MEMP’IS
BOOK
FIVE – “YOGA IS, as YOGA DOES”
(Saturday,
January 6, 2035)
Heavy, crimson drapes swooshed open before a packed Trouble Factory
auditorium and Captain Modesty posed (perhaps for the benefit of the crew from
KJAD-PV), and then gestured, cutting short thunderous applause. In the wings, Germany Smith adjusted his
Bavarian hat, checking his image reflected on a metal fire hydrant under a
digital clock. It was precisely 1400
hours... several miles to the south, Corporal Norlin was edifying Henry Hat and the Stimwood
company on the properties of wart tissue.
"What's the kebbin'
stink!" a cameraman
muttered. "Like pigfex!"
"Gentlemen, we are on the verge of an important
enterprise," the Captain rallied his legions. The angry bloodvessel
to one side of his forehead rolled contentedly, a peaceable wave awaiting
surfboards. "I need not remind you
of the derision directed against law enforcement by certain cosmopolitan
elements over the past few days... ridicule that is, regrettably, though only
in part, deserved. Now, however, the
time has come for us to reverse this comedy of ineptitude and misfortune in one
brave, majestic thrust... and here is the man who will command our bold
endeavor, Chief Smith of Intelligence.
Assisted... as always... by our full contingent of dedicated
Departmental Chiefs: John Crum, Patrols... Ray Angeniuex, Wire... Clem Clarke, Detectives! With Clive Snipe of Compliance on hand to
ensure that civil rights of innocents shall not be compromised." And he beckoned them forward.
Germany Smith took center-stage, the
others massing behind him... deferential, but oozing with confidence...
"Thank you, Captain," said the Trouble Factory's own Iatollah of Intelligence, eliciting applause, which he savoured, then quelled.
"Today, we finally knout noggins together and ask the question: Who is this upstart that dares test our
police minds, deprive state and citizens of lawful property, even
kill? Who is this Iatollah of Incumbumbula..." Germany sneered, "as he
styles himself? Well... giving
consideration both to clues that he has given us, in arrogance, and those we've
derived through exercise of our own police capacities, we've narrowed his
governing principles to these: criminality, linearity and centrality. Our fellow cannot abide those helical
principles for wholesome living as delineated... my error! deannulated!... by Jezekiah
Jemaliel Jates - he hates Jates!...
and what must we do? We must hate this Jates-hater, Mondretto, he who
hates Jates.
We must not wait! Let me hear
your voices rise up... what do we do?"
"Hate the Jates-hater!" the
assembled Trouble Factory minions roared back.
"Hate the Jates-hater!"
Germany Smith raised his hands over his feathered hat and whirled
in ecstasy. Behind him, Ray Angenieux swayed, sympathetically... a frowning John Crum
and Captain Modesty applauded with cupped hands. Clive Snipe slithered away, ducking behind
the curtains, brushing past Buck Burgess of the City Council, monitoring the
assembly from the wings, with his sharp, inquisitive glare.
"Clap your hands..." the Intelligence Chief commanded,
"and stomp your feet! And who are
we?"
"The Po-lice!"
Modesty's mob replied with lusty voices that rattled the rafters of the
auditorium. "Po-leece!"
The Chief of Intelligence, allowing a few seconds of boistrous affirmation, finally raised his arms over his
head to cut off the clapping and stomping and chanting...
"Our enemy's mentor dared denominate his movement the style; that very capacity which
Triple-J refutes with his doctrine of Substance, circularity and obedience to
law. We, on the other hand stand for
health, security, for property... our combined mentalities and perseverance
have uprooted many secrets of our enemy.
We have incontrovertible evidence that he lodges at the centre of our
physical, geographic essence, working his wickedness from that which lies at
the centre of Jatesland and foremost in our hearts...
the Jatesaneum!
And Germany Smith stepped back to let horror and outrage wash over
the throng... when several waves of such abated, somewhat, he renewed his
oration.
"Yes... Mondretto is in there,
somewhere! But we don't face the fiend
alone, for Captain Modesty has arranged a treaty with EastAmerica
by which we have procured the most famous detection swine in all existence... Heisenberg's Herd!"
The doors to the Auditorium were flung open, wide, and Clive Snipe
reappeared, fairly dragged along by three enormous hogs on leashes - behind
him, more of his Compliance officers struggled to maintain control of single
pigs... enormous, filthy creatures with white tusks and feral, crimson
eyes. The exclamations and hoorahs of
the police might have been appreciation but, also, a certain boisterous
jollity... Clive Snipe was unpopular and his dignity was being sorely
tested. Finally handing off the leash to
a large, red-faced officer, he mounted the stage, out-of-breath and wheezing,
stumbling over his feet.
As one, the great bristly swine
squatted and deposited steaming hillocks of unkosher fex on the auditorium floor... Officer Eric Ice, one of
those charged with maintaining control of a detection pig, cast a covetous,
calculating eye as he wrestled his snorting, struggling charge into semblance
of order.
"Anything to
add, Clive?" Germany Smith welcomed the Compliance Chief.
"This is goin' by the book..."
Clive gasped, "...stric'ly by the book! Before we go out, everybody drops their pants
and gives up a specimen, so there's not a chance that the Law Firm will be able
to claim that some officer was impaired of his judgment on the job. This ain't gonna be
another kebbin' Norlin operation, not today! And, for any as think themselves not quite up
to the job, a double of Police Serum. Doctor..."
Behind the last of the pig-wranglers, Dr. Skark
wheeled an enormous teatray of specimen jars and
hypodermic needles into the auditorium... the Blue and Gray Men following like
a pair of malignant shadows. The anticipation of the assembly soured instantly
and someone cried out...
"How 'bout
milking the kebbin' pigs!"
"Who said that!" Germany
bawled. "Doctor... do your job,
we're not moving out of this place until every kebbin'
one of you slacks, doops and zooks
get milked, and whoever said that steps forward. We'll wait all day... if we have to! The rest of you... drop your pants! Drop your kebbin'
pants!"
A dozen dozen policemen wriggled,
scowled but, ultimately, complied - some younger officers waving their
genitalia proudly with defiant enthusiasm.
Veterans, however, let their penii droop in
anticipation of a ritual that, through repetition after interminable
repetition, had lost all purpose save humiliation, and humiliation's consequent
forging, firing and tapering of the dogsbodies' rage into a rapier's point, all
to the ends... as Captain Modesty, backstage, insinuated to Buck Burgess... of
vengefully pricking any enemies as their superiors chose to designate.