MEMP’IS
BOOK
FIVE – “YOGA IS, as YOGA DOES”
(Saturday,
January 6, 2035)
I replied words to the
effect that Homer should confide his wagering preferences to Eric’s forays into
the Fex Market as Dr. Shore motioned for the nurses
to bring forth two more Stimwood savants.
"Experienced
crime-solvers are you are, you've probably detected a
commonality among my students - four triads, three of which consist of an
alpha… Jud and Wilson, being examples… and two subordinates. These, now, are King Jack's people…"
I hate being patronized by civilians.
From his seat next to Crawford, Jack Bard favoured
us with a proprietory smirk, baring mottled brown and
yellow teeth, needlepoint-filed, beneath salt and pepper stubbled
cheeks grinding, silently, constantly.
Those hard, darting eyes of an habitual L.C.
gauged the approach of his criminal confederates. One was that brutally disfigured mute - a
creature in a green TJ whose head was almost wholly feline, down to the sliteyes, pointy ears and whiskers… the other was that suety, unshaven zook in a floral
housecoat over pink traitjacket, blonde wig, pink ladyslippers. King
Jack's ridiculous cardboard crown (a souvenir lifted from one of Jatesland's quik-quik Krajjit diners) bobbed with insolent satisfaction atop his
balding scalp.
Homer, whose smell and
hearing is so much more sensitive than my own, recoiled, whispering...
"What a revolting collection of fex!"
I shushed him, allowing
Shore to address the crowned pretender of Stimwood
Academy...
"Jack...
you must remember Jack Bard, King of the Hamorite
Strip until about a year ago when, I believe, he became greedy..."
"I was set up! Sweetlick gassed me out..."
And then, Homer stood up,
pointing...
"Wasn't
no such thing - you were dirty as the inside of a
bean-eatin' LC's union suit. He was in on that fex
with Max Bend..."
And, as I recalled a few of
King Jack Bard's escapades (Advice
to reader: numerous files dating back more than twenty years, see especially
People #26:02084, #28:52571 and, most recently, People #34:68106),
his swinish he-she blew me a foul-breathed kiss. And, evidently, Jack Bard remembered too...
"Yeah,
I know you. Max in here, you know, sometimes I help him
with his rackets... Dr. Shore didn't hear that, of course, got an unnatural affection for his
life, right Milesome?
Max ain't forgot you, Norlin,
not by the breadth of a donna's bush... might have
people still watching you, know?"
And then, with wounded dignity,
Dr. Shore intervened...
"Since
we have gravitated to the topic of watchfulness, and you have already chosen
that chair next to Jud - well, why don't you watch
each other. That way, both of you can
keep an eye on Wilson, too, and these police can watch you..."
And King Jack's careless
smirk turned cold as he regarded Stimwood's
mind-doctor, seemingly about to make another remark or threat. He snorted, traversing Stimwood's
still-incomplete circle of savants, then bowed, to the girlfriends behind him,
focusing on the panting, fanning Troosh, to whom he
tipped his cardboard crown.
"Pleased
to make your acquaintance, ma'am, an' I trust we'll meet again,
without..."
He made an obscene gesture, no mean accomplishment given the confines of his traitjacket, then turned the metal chair around, straddling
it, leering towards Crawford.
"How's fex hangin' Jud? Gotta cigarette?"
"The
tragic, ceasing to dominate, becomes the prime vehicle of pre-Psalamic pastoral repose.
Go keb yourself," replied Stimwood's resident Rasputin.
Dr. Shore then led the
brawny slattern in the floral housecoat, into his circle as Homer coughed with
disgust and Henry Hat maintained his attentive posture, yellow hat still
balanced on one perfectly stoic knee.
"Here
is Rocky... domiciling with us while the Law Firm, City Council and Trouble
Factory work out some, uh, issues.
Unfortunately, he has had a bad habit of provoking, then initiating
physical disputes in bars and other public places, necessitating his temporary
removal from society and subsequent placement among our academic
community."
"It's society's fault! I don't like people starin'
at me... like him!"
And...
his pink traitjacket being
drawn so close he was unable to point... Rocky jerked a stubbled
chin towards an enraged Bobby, who snarled back... first at the he-she, then at
Dr. Wilson.
"Kebbin' b'roker! Like something come out of one of your
experiments..."
"Rocky,
remember your place. We have
disciplinary methods and medications - and that goes for you, too, young
man."
Dr. Shore pointed sternly
towards the nine o'clock seat between the slumped Lucy and quiescent Kid MacBeth (with all his rubber balls once again secure
beneath the top hat.) Rocky's shoulders tensed under the pink TJ and floral
housecoat, but he obediently trudged off towards the seat assigned him as if
his feet were mired in molasses instead of the flapping pink Stimwood slippers.
As he passed, Peg Reilly hissed something unintelligible, but clearly
uncomplimentary. Once Rocky was seated,
Shore summoned forth the mute.
"As
we are on the topic of suspect medical procedures, this, officers, is Starrett. He was a
rather notorious criminal in the days after the K'ball
and chose to volunteer for an experiment in molecular transit up there in EastAmerica as an alternative to a lengthy
incarceration. Needless to say, the
experiment proved unsuccessful - those RCA engineers gave him a one-way bus
ticket, and he's our problem now. Sadly,
he's become a mute in both senses of
the word… the procedure compromised his voice, but he and King Jack have
developed a system of communication by gesture - if you choose to trust Bard's translations. Since the best answer to a
certain, longstanding animosity is a buffer, take that seat between Wilson and
Bobby, sir."
Starrett
proceeded dutifully to the assigned chair, ignoring Bobby's hostile grimace...
"Don't look
at me, you kebbin' freak!"
Miles F. Shore sighed,
glancing towards the dais, as if to ask "What more can anyone
do?" Henry Hat nodded,
ever-attentive... Homer had resumed his researches into the physics of the
rotating chair. The Doctor exchanged a
few words with the nurses who had called forth the last of the so-called triads
in the Turner Room.
"Tony! Pisgah!
Zihei!
Our unassimilated savants - this bunch may be expected to say anything,
officers, say or do anything or everything.
Pay close attention Henry, Corporal... there may be danger in these
remarks... or a revelation. Slippery people!
Zihei's a killer, in fact, our only genuine
killer... Dr. Wilson excepted… although I have
suspicions regarding Jack, the Kid and..."
"What about me? Ain't my restraints
blue as his?" and she held up a
sleeve…
"Sorry,
Dawn. It is customary to attribute
violent acts as being within the purview of the male of the species. Whereas females - well, that's an old saw,
unproven. And did I say killer... no,
our friend from the East, is an assassin;
he dispatched the Swami Yodl Wadl
eighteen months ago... does that jog your memory, Norlin? (Advice to reader: People #32:42969, People #32:05318) Ran him through with a kebbin'
sword - and all on behalf of those he
calls the Elementals."
At that point I reminded
Shore how I most certainly did recall the case, which transpired some two years
ago, while I was still Senior Detective under Parslay
for the Trouble Factory… [EXTRANEOUS COMMENTARY REMOVED per S. YAROSLAVSKI,
ACTING CHIEF - INTELLIGENCE]
"Blue,"
Homer volunteered… as usual, arriving somewhat late to the conclusion I had
already drawn… "is the color that they should
assign to the real killers, as
opposed to those who merely direct others to do their killing for them…"
"Good point," I placated him.
Zihei
was directed to the three o'clock seat between the student bomber and go-go-girl,
both still pouting; next, Shore summoned forth a tonsured penitent whose brown
robe covered all but the thin neckline of his yellow TJ. Dissipated, ruddy features furthered the
likeness to a disgraced, defrocked man of the cloth, as did a pendulous,
genuine plastic cross looped around his neck and worrybeads
slithering through his fingers.
"Our token dissenter. Brother Pisgah has penned certain forceful,
controversial missives to public figures that infer, at the least, some
possibility of a cataclysmic future..."
There have, indeed, been
hundreds of such to the Trouble Factory - rambling ravings that fill three
large boxes in some damp, back-corner of C-Squad, mostly directed against
Lifestyle Community Acts and the Fex Market, arising therefrom. And the
false monk did not disappoint…
"The
Vitreopaedia is lies - Jatesist
calumny. England never held Tom DeQuincy Days before the k'ball -
the author of the Gunpowder Plot was Fawkes, a Roman Catholic partisan. Purified ugliness... beyond time and space. Stu Sutcliffe was never in the Beatles - there was a man named Lennon who has been written
out of history for lifestyle criminality… he jammed with Elvis and Paul
McCartney on Perugia Drive in California, seventy years ago..."
Dr. Shore smiled,
indulgently…
"Actually,
Piss, Sutcliffe was a member of that
band in Germany through, let me see… nineteen sixty one, or thereabouts. Jatesist orthodoxy
sometimes bends history, but never
wholly violates it…
"Jatesist Nature chews the spirit. And Bacteriana is a
pox erupted from the skin of phibes, who float on
human water, no democracy, at all... a de-democracy,
if you will, a mocracy. The Fex Market's a
clever scheme to cover up the economic and moral bankruptcy of nations...
Vona
Rae's retort fairly crackled with outrage.
"My fex is valuable…"
"Unlikely. When I was in need of funds during my
internship at Notre Dame... not the Acadmy now
seventy feet underwater off the coast of EastAmerica,
but the cathedral of Paris that subsequently burned down after Quasimodo rang
its bell... I carried an autographed copy of 'The Seven Story Mountain' from one
end to the other of Pawn Alley, and could not elicit an offer greater than
fifteen sous.
Whereas, had I brought the graveclothes Merton
soiled when electrocuted by that fan in Thailand, I could've..."
"Enough..." Dr. Shore pointed to an empty chair,
shaking his head.
Still tolling off reminisces
of whispering holocausts upon his beads, Brother Pisgah allowed Stimwood's nurses to escort him across the southern tier of
the circle, to the seven o'clock post, whereupon Dr. Shore removed a dark blue
handkerchief, wiped his face and, with a dogged grin, introduced the last of
his team.
"No
gathering of law enforcement would be complete without having an
artist-in-residence, so here's our other
contrarian, an environmental sculptor... temporarily on sabbatical, I fear...
Master Tony Debris. His beef against the
system... to use an antiquated and now wholly inappropriate term... is not so
different from that of Brother Pisgah, but he is of a rather more hands-on
generation. We have not catalogued all
of his excesses, gentlemen, but we know of at least six... most infamous of all
being the desecration of the public transport plaza." (Advice to reader: People #34:28742)
Tony Debris is, according to
Intelligence, twenty-six years old. His
light green traitjacket and coarse features, under a
mop of thinning, dark curls… slackjawed and given to twitches
and involuntary gestures… give an impression of a heavily medicated
Caligula. He gave the dais an imbecilic
wave... more appropriate to that of a beauty contestant or occupant of a parade
float during Mardi Gras in the days before the K'ball (a tradition firmly suppressed by Triple-J). Dr. Shore, clearly worn out by his
introductory labours, nodded back in a similar,
demented way (although
whether simply for the benefit of Tony, or for his savants, as a group, is
something I feel unqualified to pass judgment on, as a consequence of further
developments).
Discouraging lingering remarks, he bade the nurses convey Mr. Debris to
eleven o'clock, next to Crawford, then the Doctor glanced our way, while
gesturing to the patient, silent nurse with the teatray
that, as I've already noted, bore an unfortunate resemblance to Dr. Skark's.
"Now,
Officers, while Deandra distributes smilk and cookies, may we have an explanation of the
Trouble Factory's interests and the privilege of meeting your... talents...?"
Hastily… too hastily,
perhaps… I gobbled the refreshments that Shore's nurse distributed, barely
hearing her assurances to Homer that no animal products contaminated that smilk and those JatesBar cookies
which, nonetheless, tasted decidedly queer (worse, in fact, than those charity
donuts provided to the Trouble Factory last Tuesday). Dr. Shore took up a station between circle
and dais, glancing in our direction as if to say: "Well, here’s my team,
what have you brought to the
table?" Henry Hat stared pleasantly
back, giving no sign of response, so I cleared my throat, silently invoking
Elvis.
"Gentlemen…
and ladies… I am Corporal Norlin of the Trouble
Factory. With me is Officer Sack and,
from the Solar Commission, Henry Hat..."
This brought the agitated
Dr. Wilson out of his seat... with Dr. Shore hastening to quell his challenge.
"What's a kebbin' suncop doing here?"
"Let
the police explain, Doctor. We are faced
with extraordinary circumstances - crimes of gravity and depravity that, if
not..."
The tonsured monk leaped up,
worrybeads clacking frumiously...
"Let’s
not evade sure-reality! These so-called
crimes encompass theft of Elvis Presley's death-turd
and certain, lesser fex filching, symptomatic of the
moral and cultural decay, which derive from a culture of plastic, weaned plastic..."
Homer ceased his experiments
with the gyrating chair, raging...
"The
Corporal was about to explain that murder - multiple
murder - is also among the crimes falling under
this joint investigation. We're not all
about rousting and roughing up gum-chewers and tea-sippers, I'll have you
know."
Dr. Shore nodded towards his
devil's dozen.
"There! There! These are men charged with protecting us, all
of us, from the enemies who seek the overthrow of our conventions, institutions
and beliefs, and with protecting us from ourselves. They stand alone - with a very few others...
they deserve attention, and consideration.
If you will, Corporal..."
"Thank
you. Now, as to the circumstances of
this meeting, I have taken the liberty of inviting four civilian
witnesses..."
And Peg Reilly screeched
from her position of eclipse behind the flowing tassels and chiffon of Troosh...
"It's about kebbin'
time!"
Homer Sack leaned back, pretending
surfeit of geometrical exertion; Henry Hat lowered his gaze to the tip of his
shoe, then slowly upwards to the brim of the fedora balanced on his knee. "Corporal?" he finally prompted. Since Dr. Shore had gratified himself with a
freedom of movement during his introductions, I, too, rose, stepped from the
dais and, passing between Dawn Dancingeather and
impertinent King Jack Bard to stand beside and slightly behind Troosh, placed a comforting hand across her bony shoulder.
"We
are gathered here to honor the former luminary of stage and screen, Mrs.
Theresa Batter. Her extensive and
multifaceted experience interacting with the Broadway establishment of EastAmerica before the Cannonball... not to mention the
now-lost colony of Hollywood in WestAmerica...
provides Mrs. Batter with a broad, deep expertise in Baratarian
and international intrigues - a depth of perspective which, focused in concert
with her three colleagues and Dr. Shore's distinguished panel, shall..."
And, abruptly, Wilson rose
on unsteady legs. Had I not trusted the efficacy of Stimwood,
I might have suspected that the Doctor had had a recourse
to drink, or worse...
"As
one perf... professional... to another, Miles, did
you realize that the police would be bringing these...
(pointing) this nut...
to obstruct our gathering?"
Across the Turner Room,
Judson Crawford made a sort of waving motion with his right hand, thereafter
drawing two fingers to his lips, miming (for all the world) a man smoking a cigarette... a sort of signal,
I surmised, for young Bobby to jump up, screeching...
"Let the old bag talk, Wilson..."
And Troosh
looked up towards me, frowning...
"What an unpleasant
boy! Are most young people like him,
these days?"
I assured her that it wasn't
so (keeping, at the back of my mind, my own concerns about Jody's upbringing)
and waved down the combatants (mindful, again, of Shore's failure to exercise
professional authority over his charges). Stepping around Terushka,
I approached Lola and Bobby, who was still in my line of sight, retreated back
behind the folding chair with the half-scared, half-defiant trembling of a caffa-slurping nade caught with
the evidence in hand, waiting for the representative from the Law Firm to show
before John Crum beat the fex out of him. Destroying Bobby with a glare like a blast
from the Solar Furnace itself, Lola stood, glancing counterclockwise to focus
on the lounging King Jack...
"Don't you look at me that way King 'Arry..."
"Ain't my fault, Lolly. I'm one hundred
percent Baratarian, you know, native Amurkan before the k'ball... hate
the foreigners, you know, particularly Brits.
And their colonials..."
King Jack ceased his whine
and, appealing to the gallery, straightened his cardboard and sighed, and,
again, Dr. Shore made no to intervene, bade me continue...
"Lola
Mkwane's vigilance on behalf of the native citizenry…
and, for the edification of this gathering, Angola was fortunately Portuguese… is no less than the commitment of Peg
Reilly to her building, her neighborhood and to the law..."
My decision not to
underestimate King Jack's powers of perception... or intelligence...
reaffirmed, I slid across the southern tier of the girlfriend rectangle...
employing a sort of soft-shoe copied from a pre-K'ball
entertainer by the name of Michael Jackson, known, in that time, as the
"moonwalk"... past Bobby, the cat-faced Starrett,
Dr. Wilson (with his white smock and butcher's hands), the heretic Pisgah in
brown; head bowed, mumbling his prayers (or, perhaps, invocations to hostile
powers) as he fingered each bead of his black rosary... interposing myself, at
last, between Peg and the dim, slack-jawed Lucy.
"Perhaps
no other C-Squad asset has exhibited such dedication and persistence in
guarding the public health, security and property as Peg, here (and, across the
Crisis Room, Troosh bristled with envy). Seriously - where lurks lifestyle crime, dark
goings-on with dogs and with illicit substances, Peg will be nearby. Watching!
Observing, and recording..."
"Cease!..."
The ninja Zihei had jumped up, snapping two fingers of his right hand
at King Jack who, slumped in the folding chair since his rebuke by Lola and
subsequent ingratiation, made a pistol of his right fist, aimed at Peg - this
action finally eliciting a response from Dr. Shore, directing the attention of
the Stimwood nurses to Bard's surrogates, Starrett and Rocky.
"Should keep her nose outta
people's business, that's all..."
"Bard! Zihei! Nothing is
served by asymmetrical motion or threatening gestures. If you will not articulate
positive energies and insist upon disrupting these official proceedings, I...
I shall be forced to order the re-imposition of your restraints. On all
of you..."
Kid MacBeth
- pink, fleshy orbs safely concealed beneath his dark high hat - pretended such
terror to such comical effect that Dr. Shore began sputtering. Brother Pisgah's mutterings greatly increased
in velocity and volume...
"Loaf
or walk, try Spork, in which a pick some try it put
again the take! I grow mine at Smörgåsbord may round some Bowling Ball it run or that be
don't not open. It's over!… don't see it, not brown the you be why, black in pull see
no or yours in look!… well may don't some pick a look…
As even Lola swayed, slackjawed and tallying up the potentiality of offense, it
was, clearly, my duty to pick up the
ball by bringing Vona Rae into the circle, and the
circle to conclusion, but... but I couldn't think of anything to say... she
was, after all, Vona Rae Sletcher
(grinding HRI-acceptable grade charity false teeth behind her granite Mussolini
jaw), and only here because so many others could not be. Nonetheless, I tried. I nodded politely, as the spurious holy man
wound down, and I passed the angry-looking Rocky and sarcastic Kid...
"Vona Rae Sletcher is... is (I groped for praiseworthy sentiments) a critic, no, a questioner of economic
prejudice..." to which she beamed with what could pass for pride...
"My piss is worth twice
as much all of yours, poured in the
pot together!"
"Only
lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, crimecorner mutes become moot..." Stimwood's
resident Catholic recluse interrupted, again, "...for where treasure
abides, then your heart shall be plucked, also..."
"Brother Pisgah!"
Dr. Shore's eruption had the
effect of dampening... if not entirely quelling... the heretic's purply scriptural stream-of-consciousness - also
forestalling the wicked smile proffered to the gathering by Kid MacBeth, frozen in the act of reaching into his top
hat. Anxious, now, to pass
responsibility for the seminar off to Henry Hat, I patted Vona's
greasy head and stumbled back towards the dais, having necessarily righting
myself by grasping the back of Jud Crawford's chair.
"Rooster
chews terbacca!..." the
gaunt, old psycho winked up at me, "hen - she sniffs de snuff. My
little chickens, well... jus’ strut their jeska'ballin' stuff!"
Which
brought Lucy, briefly, upright, saying...
"Eeeyup!"
"Now,
uh... students...Henry Hat, from the Solar Commission will, well..."
I glanced helplessly towards
the suncop, grasping the Turner Crisis Room's wheeled
chair so it wouldn't roll away until Henry Hat,
mercifully put me out of my misery. He
slapped his yellow hat against his knee, positioned it upon his brow, glanced
northwards (through King Jack Bard, Crawford and a French window - beyond which
gardeners were fighting on the lawn with their devices towards Dane Varrick's
swamp Xanadu over which loomed the chromoplastic towers and lozenges of Jatesland),
then to the southwest (past the ninja Zihei and
fidgety Bobby towards the green door, still guarded by Stimwood's
two burly nurses), then stepped lightly off the dais as if dismounting from a
flying carpet woven of dreams and feathers.
Entering the charmed circle from the perspective of half past one, he
bowed, turning to meet the gaze of each of the savants (as well as the
unsmiling square of girlfriends), and then began to speak... turning frequently
to seek out an approving face, (or coax one up from out of nothing at all), or
a proffer a conspiratorial glance that danced from one to another of Stimwood.'s finest...
This initial installment
of Incident Report for the afternoon of 6 January, 2035: 1320-1440 hours
(approximate) has been submitted, remotely, by Corporal Norlin,
C-Squad on same date, 2302 hours. The
remainder of this IR, as well as another, regarding occurrences subsequent, has
been ordered to be turned in by 1200 hours, tomorrow, 7 January.
BLINKY
Unfortunately, circumstances
intervened...