The Case of the High Street Ghosts

Mid-summer outside our cozy lower flat, where we, C. Emerson Copperhead and I, passed our strictly platonic relationship, on a certain side-street in Lodnon, at around about one in the afternoon, it was. Emerson was once again flipping Zener cards, and guessing them right some three-fifths of the time, while I was reading a found book whose name I can't cite since the cover had been lost. (It concerned a boy and a girl.) Then Emerson looked up in his curious way, and I knew there was someone coming quietly down the stone steps to our door.

I ran to open it, to affect the element of surprise. (It was one of my sole pleasures, guiltily so.) The man, for a man it was, had his hand already raised to knock, so I naturally took the wind out of him. I said: "We were expecting you," with a knowing and crooked smile. The man nodded and grinned and said: "So I guess the stories are true." "Yes, the stories are true, and you know you've reached the right place."

He was of an average height, an average weight, wearing an average coat and average shoes and he was topped with an average hat upon average hair. I led him into our living-space; Emerson was putting away his cards and reaching for his pipe; a monkey passed by the high-up window, and the monkey looked in at us with a curiously non-simian expression. (Much looked curious to me, back in those days.)

Emerson spoke first: "Have a seat, Mr. Stephen Dewson of Tralafger Square. Oh, please, simply sit down! It's a mere trick I picked up in India. I can readily read people's names, and the streets from which they hail, but I can tell oh-so-little else. All I really know is that you've come to me with something of a problem, and you expect me to be able to solve it."

Mr. Dewson abruptly turned his head toward the window, and listened intently. It was obvious to me someone was after him; but who? Mr. Dewson returned his attention to the room and quietly said: "I think they are after me, but I don't know why. Why do they not speak? Who are they, and what do they want?"

Emerson raised one eyebrow, professionally so. "Who do you think they are? It sounds like you have assassin problems, but I do not deal in assassin problems, except where there are demons or witches or suchlike involved. I must rather say: 'Good-day to you then,' and direct you to the constabulary."

Mr. Dewson put out his hand arrestingly. "They would not be able to help, for, and I have asked around, they would be incapable of seeing my pursuers. I am the only one able to see them, and that's precisely why I need your services."

"Well, then, I apologize. I have terrible manners. Please, do describe these pursuers of yours."

"I only used that term to catch your pique; I don't actually know if they're pursuing me or not. They are out on the street, simply walking down streets, singly or in pairs; or, rather, perhaps in pairs. It is possible what I perceive to be a pair is rather two of them walking in the same direction. If they were capable of speech, I could be more certain."

"Good Lord!" I cried. "How do you know they are incapable of speech?"

Mr. Dewson leaned forward in a serious manner, and almost whispered: "They do not have mouths. The lower halves of their faces, from nose-bridge to below-chin, are entirely without feature."

Emerson, patiently, asked: "How close have you ever come to one of them?"

"Not especially close; they always seem to be some distance away. In fact, it's almost like I possess some aura they fear to penetrate."

"So, only from a certain distance. How are they dressed otherwise?"

"They are dressed in a normal fashion, but their clothes seem to be almost bleached out." Here Mr. Dewson wiped his brow. "Frankly, their entire appearance is almost sketchy, and softened on the borders of their selves, like watercolours left out in the rain."

Emerson laughed. "What a terrific image! 'Like watercolours left out in the rain.' Did you think of that just now?"

"No, certainly not. It's been running through my head a week's-length, after having noticed them for a week thus far. So, in almost a summary, they can be seen, only by either: one, myself; or two, perhaps, one who's concentrating deeply; or three, myself ... but when deeply concentrating."

I piped up. "Most extraordinary! Most extraordinary!"

"And that extraordinary is why I have come to you, for I know the extraordinary is your bread-and-butter."

"That is true," said Emerson with his typical smug. "I see vastly more‑by my calculations, 321% more‑than an ordinary person; and yet I have to admit the variety of uncharted phenomena is inestimable. Who knows what metaphysics will throw at us next? All I can do, despite my extraordinary abilities, is to chip away at the mountain one pebble at a time. Today seems a day for metaphor, does it not? Let us return to the subject, Mr. Dewson. Are these ones you witness visible on all thoroughfares generally? Or are they more seen on, say, Charnig Cross than on, again say, Befdord?"

Mr. Dewson replied: "I have been keeping track, collecting my memories, in preparation for our meeting today." He reached into a satchel he had been carrying all this time, but which I had failed to notice, to pull out a folio-size sheet which he proceeded to unfold across the oaken desk which I have failed to remark upon. The entirety was a map of the area, and across this map he had written numerals representative. Emerson looked over the map. He understood it immediately. That was his way.

"So," Emerson began: "The spectres, if spectres they are, appear to be clustering in the richer areas of our metropolis while eschewing the poorer. Could there be a reason for this? Ah, it's too early for hypotheses! Rather, seeing is believing, as some foolishly say, and a trip into the wider world, though not something I care to do on a regular basis, seems highly warranted."

Mr. Dewson asked: "Shall I accompany you?"

"I think that is a good idea. After I prepare my Third Eye, we will be at least synchronized to your level, though I daresay I will surpass yours readily, handily, even. You will be able to point out to me where you see your spirits, and I will tune myself to their frequencies. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go do some mental preparations. Please, feel free to have a game of chequers with my friend while you wait."

As Emerson went into the back room‑the room with all his chemistry equipment, all his curious and quaint volumes of forgotten lore, and all his idols and icons and what-not‑I quickly pulled out the chequerboard and started setting up the pieces. Now, chequers was my kind of game. I could scarcely lose, such did my studies of the classic moves and so on allow me. We played quickly, and I won. Just after I'd crowed victorious, Emerson returned, looking no different from his departure.

He said to me: "Keep the home fires burning, here at home. Mr. Dewson and I are going out to do some ghost-busting."

Together, they went to the door and departed.

I was left alone for some three hours, during which I made myself some chicken soup, scanned the morning papers for items of interest, and tidied up our twin bureaux. As I was doing all this business, I was thinking back to earlier times: the small village in which I was born; the grammar school in which I matriculated; the woman I had married, and lost; my despair, and my rescue, by C. Emerson Copperhead, who took me on as secretary despite my flaws; the happy happy day when we'd come upon a suitable flat to share; and of our varied cases since then, especially "The Case of the Inverted Commas," which I'd actually allowed to be published. All seemed so long ago, and yet present to this day. Funny, that.

Emerson and Mr. Dewson returned, looking positively shagged. I figured that was probably the case, at least on Emerson's part, for he so rarely left the flat, preferring instead to astrally project himself into theatres, cafes, whorehouses and the like. Emerson quickly crossed the room to throw himself into his armchair while Mr. Dewson, who'd been clutching his hat nervously at the entranceway, dared to seat himself in a nearby broken rocky wooden chair. I was ever-so-eager to hear about what had transpired, and yet I waited for Emerson to regain his normal communicative mode of consciousness.

Finally, Emerson said: "You're probably intensely curious about where we have gone, and what we have seen. Well, be prepared to hear of the mysterious circumstances, and furthermore the mysterious situation, we all find ourselves to be in on this mid-summer's day.

"Mr. Dewson and myself headed straight for the fashionable district. Along the way, I prodded him occasionally as to any spirits he could see, but no, he said: there were none in the first half-hour of our walk. Then, as we rounded a corner, he quickly pointed and cried: 'There's one!' I looked, and saw a shape, but I could make out little more than a grey figure who disappeared down an alleyway. We moved quickly to the spot, but whatever it was had disappeared, or even vanished. Who knew at that point?

"Continuing on for some time, Mr. Dewson cried: 'Look! Another!' This time the figure was plainer to see, though still like a 'watercolour left out in the rain.' I adjusted my senses as a mariner adjusts his sextant; the figure became slightly clearer. I continued to concentrate, concentrate, concentrate: then I had an image of a moderate quality. We circled around the slow-moving figure, and I saw that, yes, the thing had neither nose nor mouth. I moved closer and closer; then, when I was some two yards away the thing grunted, turned, and went off in the opposite direction. However, as it turned, I saw clearly a dark string wrapped around its ear, a loop of some sort. I examined my memory with care; there was something to that piece of string that held a clew to the whole mystery. That's when I realized that the thing had been wearing something like a surgical mask!"

I, having been a surgeon at one stage of my career, as well as a top-notch barber and delouser, could scarcely believe this. Had an army of surgeon-ghosts descended on our fair metropolis? And whatever for? Possibly in revenge for our imperialistic ways? I said: "Do you mean these are all ... surgeons?"

Emerson replied: "Frankly, I doubt it, though I cannot fully discount the idea. Is it so impossible for all the dead surgeons of our nation to have returned, in a kind of protest? But, what for? for I've seen little surgery-related news in the last while. In any case, we have to take the fact for what it is, as I later verified: these spectres are all wearing surgical masks."

"Does that mean you saw more of them?"

"Oh, yes; many, many more. As we approached the expensive part of town, with my eyes finely attuned to my deep sight, I saw more, and more, and more. All wearing surgical masks, all silent and walking along most carefully, rather careful not to come within some six feet of anyone else. Never speaking, as if they were all lost souls who'd become unmoored from reality. Walk they would, sometimes turning corners, fully obeying all rules of the thoroughfare. Mr. Dewson pointed out to me that, even when in pairs, or seemingly in pairs, they kept apart. Every time I neared one, it would back away in fear, like I was diseased. It's a most curious phenomenon, which will require some thought to solve. In any case, I'd seen enough, so Mr. Dewson and I returned here."

"An extraordinary tale."

"I've been through other extraordinary things."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But still: extraordinary."

"True."

"Emerson, do you have any idea what they are?"

He paced the room whilst Mr. Dewson sat mutely. The monkey passed by, peering inside once more with intensely curious eyes. Did the monkey have something to do with it? "Emerson, could a monkey have anything to do with this?"

Emerson caught himself in mid-step, then laughed aloud. "Oh my, oh my, well, anyway. The spectres, back to the spectres. They may or may not be here for a reason. Perhaps they're merely passing through on their way to another dimension. However, the key here is Mr. Dewson himself, about whom we know so little. Mr. Dewson, is there something extraordinary about you?"

"No, nothing at all."

"Oh, come now, there must be something."

"My mind's a blank."

"Your parentage?"

"Perfectly normal."

"Any outstanding grudges, with a warlock, for example?"

"No, no grudges with anyone, not any."

"What is your employment?"

"I'm simply a chemist."

"An apothecary?"

"No, chemistry itself. Organic chemistry, actually."

"Any specialty?"

"Mostly microbiology, naturally. I hope some day to make some great discovery, but so far I'm mostly a mere technician."

"This is getting us nowhere. I can see no connection. No leads! We need some more information, naturally, and ... and I think I know where to get it from."

I could see that the wheels inside his head had been turning at a vociferous rate. He'd obviously thought out the plan ahead of time, along with a dozen other possibilities. We just had to wait for him to be his dramatic self.

"Let us say you want to know why a horse is grazing a particular ground. You could survey the land ... or ask local informants ... or, you could simply ask the horse."

Mr. Dewson dared say: "Horses can't talk."

Emerson raised a serious and clever finger. "Ah, that's where you're wrong. There are ways of making horses speak. Telepathy, for instance. In any case, for just that same reason we are going to capture one of these spectres to interrogate it, here, in this very room."

"How can you catch one of them?" (This was Mr. Dewson talking.) "They appear to flee from anything that comes within arm's-reach."

Emerson pretended to find this argument cogent. "Yes, yes, yes, there is the rub. Hmmm."

I revised my opinion: he not only had a plan, but he also had a certain piece of equipment we had only used once before, when we'd had to deal with a dragon years ago.

Emerson said: "I have an interesting structure I built some years ago, and it will be put to use again. It is an invisible cage."

"What?" (Mr. Dewson again.) "That's impossible!"

"Not to me. It's a clever little thing, and just the right size. We've only used it once, to capture a small dragon, which is about the same size as one of our spectres. Just the thing to imprison one of these blighters!"

"But to capture one.... They're so avoidant, what can you use as bait?"

"We'll use nothing at all. We can simply set it up‑‑ Have you seen them out at night?"

"Why, yes. They come out regardless of the sun's position in the sky."

"That's good. We certainly don't want to capture some noble burgher instead. We can take the trap out tonight, set it in a prominent streetway, and dollars to dough-nuts, sooner or later, one will walk right into it."

"But," and here was Mr. Dewson thinking very seriously: "Won't they be able to simply pass through the invisible bars?"

"Oh, my dear Mr. Dewson, they're not made of ectoplasm. They keep their feet on the ground, don't they? They're not simply floating some inches above or below the road surface, are they? They have substance; they can't simply vanish.... I suppose. No, we have to take that chance that they can't simply vanish. So, let us do this; let us catch ourselves one, bring it here, and give it the third degree."

Mr. Dewson scratched his head in a most obvious manner, as if to say: "I have my doubts." Then he shook off his doubts and cried: "What hour should we head out?"

I looked to the window. There was that monkey again! I said: "It's getting dusky now. I suppose you could leave in a couple of hours."

"Perfect! Come, help me bring out the cage."

Together, Emerson and I, went into our storage room at the back of the flat. The storage room looked very much like a gardener's shed, except that instead of rakes, hoes, hand-saws, screwdrivers, and hammers it contained medium-large crystal balls, stage magic kits, plastic skeletons, divining rods or every shape and size, and a rusty iron maiden whose purpose of possession I never ascertained. There, in the back, Emerson reached out and grabbed one of the invisible wall sections and passed it to me. I moved it out of the room and went back inside to take from him the other two wall supports. Then came the door, the base, and the top. Together we carried the six pieces (along with the invisible connector pieces and the invisible screws) out into the central room and dropped it all nearly noiselessly upon the floor.

Mr. Dewson laughed. "You look just like you're in panto!"

Emerson ignored the comment, rather saying: "It's a delicate piece of equipment, my friend. I believe we can pre-assemble most of it here."

Emerson took the invisible base and eight of the invisible L-shaped pieces and invisibly screwed the latter onto the former. He then screwed eight more invisible Ls onto the invisible back part, and eight more onto the invisible top part. The invisible hooked hinges were next to be put, on the right invisible wall of the invisible cage.

"I think that's about as far as we can go," said Emerson. He looked out the window. "I suppose it must be around midnight?"

I looked at my new wrist-watch. "Yes, almost midnight on the dot."

"Then we should be going. Mr. Dewson, help me with these." Emerson held out to him one of the invisible walls, and Mr. Dewson, unfamiliar with invisible objects, groped around before his hand hit something; he wrapped his hand around one of the bars of the invisible cage. Emerson released his grip, and Mr. Dewson said:

"My God! It doesn't weigh anything at all!"

Emerson laughed. "Well, why should it? It's invisible, it has almost no weight at all, save for that which it must have in order for it to not float away."

Mr. Dewson swung it around a little until his hand received a shock because the wall invisibly hit a visible wall. "Goodness!" he cried.

Emerson laughed again. "Goodness? I think we're well beyond good and evil here. Come, come, here's the base and the top. I shall carry the other three parts."

If I had been someone unfamiliar with invisible cages, I think I might have laughed to see two men acting like mimes who were cleverly carrying objects unseen. But, of course, I did not laugh, because I recognized how serious the situation was.

Emerson said to me: "Keep the home fires burning, friend; I don't know how long this will take, but we're not coming back without one of those fiends trapped in this cage."

"Good luck to you," I said. I'll be here, waiting for you. All three of you, I should say, ha-ha."

And, with that, the two proceeded out the door and onto the street.

Again I was left alone, with little to occupy my time. I decided to spend it doing some of the meditation exercises Emerson had taught me. I sat in the middle of the floor, and loosely concentrated on my third eye, the one in the middle of my forehead. Soon the walls drifted away, and I was in the middle of an endless ocean, rocking gently on the waves that easily supported me. Birds of the sea flew overhead as if they were communicating with me. The day of the sea passed into night, and it became dark, and I dissolved into the nothingness of blackness.

When I returned to this world, the world of my apartment, some two hours had passed. Just as I was wondering how much longer they were going to be, I heard the noise of their return. Down the stairs and into the room they came, carrying the invisible cage with a kind of grace. In the space where the cage was not visible to me, I could however see a psychedelic shimmering figure; so this was one of the spectres in my very own home. With my mind clear from my meditation, I concentrated more, and, sure enough, the figure started to look like the figure of a person, probably male, and probably fit (though not in that way).

"As you can see, my friend," began Emerson, "our hunting expedition went well." Together they put the invisible cage in the centre of the room and upright. The fuzzy figure turned this way and that in a bewildered fashion.

"So I see," I said. "I don't know if you took a long or a short time. What do you figure?"

"We set the cage up on a sidewalk these things seemed to like; a broad way, wider than any other in the area. We set the cage to close automatically if anyone reached the back wall. Unfortunately, first there came a street-walker into the trap. She didn't scream, which was fortunate. We freed her from the cage, I gave her some money for her troubles, and she went on her way in a befuddled fashion. We re-set the trap and crossed again to the other side of the street.

"After about a half hour, we got lucky. I pointed; Mr. Dewson said: 'Yes, here comes one.' The thing walked right into the trap, and the trap closed. As with the streetwalker, it was befuddled by its surroundings, so we hurried across the street. I told it: 'Have no fear. You are in an invisible cage because we have some questions for you.' The thing mumbled something from behind its mask. Quickly we picked up the cage and cautiously proceeded back to this our domicile. So now is the time to find out exactly what this thing is."

Emerson went to the cage and said to the thing inside: "It's time to take off your mask!"

The thing started moaning in terror and writhing terribly, and that was when I heard the first sound from it: I heard a muffled shriek: "No! No! The phlayg! The phlayg!"

Emerson leaned toward the cage and the shimmery being moved as far away as possible. "We can't hear you properly. Take off your mask!"

"No! No! The phlayg! The phlayg!"

"If that's the way it's going to be.... Bring me my acetylene torch. We'll burn the mask off."

I sadistically hurried back to our supply room and returned with the torch. Emerson sparked it up and adjusted the flame to a brilliant blue. "Mr. Dewson, reach in and grab its arms."

As the flame, through the invisible bars, neared something barely visible, the voice cried: "Shtop! Shtop! We'll remove it!"

"Do so."

I saw some motion, and heard a gasp. "It's off! It's off! May you burn in Hell for this!"

Emerson, having accomplished his aim, returned to his usual serene self. "What, pray-tell, would I burn in Hell for?"

The voice said: "You have exposed us to the plague!"

Emerson looked around the room searchingly; at Mr. Dewson, at myself; at the ceiling, walls, and floor. "There's no plague here, my friend."

"Nonsense! It is everywhere, and it is invisible! It could strike you dead at any time!"

Emerson looked at me to quip: "It looks like our new friend has what we might call 'germophobia'."

"It seems that way to me," I replied. I looked to the window, half-expecting to see that accursed monkey looking in, with mockery in its eyes. Did I see it or didn't I?

Emerson asked the thing: "So, you think they're everywhere, do you?"

"Yes!"

Emerson paced the room. "Could it be that these things have travelled the astral planes to escape some germ-infested hell-hole? Without actually knowing they have finally escaped it? Are they acting according to some revenant emotional disturbance?"

I had to interrupt. "We may be on the wrong track here, for it is a known fact that our world has indeed a lot of nasty microbes in it. In other words, we can't really say this room is germ-free."

Upon hearing my words, the thing started howling in terror again, and it took some minutes for it to stop howling. Emerson, unruffled, asked it: "Do you know where you are?"

The thing said: "We are not sure, not one bit. All we know is terror!"

"Well, a knowledge of terror isn't such a bad thing, you know, my freaky friend. 'One should stay out of trouble.' But, anyway: we caught you out walking the streets. What were you doing that for?"

The thing breathed heavily a couple times, and said: "Mild aerobics. Sometimes we require mild aerobics to stay sane."

Emerson laughed. "I think it's too late for that! Anyhow, do you know through whose streets you were walking?"

"We.... We used to know.... We remember tall buildings, and automobiles.... Bright lights.... Big city.... Now we have forgotten these things because we cannot ignore ... the plague!"

"Again: There is no plague."

"There is a plague! You lie! Follow the science! Respect our pronouns!"

We three went into the corner of the room furthest from the cage for a consultation. Emerson began: "It's very possible they come from another point on the line of the fourth dimension."

"Time travel?" I asked.

"Yes. Which would explain why they are invisible to most people. Modern science, you see, strictly theoretical, dictates that every object is simultaneously everywhere else at the same time; that is to say, everything is connected in something like Buddhahood. These beings‑or people, as they may well be‑are only partially here, whilst being primarily somewhere else. In other words, they are fragments, and thus they appear as fragments."

"Ah!" (Mr. Dewson.) "So, do you think there's a way to force them out of our present Lodnon time?"

Emerson rubbed his brow. "I don't know, actually. I once made the ghost of a British monarch return to the grave, but, in this case, there's a problem in that these beings are gripped by an hysteria. I'm toying with the idea of reasoning them out of their absurd beliefs."

"Oh," I said: "You can't reason with madmen. They will simply turn against you."

"Yes, there is that problem. Let us return to the subject."

"Aren't we already on the subject?"

"I mean the guy in the cage, idiot."

We approached the invisible cage again. I could see that Emerson was trying with all his supernatural might to formulate a call-and-response that would bring forth the most information. He said to the fuzzy image in the cage: "We're back. Do you know we're here? Do you know who we are?"

"Not at all, not all of you."

"What? Does my fame reach that far into the sublime and arcane and histrionically unearthly?"

"No, no, no! We do not know you. We do not know you."

"Then, whom do you know?"

"Dewson! Dewson! Dewson!"

Emerson turned to Dewson to pointedly say: "I believe you have not told us everything."

Mr. Dewson shrugged, saying: "I don't know what this creature is referring to."

The creature added: "The monkeys! All the monkeys!"

Emerson, who hadn't removed his gaze from Mr. Dewson, said seriously: "What's all this about monkeys, Dewson?"

"Monkeys? Why, I use monkeys in my day job, certainly."

"Whatever for?"

"My colleagues and I are gathering virus information from the fleas that infest them; they are very special monkeys, from a cave in Southern China."

"Mojiang, Yunnan?"

"Why, yes, how did you know?"

"Wild guess. And so you're researching viruses?"

"Yes, so I said."

My thoughts naturally turned to the monkey or monkeys whom I had seen out on the street. I asked: "Mr. Dewson, have any of your monkeys escaped recently?"

Mr. Dewson was silent for a moment.

Emerson sighed sadly. "Oh, Mr. Dewson, one escaped, didn't it?"

"Well ... yes. Jumped right out of the cabriolet and sped off." Mr. Dewson breathed heavily; I even saw a tear in his eye.

"And when precisely did that happen?"

"Oh, I suppose, about two weeks ago."

"Which was just before you started spotting the creatures."

"By George, you're right! But how could fact A and fact B be related?"

Emerson decided to sit down. He fondled a brass statue of a cherub before saying: "If we capture that monkey, I believe the spectres will vanish."

"How could that possibly work?"

"It's rather simple. That monkey of yours is capable of spreading a plague through the world, in a 'pan-demic', you might say."

"But the virus we've isolated‑it's barely worse than the common cold."

"Certainly I believe you. However, though these spectres appear to be aspects from some time in the future, they are rather the eternal spectres of mass hysteria."

"What?"

"They are the essence of mass hysteria, presented to you in bodily form. Just as Scrooge was visited by three temporal essences of Christmas, so are you being visited by the atemporal essences connected to your actions." He stood up and approached the invisible cage once more. "Spectre: You are from sometime in the future, and you are Mass Hysteria. Are you from centuries hence?"

"We are not sure; we believe we are outside of time!"

Emerson chuckled and turned away. "I surmise we are going to now be monkey-catchers."

"Emerson," I interrupted: "I have to note that all day I have been seeing a monkey pass by the window outside, looking in; first I thought it was looking at me, but perhaps it was looking at Mr. Dewson."

Mr. Dewson abruptly ran to the window and peered out. Without turning, he asked: "When did you see him last?"

"Couldn't have been more than a half-hour ago, if I wasn't imagining things."

He ran out the door and into the street.

"I've seldom seen someone run so fast," I gainsaid.

"Yes, curious. I wonder if he'll return."

Emerson sat down to smoke a pipe and ponder the plenitudes. By way of conversation, he said: "These microscopic organisms: I don't think they should be messed with. Curse the invention of the microscope! If we could merely be at peace with the little varmints and not be messing with whatever heads they have, humanity would have a chance. Don't mess with Mother Nature, my friend! She's a trillion years smarter than you!"

The door opened, and in walked Mr. Dewson with a monkey in his arms. "Let's not have any repeat of such shenanigans again, my apish friend!" (He was talking to the monkey.)

Emerson said: "You've got your little boyfriend back, I see. Oh, and look: Look at the cage."

Mr. Dewson turned to look, paused for a moment, then said: "I see absolutely nothing. The spectres seem to have departed, back to wherever they came from."

I said: "So no more masked spectres wandering the streets of Lodnon?"

Emerson said: "No more spectres walking the streets of Lodnon, my feminine friend. Ah! Another case solved and off the books."

Mr. Dewson said: "Yes, I guess it's over with." He tickled the monkey's belly, and the monkey laughed girlishly. "Thank you for your help, Emerson. I know I owe you nothing but gratitude."

"And I accept your gratitude whole-heartedly."

"Now if you excuse us, we have a date with some bananas."

"Bon Appetit."

Mr. Dewson left our home, and we haven't seen him since.

I said: "I think I'm going to have to puzzle over this one for a while, Emerson."

"Take your time, talk your time." And he laughed.

 

End, The

Trouble Every Day

Here he comes again! Surely this time he will save me!

out for a stroll in the park, just me and my favourite girl

He's looking at me! He knows I'm here! He recognizes me!

there's a doggie on a leash, I know that doggie

C'mon, man! Shove him down! Help me to my liberty!

it's some kind of poodle, don't know what kind, really

Look into my eyes, and read what I'm communicating to you!

what do I know about dogs? Not very much at all, really

Have you no mercy? Haven't ever heard Beethoven's Fidelio?

they always strain to get at me, maybe that's no unusual

He's got me tied by the neck! Ever heard of anything crueler?

I remember a line, so I decide to try it out on my girlie

No, don't turn to her! Don't be distracted! We're almost there!

I say to her: "I used to thing dogs were attracted to me

Not that again! How many times do I have to hear it?

because I have shaggy hair, much like a dog's hair; rather,

Stop! Stop right there!

as I realized recently, it's because I smell like garbage."

You bastard! You complacent time-server!

 

*

 

He came, swaggering, into the basement bar. He ordered a scotch and soda, then asked me to pass him the beer nuts.

I passed the dish over to him, saying: "Here, buddy; we're all in this together."

He nodded, then said: "Lick my boots."

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Lick my boots."

"Why would I do that?"

"You said we're all in this together, and if we're all in this together, you have to lick my boots."

"I don't follow."

"Listen, pal," he said, menacingly: "if we're all in this together, who decides what we do? Why should we do what you want to do instead of doing what I want to do? 'We're all in this together': prove that's true by licking my balls."

"You said boots a minute ago."

"Changed my mind." His drink arrived and he sipped. "Seems to me the decision can only go to the strongest and meanest. That's me, pussy."

"Yow!"

"Hey, man, I didn't make your rules." He dropped his drawers. He had big balls. "So, lick my balls, and feel vindicated in your beliefs."

I couldn't back out! I had integrity! I had to back up my beliefs! I asked: "For how long?"

 

*

 

It was the first competitive dreaming event I ever went to. While the three contestants were asleep, I browsed the exhibits in the mezzanine.

A great alarm went off; the sleepers were awake. We hurried back to the stands.

The first contest concerned distances. Contestant#1 said she'd travelled a pitifully short distance; just a block from her home.

Contestant#2, however, said he'd been all the way to France, which was a great distance indeed.

Beating them both was contestant#3, who'd been all the way to Mars and back. She got the gold medal.

The only other contest scheduled for that was the one all about time. Contestant#1 (in this event) said he'd started in the 19th century and journeyed to the early 20th; contestant#2 had that topped: she'd travelled from the reign of King John to the reign of Victoria.

However, contestant#3 had them both beat. He said he'd begin at the beginning of time and travelled to the end of time. He got the gold, and everyone believes his record will hold for quite a while.

I returned the following afternoon, for the metamorphosis contest and the sex contest. You really should check it out. These are great sports!

 

*

 

Ubi Sunt?

 

They were here what feels like just a minute ago, so where did they go, all of them? My parents have disappeared, though they know so much about me. It that swimming pool still there, on Arden Drive? What happened to all the neighbours? I happened through the area some years ago: they were all gone. What happened to the teachers I knew back then? The fields are gone; my niece is living in a house built on a plot I used to run around on. What happened to the radio, and how we'd listen to the radio? Where have all the dogs gone? What happened to the words I used to not know? Where did my illiteracy go, can't I ever get it back? Where'd the largeness of everything go? What happened to the restaurants, the record stores, the occasional parade downtown? My old girlfriends, where are they now? Do they ever think of me (providing they're alive)? What happened to the doll I dropped in the sewer? Could it still be down there? What happened to the sign designating the town limits? I could walk to it, but now it's gone. What happened to my life?

 

*

 

I was passing the time of day and a hospital when a nurse came running out to me. "Doctor, Doctor, you must come; someone in emerge needs treatment very badly."

I, following her, rushed into the hospital, whose name I don't recall at the moment. A woman, in a fetal position on a gurney, was moaning and moaning. I called: "Bring some sedatives!" The sedatives arrived and I swallowed them. "Now I can think clearly!"

I unbent the patient and examined her midriff or whatever you call it. She was breathing shallowly and quickly. I told her: "You can calm down now. I'm here for you."

She gasped out: "Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad to see you."

"Well, I'm glad you're glad."

She smiled. "That makes me happy."

"I'm happy you're happy I'm glad you're glad."

I turned abruptly to the nurse. "Where do you keep your operating room?"

"Down this way."

Following the nurse, I pushed the woman on the gurney into the "O.R." "Bring me equipment!" I cried. To the woman I said: "We're gonna need some i.d. first."

"Painfully she got out her wallet."

Thus, I discovered I couldn't operate. "As it happens, this is my daughter!"

 

*

 

"What are they like?"

"Who?"

"The other people?"

"Which other people?"

"All of them. What are they like? Do all of them look like you?"

"No, not at all. There's all kinds."

"How so? Do some have more legs and arms?"

"Some, yes, but really very, very few."

"Maybe I'm on the wrong track. After all, if you're all the same species, there can't be that much different between one and another."

"No, but there are a lot of differences. Hair colour, skin colour."

"All about the same height? I'd imagine it so."

"Roughly. Between four foot and eight foot seems to be the normal limit."

"So, you must be average."

"I'm pretty average, yes."

"You're just an average human."

"Pretty average. There's not too much special about me."

"How do you reproduce?"

"We come in two sexes. It all depends on whether you make eggs or sperm."

"I see. We here have some plants that are like that."

"Yes. It maintains a diversity, and influences the culture."

"So, which do you make?"

"Me? I make sperm."

"So, where's you partnered egg-producer?"

"Back on Earth, actually."

"Oh."

"With our children."

"Oh. So, when are you going back there?"

"I can't."

 

*

 

Lillie Langtry lay in her little bed, alone and lonely. She looked around her room, looking to see what she would be leaving behind if she were to die at that moment. There wasn't much to see: Dirty clothes on the floor which she knew would be thrown away rather than washed ever again, cheap costume jewelry that would never be appreciated the way she was wont to do, and small animal figurines, from packages of Red Rose tea, which she assumed had value but probably didn't. Her vision moved out into the rest of her flat. The rag and bone man would come and clear it all away, picking over the things of no value to anyone but Lillie Langtry herself. Her mind was wandering; she tried to concentrate, but she could not find anything worth the effort. She had no plans to think about, and she hadn't had any recent dreams worthy of the gossamer that went into them. She remembered herself, briefly, as a girl who would look at older people and not understand their reticence. Moments of true happiness are few and far between, she knew now, and she knew she'd lightly passed her last one.

 

*

 

Last night, in a preparation for her death, she created a story involving someone she had once known so well but who'd been dead some five or six years, to see what he had to say about it.

He was driving them to a drive-in theatre that was showing 'Alien' some five weeks after the film had opened in the sit-down theatres. It was early dusk and August, which put it some time around eight-thirty. She built a replica of the Muskoka Drive-in for them to drive to, and so they tooled their way in a Chevrolet to it.

There, sitting in the Chevy, as they watched Veronica Cartwright go nuts with terror, she looked at him. He was watching the screen until he realized he was being watched. He turned to her and said: "Something on your mind?"

"Yes. You're now dead, and I'm about to be dead too. What can you tell me about it?"

He pulled out a cigarette and played it end-over-end in his fingers. Snot was running into Veronica's mouth. "I don't want to spoil your surprise."

He put the cig in his mouth backwards and lit the filter end. It flared up, celluloid. "Shit!"

 

*

 

A is pursuing B, and B is pursuing A. This shouldn't be complicated, but it is complicated. A has never met B, and B has never met A. See the problem here?

What hope do they have? Perhaps C knows both of them, which would clearly increase the odds. But C knows so many characters, there's no guarantee.

Let's say D knows A, B, and C. How well does he know any of these characters? Is he a person to hold a party? The odds are still not good enough. There has to be some character, somewhere, who can interconnect.

E is now in the picture. E isn't a person; E is in institution. E is stability itself. There has to be a connection between A and B and E, even if that connection is zero. (There is a mathematical expression for all this, but I don't have the space to jot it down.)

F is an event held at E. A and B must have something in common, and maybe it's an interest in F. It happens. They both go to F. They are in the same room. It's going to happen.

Ah, but here comes G. Evil G.

 

*

 

"Oh, look," I was saying to myself, "Here's an outlet store for a major record label and distributor of other record labels. I think I'll go inside. Maybe they have some interesting things. Oh, look. Behind this glass cabinet are the box sets and novelties. Hmm, that circular thing that holds rhythm and blues records: I wonder what's on it? I wonder if I could take a look at it? A security guard is watching me. I'm always afraid of security guards. Moving along, here's a bunch of those new-format recordings, little solid-state chips. Boy, even with the packaging envelope they're smaller than a teabag. Oh, look, a new record by the Distressed Cantaloupes! Only $7! But I don't have a player. Do I really want to make an investment like that? The security guard is watching again. Moving along: maybe they have it on an LP? Ah, there's the LP section. Yes, here it is. The Distressed Cantaloupes, 'Firing Line', $11. Four dollars more. Here's that security guy again. I should confront him. I'm turning to him now, boldly. I'm saying: 'Can I do something for you?'"

"I'm not sure."

"Am I suspicious?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You're talking to yourself."

 

*

 

All that was left to do was to clean up the place.

We got out several garbage bags, and started with the pizza boxes.

Upstairs and down, we gathered up some thirty-three pizza boxes and got them out of the way.

We went up and down, getting all the newspapers together; almost a year's worth of newspapers we found.

The glasses came next; the tumblers, the highballs, the wine goblets, the tea- and coffee-cups.

Always start a big wash with the drinking vessels.

It took some time, but we got through it, and we put them all away into their cabinets and onto their shelves.

Small plates and large plates came next. We carried several big stacks into the kitchen, and we groaned under their weight. Washed and organized.

Now came the big job, in the kitchen: the pots, casseroles, baking sheets, blenders, saucers, cake tins, roasting pans, mixing bowls, pastry knives, cutting boards, butcher's knives, rolling pins, water pitchers, and gravy boats. This all took the longest time, since the sink was only so big.

With all the done, there was laundry to consider. Sheets, blankets, towels, placemats.

Four hours later, we were ready to filth it all again.

 

*

 

In the middle of the game, I took a moment to study the board. I had a couple units flanking one of my opponents' aces; that provided me with an opportunity for a Fletcher, either in the next turn or the turn after. Meanwhile, I had left my 'fat pawn' exposed to another opponent's giant death robot, and I couldn't see but a potential sacrifice to turn to something of a victory. On the far side of the table sat my third opponent, a girl I've known since high school, and she was naked. I couldn't see where her pieces were. "Where are your pieces?" She pointed. "There, and there, and there, and there, and there." She was right; they were there. Everything then changed as the board shrunk and grew. I had to look it all over again.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was an old teacher of mine, or my father. She said: "Why are you doing this? Playing games in dreams is a complete waste of time."

"What if I win?"

"You're not going to win."

"Let's call it experience. I am learning, right?"

"Wrong."

"Are you saying I'm in the spin of supernatural forces?"

 

*

 

Ulysses, because he fails to do a proper sacrifice after the Trojan victory, has his ship blown this way and that; they land among some soporific lotus-eaters, and a few of his crew bliss out: he forces them back on board. They battle the Cyclops but manage to kill him; they return to sail a few men short. To make a long epic short, they encounter the witch Circe (for a year or so), the six-headed Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis, and sexpot Calypso. Finally, they find a good welcome with the Phaeacians, who are peaceful and welcoming, and listen to his whole long tale for a whole long time. They help him to Ithaca, where he encounters his son. It seems Penelope (wife and mother) has a houseful of suitors, she being a queen and all with a husband gone for twenty years. Ulysses' dog, Argos, licks his hand and dies. A contest gets held involving rings and arrows; Ulysses wins, kills all the suitors every one, and gives Penelope a big kiss. Peace gets made, and they all live happily ever after.

This happened, this happens, and this will happen, as the employment of the present tense shows.

 

*

 

One day, one sunny day, a perfect day, like no other days, a message came into the radio telescope from a far reach where no planet lay. After some silence and some three beeps, the message came: in ASCII: 01010000011011000110010101100001011100110110010101110011011101000110000101101110 01100100011000100111100101000100011011110110111001101111011101000110010101110010 011000010111001101100101: PleasestandbyDonoterase: "Please stand by. Do not erase."

We scientists naturally came up with seven hypotheses immediately, and started consulting old books of wisdom to support or refute each. Meanwhile, the signal was perfectly and uncannily silent. A random signal, coming from nowhere? Prismatically-oriented colleagues guessed that the signal was reflecting off something too small to observe. What does a lack of evidence mean when there's a signal coming from deep space?

The first pilgrim arrived a year later. He wanted to hear the silence, and expect a message. We left him alone for three hours. He came out defeated, but: "It was an awesome experience."

We had to clear whole buildings in order to store the recording which we were not supposed to erase. Every bit of the message was stored, even though it had no information. (We didn't dare compress it.)

Now, hundreds of years later, we've built twenty-nine shrines to the signal. It's got to work.

 

*

 

It was Mountain Flower's dream to own a mountain; after all, it seemed her name-right. As a girl, she'd steal copies of the bi-weekly "Mountains: Buy, Sell, Trade" and read them late into the night.

As an adult, all her journeys circled around mountains. She'd circle around mountains, viewing them from all sides and angles. Mountain Flower knew that somewhere there was just the mountain for her. Meanwhile, she worked like crazy to pay for the trips, and she sometimes made her books balance, but mostly they did not. She finally decided to escape her creditors by going on the road permanently, staying one step ahead, and tripping from mountain to mountain.

She met a handsome mountaineer who she thought would be able to understand her passion. "Why, Mountain Flower," he said to her, "Let us join forces, and let us start small. I know a hillock that's for sale. I'll make the down payment."

They lived on the hillock for several years, and Mountain Flower slowly came to realize her dreams of mountains weren't quite 'on'. On her hillock she watched the clouds go by and had a couple children. It was a pretty fulfilling life, on the hillock.

 

*

 

New Horizons in Tragedy

 

In the rain, waiting for a bus in a shelter.

A woman in her fifties joins me. She's twisting around and moaning.

She says: "I got holes in my shoes, so my feet are all wet."

I said: "My shoes are okay."

"Yes, they look fine."

We're quiet for a few moments.

She says: "I used to have lots of shoes."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I had a whole closetful of them. Not quite like Imelda Marcos, but still, a lot of shoes."

"What happened to them all?"

She laughed. "I guess they're all sold to someone or other, or in some dump. I lived in a palace. Now it's all gone."

"What happened to the palace?"

She shrugged. "Must still be there, I guess. Only, I'm not."

"Sounds tragic."

"Yes, precisely. I had so much, then I lost it all. Oh course: nemesis came for me, and I tumbled down the wheel."

"Ah, the Wheel of Fortune."

"Yep. I got cocky. Now it's all gone, and all I have is holey shoes. So, boy, don't get cocky. Don't be like what you see."

The rain had stopped.

"Ah, fuck it," she said. "I'm walking."

Away she went.

 

*

 

‑Show it to me, worm.

‑Oh yes of course here it is.

‑Hmm. Checks out. Bring a better phone next time, Neanderthal.

‑Of course, I've been meaning to upgrade, honest I have.

‑Okay. Do you have your masks, maggot?

‑Yes.

‑Well, show them to me, Mr. Bougie-Wougie-Booger-Boy.

‑Here they are! Fresh off the chemist's shelf!

‑Chemist? Chemist? What, are you a crumpet-sniffer?

‑No, no, sorry, pharmacist, pharmacist.

‑That's better. Now for the sobriety test, you big jerk.

‑Yes, of course.

‑Toy-boat.

‑What?

‑Say toyboat twelve times.

‑Toyboat, toyboat, toyboat, twoyboat, toyeeboat, twaybat, toweeboat, twoybit, tabbit, toyboat, how many times is that?

‑Enough. I guess you're fine, milksop.

‑Okay, anything else? Can I go in now?

‑Can I go in now? Mamma's boy. I need your name, address, phone number, email, gender, height, weight, hair- and eye-colour, SIN and PINs.

‑Right! Here, and here, and here.

‑Who are you, James Joyce? What's with the inner monologue?

‑Nothing, nothing. So.

‑Brush your teeth before coming here next time, skid-mark.

‑Sorry, I was a bit rushed. I got stopped by five Agents of Public Safety this afternoon.

‑Well, we're all in this together, motherfucker.

‑Yes, yes, of course, we're all in this together.

 

*

 

Those philosophers, man. There's still some around, I know, but they don't hold a candle to the old guys. The new guys, they're all in their ivory towers, having cocktails, but the old guys, well. They lived on the brink of insanity, almost all the time. (Or so it seems from today's perspective.) They had big ideas, all right, but so few people could understand them, including their philosophizing peers, they must have felt pretty lonely most of the time. Questioning too deeply into things, or even being too much of a joker, makes one a solitary sort, doesn't it? No philosopher ever got elected to any office, of course: they wouldn't want to be fenced in like that, no. Dealing with other people must have been crazy-making. I wonder: were most of them bachelors? I guess I could look it up.... Well, since I can't turn back now, I declare they were all bachelors. They'd sit in basement bars, drinking slowly (but for a very long time), consider the world and the universe, and figure out an argument having to do with mind, space, eternity, whatever. I feel sorry for them, great though they were. It's a sad business.

 

*

 

"How much do you think an hour's housework is worth? Nine dollars?"

That's what my soon-to-be ex-wife asked me. A couple lawyers were with us. I didn't like nor what she was asking nor why she was asking it. I replied. "Five dollars sounds like a better number. Yes, five is a better number than nine."

She smiled. (Had I been rooked?) "Settled," she said, writing the figure on a yellow pad already plastered with all sorts of sums and multiplications. "I've been keeping track."

"Keeping track?"

Her lawyer said: "She's kept meticulous records over the years, poor dear."

My soon-to-be ex-wife continued: "Mental work. How much is that? Thinking consumes calories, and you owe me for those. I've been using kilocalories, and one kilocalorie gets burned ever fortnight."

"When did you learn math?" I asked.

My lawyer whispered to me: "Don't ask questions. You'll be billed for the answer."

My soon-to-be ex-wife was jotting figures. "T.B.D. Now the biggie: emotional labour."

"Wait," I cried. "This is all so one-sided! What about my housework? My mental work? My 'emotional labour'? What about those?"

Both lawyers looked at me, with interest. Together they asked: "Did you keep any records of those?"

 

*

 

New Management

 

The guys got to the construction site at seven and opened the tool-chest. As they were loading up their belts, Louie said: "Hey, where's the hammers?" The guys went through the chest and discovered, yes, not a single hammer was there.

The supe showed up a half-hour later. "Hey, boss," said Pat: "There's no hammers."

The supe said: "Didn't you read last week's memo? New management?"

No-one had.

The supe continued: "We're not going to be using hammers anymore."

"But how are we suppose to hammer?" That was Bill speaking.

"You're going to use your screwdrivers instead."

"How is that possible?" (Louie.)

"I'm sure you've used screwdrivers as hammers before."

Pat replied: "Yeah, sure, for, like, picture-hanging or something."

"Now you're going to use them all the time, for everything, that's all."

The guys all shrugged, and got down to it. It took fifty times longer to do anything; but it wasn't piece-work, so mostly fine.

At lunch, the supe showed up with a box of hammers. "We're going back to hammers," he said.

They took up the hammers with a bit of unfamiliarity. Bill asked: "So, what changed now?"

The supe looked at them, one-by-one.

"New management."

 

*

 

In the old days, if someone stole your stick, you would call that person a swizzler. Hence, these days, a stick that is intended to be stolen from a restaurant is known as a swizzle stick.

In the old days, the men who would change the direction of your livestock, sometimes abruptly, were called cattlers. This is why, today, we call things that cause changes catalysts.

In the old days, folks who painted portraits would often say to potential subjects whom they'd met to 'come around' for a sitting; that's why, today, modern portrait-making employs a 'camera'.

Way back when, in France no less, those who could afford carriages often carried an air that was known as hauteur nobile. This is why, to this day, we call our new carriages automobiles.

In the olden times, groups of musicians in the Baltics were so high-and-mighty they were called, and came to adapt for themselves the term as a badge of pride, 'some phonies'. Naturally, today we have symphonies.

In the yesterdays, the fine folks who ruled over principates were known far and wide as princes. This is why, in the late seventies, a musician, Prince Rogers Nelson, took the stage-name Prince.

 

*

 

Snow lay on the north side of the chalet, but not on the south, which was where the lake was. There was a café in it somewhere; I circled around it, found a door. I found myself in something of a cellar. I must have seen the person whom I was going to talk to later; but I was incapable of recognizing him, naturally. A rickety staircase went up, and I found myself outside again.

That's when I spotted the stone steps. I ascended them, and there it was, the café. Some kind of a meeting was going on, something political, so it seemed to me. I found Kathy, and I felt safe again.

What did the group want us to do? They wanted us to buy something to support their cause. I didn't know what the cause was, could have been Al Qaeda for all I knew, so I put it off as long as possible until I had to buy a small thing, but I only bought it because it came in a little metal box.

Plastic sequins, and I knew the guy downstairs used sequins. I went to offer him the sequins. "Crappy sequins," he told me.

 

*

 

We'd left the door open, so the horse was innocent in its curiosity about the things that went on inside the house. She looked around the front hallway, and sniffed some flowers on a table so enthusiastically that the vase in which they were set fell off and onto the floor, but the vase didn't break (though a lot of flowery water soaked into the carpet). The horse continued on into the living room, ducking through the doorway. Her ears brushed against the unilluminated overhead lights and she whinnied in surprise. She obviously hadn't been expecting that. She grazed the coffee table but didn't knock it over, but she did knock over three books and a magazine that were lying on top of it. No biggie. She was now looking into the dining room, where some things of interest lay, namely, a bowl containing four forgotten apples. She made her way to the bowl, and ate the apples one at a time. She then looked around, in search of more apples, but there were none. She turned around, almost carefully, only knocking the bowl off the table, and made her way outside again. Yes, we believe it was a horse.

 

*

 

We had such a plethora of sounds around us back then, I remember. You couldn't have a single moment of silence from midnight to noon, from noon to midnight. You'd wake up to birds who'd been singing for hours even if no-one heard them; in the kitchen there'd be pots and pans doing their best Carmen Miranda; traffic sounds would generally increase, crescendoing at eight AM and five PM. You couldn't get away from it, and it usually didn't matter to you.

Then some eggheads at CalTech got the bright idea to power motors with sound. You know all this. Sound waves had the ability to turn nano-vanes, thereby generating electricity. It sounded daft at the time, but the damn things worked. I fought against it, but to little avail; the world started getting quieter as all the waves got sucked into the engines.

So today it's a much quieter world. You never had the chance to know how it used to be. These days, you can't possibly hear the one that hits you coming at you because of all the sound engines around. It's brought written communication back, sure; but, God, I miss the birds, the kitchens, the cars.

 

*

 

Some Lines Composed after Reading 'Lack of personality cult', Spectator, 11 September 2021

 

‑Good evening, I'd like a table for one.

‑Confucius say: Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.

‑Pardon? I'd like a table for one.

‑Confucius say: Silence is a true friend who never betrays.

‑A table, please. I'd like to dine, this evening.

‑Confucius say: Never enter without giving signs of cleanliness.

‑Oh, you must be referring to vaccination! Sorry! Here, right here, is a note from my doctor.

‑Confucius say: Accept higher authority when there is no option.

‑Oh, you must be referring to the government app! Well, I can't do that. I don't use a cell phone.

‑Confucius say: Life goes on. The young have inchoate wisdom.

‑So, I have to have the app, and therefore a phone?

‑Confucius say: It is the wise vendor who exceeds expectations.

‑Who is it to be, then? Bell, Nokia, Apple?

‑Confucius say: The needs of all lie in 5G, and Huawei, by Vivo.

‑And that'll work?

‑Confucius say: Vivo TCL 10, 64GB. Confucius say: Do not get the extended service plan.

‑I suppose the government app?

‑Confucius say: We are geopolitical friends, and friends keep no secrets.

 

*

 

the writer steps out of his guise to pen

 

The Massive Stink

 

I was out on the back, smoking a cigarette and reading 'A Secular Age', when I noticed I'd left, beside the barbecue, a bowl in which I'd put a tin foil 'plate' (I suppose), plus the residue of the salmon cooked, and the basking brush - all of which had been lying there for something like six weeks, through three or four rainstorms. So, I decided it was time to get rid of it.

When I picked it up, it didn't stink. The liquidity of it was almost to the rim, so I poured it off over the railing.

It stank.

I took the bowl down to the kitchen. Intellectually, I knew it stunk, but I didn't know how much it stunk. I started washing it in the sink.

That's when I realized I was working with forces beyond my control. The bowl and the sink started stinking like rotten wet feces. I opened the window, but the stink where I'd poured it off the railing flowed into my zone. I couldn't escape the stink.

Like the stink of Satan's unwashed ass in Hell's centre‑but worse than that.

 

*

 

All of us are invited to a big event.

It's a proper party for John Ashbery.

Leave your vitals at the centre door.

 

Aren't we having a fine time? How's the duodenum doing?

This is Prince Edward County. It's known as a city too.

There's only one type of wine here? The types you make?

 

I wonder where the police are, they should be here.

Can there be a crime rate, what was worth stealing?

Don't down the wine too fast, it got a wicked kick.

 

Check out the red-nose clown.

Must be some regional escape.

He's here to add some colour.

 

I hear there's a new record by Led Zeppelin coming out tomorrow.

All of us should line up outside Sam's at maybe five a.m. or so.

It's not like it's going to be signed copies or anything, still.

 

Did you bring the cooler for the processed meats?

Have you ever been to such-and-such a west place?

Does it look like it going to rain, and good too?

 

It's getting on to midnight, I think the drugs are working.

Maybe we should have a light show, bring out your lighters!

There, illuminating like Chinese lanterns, in the dark sky.

 

*

 

Man of Drone

 

"I do the aerial shots, all the aerial shots, from here to Tokyo. No-one flies one of those little babies as well as I do. I make them sweep, and hover, in all ten directions, in perfect silence to boot. Some people don't like this kind of motion picture photography, but they're just ideologues.

"I say they're ideologues because that's what they are. They think people should have privacy in their lives; but I say: What is privacy? If there was a problem with what I do, then there'd be some kind of a law against it. I like being high, watching everything that's going on below.

"Then there's the ones who bring up Jeremy Bentham, like I'm running some kind of surveillance machine, ready for a police state. Panopticon they call it. Well, that's not fair. If you're not committing a crime, what's your worry?

"Leni Riefenstahl they also go on about, too. As if there's a connection! I can't take my drone that high, so there. There's a limit to what I can do.

"Oh, but I'd love to photograph an airplane, a bomber, as it drops a load onto a metropolis. Maybe some day."