, and the smaller children, who were interested only in play.
“Hard times coming.” Fedral Gonn had said. This statement, the summation of the group’s talk of distress in the city, restlessness in the sea, and rumbles from the forest, had decided Ron to tell the story of his involvement in previous hard times.
“This isn’t something you need to spread around.” Ron prefaced his story. “I guess most of the older folks in the family know about this, though to what extent I don’t know. The kids don’t need to know; that’s for sure.” When all in the room had bent close in anticipation, Ron continued.
“OK, this happened during the Johnson administration. Most of you weren’t born yet. I was working for the Department of Stovepipe Standards, which was later incorporated into the Hose Hole Affiliate, which is where I work today. You know that. OK; I was running false conduit boxing through the Gravitic Analysis Building, which was being built then. On a Friday afternoon, I was getting ready to go home. I was washing my hands in one of the unfinished bathrooms in the basement when I heard some commotion out in the hall. Why I didn’t go charging out there, I’ll never know, but instead I peeped out real easy, and I saw two men fighting down at the end of the corridor. Only, one of them wasn’t a man.” Ron paused here to allow his audience to gasp and goggle, some of the members of which did. Storm Parker, notably among those gathered, retained the bored expression that masked the deep disgust he felt for his uncouth uncle.
“It was man-like, but it had four legs. I had never seen the other man, the normal man, before in my life. I watched them wrestle around for awhile, then the four-legged thing broke free and ran down into the unfinished sub-basement. The other man chased him. I followed, sneaking down the hall. When I got to where they had been fighting, I found a satchel full of papers, which I turned over to the Ministry of War!”

The Ladies’ Camp Opens its Temple

To get into the proper mood to attend the ceremony that would officially inaugurate the new Ladies’ Camp’s temple, Lolly Fashest, a member of the Building Committee, along with Enduma Schooner, among others, quietly observed herself for nearly a hour. She sat in a firm-backed chair in her parlor and said her name to herself over and over until a strange feeling came over her. She pretended that she was a god-like observer, watching everything she did. This concept, promoted by the Ladies’ Camp, was one of the fundamentals of the organization.
After this process was completed, Lolly had a much smaller breakfast than she normally would have. Her self-control was supreme. She dressed in the conservative, almost retrograde, manner all of her comrades would be dressing in. She pinned her Ladies’ Camp button proudly on her bosom. She exited her small house with plenty of time to get to the reception that was to take place before the ceremony.
Outside the house two men in dirty gray coveralls and long brown coats waited in a nondescript transport.
“That’s her.” One said to the other.
“Let’s do it.” Answered his mate. They followed slowly down the street until the woman was a block from her house and then stopped. From out of a small government-owned bakery burst another two men who grabbed Lolly Fashest and moved her quickly and silently to the open door on the side of the first two men’s vehicle.
“Give her the shot.” Said the man in the seat by the driver.
Lolly’s struggles soon ceased. The hand over her mouth was no longer necessary. They drug, a fast-acting derivative of sewerfish venom, had done its work.
“I hope the other teams are as successful.” Muttered Larry, the driver.
“Just drive.” Said the man beside him.
Mr. Groaf, uninvited to the opening ceremony, made certain that he had a public function of his own to attend at the same time, even if he had to invent one. He received surreptitious reports throughout the cutting of the cake and the exchange of vows.

Radny Grober Confronts a High Official

Radny Grober, broadcast analyst with one of the many broanches of the Bolsis Scientific Culture Division (The Cultural Science Division had far less), finished making his report on The Punctilious Cognoscente just as that film was ending. He stood up and saw that the female custodian was in the room emptying the trash. She caught Grober’s eye.
“What did you think of it?” She asked him. Grober had never learned the woman’s name although he saw her nearly every day.
“Ehhn.” Grobe made a sour face.
“You didn’t like it?” The cleaning woman seemed surprised.
“It’s not my kind of thing.” Grober said instead of starting an explication of his views, which he felt certain this woman would not understand.
“I like films about smart people.” The woman said. “I like to read.”
Grober was delighted at hearing this. It was a relief to hear anyone express such sentiments, but he was dubious concerning the depth of the custodian’s commitment to them; she spoke with a hick accent.
Excusing himself, Grober made his way to his office, which was a room he shared with three other men.
“Where you been?” Said one of them as Grober slung his courier bag into his desk chair.
“Watching The Punctilious Cognoscente.” Grober groaned.
“Warren and I watched it yesterday.” Said the other.
“You did? Then why did they make me watch it today?” Grober’s anger rose.
“I don’t know.”
Just then a shadow passed by the open door. Grober recognized it as the chief of his sector. He dashed out into the hall.
“Where did he go?” He muttered, seeing no one.
“Who you looking for?” Asked the female custodian.
“Ray.”
“He went in the men’s room.”
Grober sighed and put his confrontation off until another incident.

Frank Hurdle Meets Fran Kurdle

On his day off Frank Hurdle put on a pullover that had a large face printed on its front. It was a caricature of Huck Feral, but he didn’t know that, hadn’t ever heard of the actor. The shirt was just a fun purchase, something to wear to an informal party, which is where he was heading.
“Corrupt shirt!” Someone said to him as he helped himself to some punch. “Corrupt” was the replacement word for the threadbare “cool,” which had in turn replaced “neat.” In fact, “Neat, Cool, and Corrupt” was the title of a new linguistic study put out by the Cultural Science Division Press that summer.
“Thank you.” Frank smiled.
“You do know who that is, don’t you?” Another person just behind Frank asked.
Frank turned to see Vance, a friend of his from schooldays. They had kept in contact all this time, despite the best efforts of both to grow up.
“Hey, man!” Frank’s smile widened. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’ve got it all planned out this time.” Vance said mysteriously.
“Where are you working?”
“Where are you working?”
Frank ran his eyes left to right along the bottom limits of their scope.
“Same old place.” He said.
“You do know who that is on your shirt?” Vance asked again after a pause.
“No. Who?”
“That’s an actor from Shedge.” Vance dropped his voice low on the name. “He’s on a TV show there, a popular TV show.”
“Really?” Frank looked down at the shirt. “How do you know?” His eyebrows lowered.
“Frank!” A woman screamed some feet away. “Come here! I want you to meet someone.” Instead of waiting for him to come to her, the woman dragged another woman over to him.
“Frank! Frank Hurdle, meet Fran Kurdle!” The woman introduced. “Isn’t that something?”
Frank smiled politely at the plain redhead, but really had nothing to say.

Mr. Groaf’s Interlude

Mr. Groaf and his bride took their honeymoon in the treetops. The forest that surrounded half of the city contained a few such places. A meager trade existed between the small population of forest-dwellers and the Shedgemen. At a certain point one could step off the top of the wall that enclosed Shedge and onto a platform high in the trees. Groaf and Mavez Abuelia had done so, following their simple ceremony, and from there continued by way of walkways to a small residence rented for the occasion.
Of course, Groaf received regular reports, delivered by members of his staff, on various situations in the city.
“Already talk has begun to come from certain factions with the Ladies’ Mystic Camp that they are willing to concede legal ownership of the temple, if adequate compensation is made.” So spoke one of the young, but devoted staff members to the Director General.
“But as of now those are only the voices of minority members, not the official line of the camp’s hierarchy.” Groaf commented. He and the young man were alone on the balcony of the house. It was mid-morning.
“Yes sir.”
“Well and good. What word on these four-legged things?”
“Nothing more than what we already know.”
“OK, when you go back…” Groaf began, but was interrupted by his new wife coming out onto the balcony.
“Are you busy?” Mavez asked.
“No, no.” Groaf insisted. “That will be all, Simmons.” He dismissed the man. “Just the standard line. Now, my dear, what is your pleasure?” Groaf picked up his coffee cup with one hand and held out the other to the woman.
“Since I can’t report on you and the administration anymore,” She began.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about writing a piece on the forest and its people.”
“Mm, good idea. What about it?”
“Well, what about taking a trip to the forest floor? I know it’s potentially dangerous, but…
“I think it can be arranged.” Said Groaf smiling.

Excerpt #2 From “Mealy-Mouthed”

For many years Rectanglo’s only interest outside the administration of his dominion, other than following his reading inclinations wherever they led, was the electric guitar. He never played publicly, both because he feared forcing himself on others and possibly thereby gaining false praise, and because he strongly suspected that his idiosyncratic style would be unpleasing and misunderstood by the kind of audience he was likely to attract.
A new interest, however, now appeared. Recently Rectanglo had discovered that the possibility existed of actually exiting the box in which he and his subjects and all their stuff had always been. Returning to the well where apocryphal texts tell us he had met a woman who refused to wait on him like a servant, he looked about for any other person, but saw none. That was good. As much as he would like to see the proud woman again, it was good for his purpose that no one observe him.
Was it something about the taste of that water? Or was it something in the water that affected him so? Whatever it was, it had aroused suspicions within the paranoid mind of Rectanglo. Leaning far in, peering far down, he saw his own reflected silhouette. He smelled something cold and sweet.
“Careful!” A voice called behind him, not too loudly, for the person who had called had enough sense not to surprise Rectanglo.
The lord of this world withdrew his torso and head and spun around. What he saw was an old man dressed in the ridiculous vestments of the dedicated rural denizen.
“You don’t want to fall in.” The old man smiled, revealing the kind of perfect, white teeth that no one from the technologically advanced, civilized centers of power can accept grow naturally in the heads of such ridiculously garbed, dedicatedly rural denizens.
“What do you know about this well?” Rectanglo demanded.
“I know I water my herd of goats at it when I’m in the area.” The old man replied.
“How long has it been here?”
The old man considered.
“My grandfather knew of it as a child, I am certain of that.” He said finally.

Kiplough Explores the Apartment Next Door

When Kiplough returned home from the library he found the Bird gone and machinery from the Bolsis Forward Operations team, a gift from Turk Mundig, installed in two of the bedrooms, one of them the room containing the tunnel. Kiplough tossed the paper sack of free used magazines and paperbacks he had picked up at the library onto his large bed and went to the kitchen for an apple.
Biting into the apple like a horse, that long forgotten creature, he approached the machinery in bedroom #3, the one without a tunnel in it leading down into some place of mysterious doings. Kiplough examined everything before him with an eye to discovering the exact function of this marvelous gift. The machinery appeared to be five or six vending machines pushed together like a like number of figures formed from modeling clay, pressed together after playtime is over. The entire assembly occupied one whole wall of the room, where a framed painting of a cave by the sea had hung. This picture, displaced, now lay on the floor propped against the opposite wall. Kiplough glanced at it briefly before dropping the denuded apple core into a pocket of his oversized coat and moving closer to the room’s new contents.
Obviously that was a handle of some kind before him, meant to allow one access to the interior of the machine. Kiplough pulled on it. A large door opened easily before him. Looking in, Kiplough saw a hallway bathed in greenish light extending away from him like a long passageway down the middle of a ship. Lining this hallway were many doors to the left and right.
“Corrupt bionics!” He swore. “I wonder what the other machine does!”
Being a prudent man, Kiplough got his sack of magazines and books from his room and used it as a prop to keep the machine’s door open while he went inside. He opened the first door on the left and found himself looking into Clementa’s apartment, although he didn’t know that’s whose apartment it was. He walked in and looked around for a moment, found Clementa and Stodge engaged in an act of carnality, and, recoiling, retraced his steps.

The Invasion Described Symbolically

A large, masculine hand, but hairless, tattooed with a crude image of a shining sun inside a picture frame, emerged from a shoebox diorama and reached up to claw at small plastic figures standing on the shelf above. Potted cacti to either side of this activity grew at a phenomenal rate, probably urged onwards by their proximity to such desperate expenditures of energies both physical and psychic.
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” One of the children observing the scene said to his neighbor, a small girl currently experiencing strange pains in her left fingertips.
“It’s funny.” She replied, though her tone was other than that of an amused child. She hugged her hand to her chest. A year ago she might have put the aching digits in her mouth, and a year before that she most definitely would have, but she was a big girl now, with a big girl’s disgust.
The third child, a boy like the first, paid no attention to the on-going antics of the hand, which had been joined by large ants that were dragging jagged strips of wood from within the same hole from which the hand had emerged and dropping them off the edge. This third child/second boy was turning the handle of a jack-in-the-box. When the spring-activated clown popped out of the box the boy giggled merrily and then pushed him back in to begin the process over again.
“Are those real ants?” The first boy asked. No one answered, although the other boy did look up for a moment. He screamed in terror only seconds later when the jack-in-the-box, triggered by the end of the song “Surprise, You’re Dead!” by Faith No More (a music box version), released the catch on its door and a hand, the reverse image of the one scrabbling at the plastic soldiers, police, businessmen, and peasants, exploded from its interior.
The other two children joined the boy in screaming, jumping up as the cacti took on new and greater bursts of growth, and began tossing chairs, shelves, and tables out the windows of their classroom in a spontaneous show of insanity.