MEMP’IS
BOOK
FIVE – “YOGA IS, as YOGA DOES”
(Saturday,
January 6, 2035)
It
is nearly 1600 hours by Captain Modesty's watch... the precise moment, in fact,
that the ponderous Stephen Stimwood is descending
from his lair to shower insight and illuminations upon the benighted novices of
his Academy... before the great assemblage of serum-happy police and snuffling
swine of Heisenberg's Herd (marshaled in copses and crevices of the
fastidiously manicured commons at the precise center of Jatesland
that contains the Jatesaneum) rumble into
action. Modesty, Chiefs Angenieux, Crum and Clarke... all are encamped in one of
the pocket groves at the outskirts of that enclave at the very heart of Jatesland... a magnificent complex of minarets, corbels and
gables that was, once, the residence and workshop of Triple-J, himself, before
ascension. A peevish, disheveled Clive
Snipe tugs the Captain's sleeve...
"It
was wrong to proceed without
discovering the identity of that traitor in our ranks. Lack of enthusiasm is worse than outright
opposition, Captain. It saps the spirit,
invites second-guessing and slovenliness into the Department. If you pardon the term, it's Norlinistic..."
Captain
Modesty gives his Compliance Chief the fisheye...
"You
want us losing the sun? Any of you? I greenlighted this
operation and brought in Heisenberg's best, based on your confidence... does
anybody wish to imply, now, that we are mistaken? As to Norlin...
what the k'ball is
he up to, anyway, him and that yellow keb from the
Sun Police?"
"Who
gives a mute's arse?" Chief Clarke coughs. His fingers grope for the eyepatch
- he tugs at it and snaps twice, three times... the vibrations which resonate
through the long-empty socket soothe his nerves, grate on those of his
confederates. “He ain’t
around, is he?”
"Then that settles it, doesn't it?" the Captain's
voice intrudes. "Give the command,
Germs..."
And,
though his lips remain pursed and shuddering (as if he's been sucking on
lemons) Germany Smith steps forward into the hastening twilight under the
gnarled, skeletal trees of the Jatesaneum's grove
(and his own Bavarian hat), lifts his own silver whistle and manages to blow a
high-pitched Alpine fanfare that infuriates the pigs and alerts operational
commander, Sergeant Chester Aspid, who raises a fist
in reply.
"To the Jatesaneum!"
Aspid rallies the troops. "For health...
security... and property!"
“Health... security... and property!"
the troops respond.
And
then a great, globular army of men and barely-managed swine converge with
uproarious gruntings and shoutings,
upon the Jatesaneum.
Lieutenant
Bister, himself, swaggers up the front steps towards
the reception desk and, displaying his badge and the Execution Warrant to an
officious Librarian, raps his beringed fist upon the
simulated oak and declares...
"We are from the Trouble Factory! Under the authority of this warrant... duly
signed by Judge Napier of the Courts of Flow... we are authorized to search
these premises for contraband, stolen property and fugitives including... but
not limited to... that certain Mondretto, John Does
One through One Hundred Forty Four, and Jane Does One through Twelve..."
The Librarian meets his fist-pounding fury with icy
equilibrium. "You stand right
there, young man. I will call Tattersall, the Director..."
Bister remains in a pose of angry
repose until Tattersall arrives - a tweedy,
distinguished fellow, somewhat past middle-aged, but agile... his outrage
carefully banked by a harlequin's mask of false concern, calculus and
cooperation.
"With whom do I have the pleasure of
communication?" inquires this lord of the lordly Jatesaneum,
clearly a man unused to defiance.
"Director
Tattersall, my name is Bister...
representing Captain Modesty, the Trouble Factory and People of Jatesland. We have
confidential information and, upon the warrant of Judge Napier, do stand and
demand access to all privileged premises, subject to detection by the
Heisenberg Herd."
Without suffering response from the punctilious Director,
he waves to Chester Aspid at the door who turns and,
from the top of the steps... raises his blaster and fires a shot in the air,
crying out...
"Send in the pigs!"
Snarling
and grunting, throwing off waves of sweat, vermin and fex
in their berserker stampede, the Heisenberg Swine gallop forth, dragging their
keepers behind them. Dozens of Trouble Factorians follow John Crum into the Jatesaneum
as, in its driveway, Captain Modesty, Germany, Snipe and Clem Clarke
alternately bark orders into their coms, and exalt in
the vissure
of the mission. Off to the side, under
the shadowy boughs of a gnarled, mutant tree, Dr. Skark
lurks with his equipment; the Blue and Gray Men and Eric Ice... relieved of swinish obligations... all pacing as they await
the all-clear to solicit samples from any suspects, or witnesses.
"It's times like this," Modesty reminisces, "when I
wish we were young men again... and cigars were legal..."
"But
we're not..." Germany shrugs…
"...and tobacco is most definitely against the
law," Dr. Skark reminds his Captain, after
sneaking up behind them. "A Class-C felony, simple possession, sale or distribution
without recompense a Class-B," he ticks off his litany of sanctions,
"... twenty to thirty years in Feliciana, gentlemen. And, of course, Class-A sale or possession,
bringing imprisonment for life or the Lady G..."
"Don't
sound so kebbin' jovial, Skark," snaps Clem
Clarke, "it doesn't jibe with your reputation..."
"Captain
Max Bend thought himself above the law, too," the government's milkman
smirks, "...but remember what happened when old
man Norlin happened to him!
As
Heisenberg's horde of pigs swarm across the floor of the Jatesaneum,
Bister slaps his ear as a gesture to the cursing,
sputtering Tattersall, and turns to confront the
Librarian...
"Now
you, you old hag, will provide me a register of every scholar and visitor to
have visited these premises since Monday..."
"No
outsiders come to the Jatesaneum without
credentials," she fires back.
"Well..." and a nervous glance passes between her and Tattersall, "...except for all of those men from the
Fire Department...”
"What
men?" a puzzled Bister replies, tapping his ring
impatiently upon the Jatesaneum's desk...
As
Tattersall rises to the challenge, they dispute, vollying threats of influence, tradition and
attorneys. Meanwhile, pigs are bolting
through venerable chambers, sanctums and crannies, snuffling and rooting
through papers, prodding bubbling research flasks and relics with their
implacable snouts, throwing eminent patriarchs of Jatesology
into seizures and stuttering cries of "Baroque! How Buh-baroque!" Lunging forwards on hind legs... enabled by
just the slightest insertions of hebe DNA... to rip
down motivational banners with their aweful tusks,
Heisenberg's best drag two decades of tapestried
history across carpets already befouled with bodily specimens.
At the top of the steps leading to the Jatesaneum,
Chester Aspid emerges from the chaos, giving a
thumb-up to the brass observing their endeavor from beneath their sheltering
groves... whereupon, at his back, there comes a great, fiery...
Explosion!