KATACLYSM: A Space-Time Comedy (18 page)

Haggard and unkempt, Paroophoron stood in the familiar spherical chamber on DSM V spewing a torrent of emotions ranging from anger and frustration to utter sorrow onto a patient Amaurosis Fugax.  The brain was doing its best to calm the little alien and give him ideas for how to salvage the situation.

“You’re very talented,” said Amaurosis Fugax bobbing up and down hopefully, “I’m sure loads of people would be thrilled to hire you.”

“No they wouldn’t,” Paroophoron pouted, speaking to his shoes.

The brain chose to ignore his attitude.  It knew he was only venting.

“Or you could start your own business.  You know, this might be the best thing that could have happened.  You and Epoophoron have been nagging at each other for years now. Maybe this will give the two of you some space and actually help your marriage.”

“Well, you know,” began Paroophoron brightening ever so slightly, “I’ve had this idea about restaurant takeout for quite a while, but it’s impossible because I don’t have the…”

Without warning, as Paroophoron was in mid-sentence, a brilliant blinding light filled the whole of the chamber.

“Paroophoron, dear?” he heard Amaurosis Fugax’s voice calling to him from somewhere in the light, “would you be a love and wait outside for a few minutes?  It’s the Creator and I usually bump my other appointments as a courtesy if he needs me.”

“The Creator?...Uh…” Paroophoron stumbled.  “You mean, The Creator…the Almighty?…uh, ok, sure…I guess.”

“Thanks luv,” said the still-hidden brain. “We’ll talk some more as soon as I’m finished. But don’t worry Paroophoron, I have a feeling the solution to your problem is right around the corner.”

The giant metallic door slammed behind Paroophoron as he walked back into Amaurosis Fugax’s waiting room.  He passed the secretary’s desk and plopped down into a chair beside an alien who he assumed must have been the brain’s next appointment.  Dennis, the mechanical man who seemed perpetually stuck in the waiting room, was pacing up and down in front of the secretary and wailing “nobody cares!  No one pays any attention to me.  I wish I had never been designed!”

Paroophoron ignored the robot, his eyes fixed on the metal door.  From inside the chamber’s supposedly sound-proof walls, emanated a booming voice.

“Ugh…”

It was as if the word had bored directly into Paroophoron’s soul.  He had never experienced anything quite like it.

“Amy,” continued the baritone voice from inside. “I am not having a good week.”

Inside the chamber, the brain stared into the deluge of light.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

“Well,” the Lord began, “last time I mentioned how I’ve spent the last few months grooming this woman on Fassoolia XVI to be the next great prophet.  You know.  I’ve been sending her signals every day…I’ve done a nice bit of climate change…everyone over there has been waiting for something big to happen.  It was really a nice piece of work if I say so myself.  Anyway, I was just about to send her to the masses to bring world peace…you know, the usual thing…when I find out that on the Sabbath, while I was taking it easy, some psychiatrists got their hands on her, took her to a mental hospital and gave her some kind of electrical shock treatment.  Long story short, she doesn’t remember anything.  Boy was I pissed.”

“It’s called electroconvulsive therapy,” corrected the brain.  “Shock therapy is a misnomer.  At any rate, it’s one of the universe’s most effective treatments for psychosis and depression.”

Inexplicably, the light from the Lord seemed to get brighter and more menacing.

“Why don’t you tell me what you did?” Amaurosis Fugax asked in a soothing voice.

“You don’t want to know,” came the reply.  “I smote half of the hospital staff and wiped out a few villages with some hurricanes…only thirty-five this time, mind you.”  A large loud sigh filled the entirety of DSM V.  “I tell you, it was a bad scene all around.”

“So why have you come in today?” probed the brain.

“Well, obviously, I’m not too happy about how things went,” boomed the Lord.

“I can see that you aren’t,” said the brain who was so inundated by the light that she really couldn’t see much of anything.  “Both of us know that we’ve gone over this before.  But I want to know from you, what do you think might have been a better way to handle the situation?”

“Well…” the Lord said pretending momentarily to be in thought.  “I know I could have done a miracle and brought her memory back…and that probably would have been the best thing for everybody…but I was just so angry.  Besides, they have such good psychiatrists in the Fassoolia nebulas.  They should know a messiah when they see one. They should have been able to figure out that this wasn’t some average delusion and…”

“Ok, I appreciate what you’re saying,” Amaurosis Fugax cut the Almighty off in an attempt to both validate and redirect his thoughts. “But remember, you can’t control what those psychiatrists do…well, actually I suppose you could…but right now we’re focusing on you and more constructive ways you could use to channel your energy.  And, you know, I think that there’s another element to this that’s worth addressing. You see, part of my job is to clarify all of the options that are available to my clients.  And you, of all people, have an extraordinary number of options at any time in any given situation.  So that means that, whether you’re thinking about it or not, you’re constantly making choices.  But, the thing is, choices have consequences.  When you choose to rest on the Sabbath…and I’m not criticizing you for that, don’t misunderstand me…but when you make that choice, you can’t just expect that everything is going to go just as you want it to.  Things are going to happen.”

The brain paused to let this sink in.

“So you’re either going to have to spend a little less time relaxing or you’re going to have to accept that things aren’t always going to go your way.”

The Almighty knew that the brain was right and momentarily cursed himself for having created it.  Insomuch as an all-encompassing sea of blinding light can take on a hangdog expression, it did.  Amaurosis Fugax thought the Lord had gotten the point and didn’t want to take this any farther.  The brain decided to change the subject.

“So, do you remember I was mentioning that it can sometimes be helpful to explore one’s thinking when someone is having the kinds of problems that you are? Did you write down all of your thoughts over the past week like I asked you to?”

“Yeah,” replied the Almighty as a neat stack of papers materialized right in front of Amaurosis Fugax’s swirling eye, “but I’m not sure if you feel like reading it all.  It’s eight pages long.”

Outside in the waiting room, Paroophoron’s left leg shook nervously as he was quickly losing patience.  The constant impact of the booming voice from within was felt by everyone in the waiting room.  Paroophoron slouched in his chair.

“Say, Amy,” came the voice from behind the closed door, “did you change your setup here?  It’s pretty nice.”

“Oy,” lamented the alien sitting next to Paroophoron “sounds like this could take a while.”

Turning to his side, the Adnexian saw a mess of brown tentacles shoot out of his neighbor’s head and braid themselves in midair.  The alien salesmen leaned his head towards the little green alien.

“Honestly,” he whispered adjusting his robes, “messiahs and prophets, what a load of rubbish.”

“Hey I know you,” said Paroophoron, “you’re that spaceship salesman.”

“Was that spaceship salesman,” Adam corrected.  “Why do you think I’m here?  No, my latest piece of genius, the End of Days, didn’t work out as well as I’d expected, and that’s being generous.  For some reason no one wanted to buy the thing.  I can’t understand it…it gave such terrific mileage…Now I have hundreds of them sitting around collecting dust in my showroom ship and, if that isn’t bad enough, the damn thing is being repossessed the day after tomorrow.  I haven’t the slightest idea what I’ll do with those ships.”

The salesmen let out a deep sigh.

“I’m Paroophoron,” said the little alien enthusiastically reaching out his right hand.

“Adam,” said his neighbor politely shaking it.

“It’s funny that you should say that, Adam” said Paroophoron, his interest piqued, “because I’ve had this thought for the past little while about creating an intergalactic takeout delivery service.  You know, there’s all kinds of food out there in the universe and it’s a real hassle to have to waste hours driving around getting it. I bet there are lots of people out there who would be willing to pay a small fee for delivery.  I’m pretty well connected, so I think I could set it all up.  The problem is that I don’t have any ships and I don’t have the money to buy them. So here’s what I’m thinking.  If you’re interested in being my partner, maybe we could use yours.”

“It isn’t a terrible idea, I guess” Adam replied hesitantly, “but let me ask you this.  Who’s going to drive them?”

“The world hates me!” Dennis shouted for effect, choosing just that moment to slink past the two aliens.

Paroophoron and Adam’s eyes met each other briefly.

“Say, Dennis?” Paroophoron said.  “How are you?”

The robot slowly turned towards the two aliens.  He stared at them for a moment, oil welling up in his eye sockets.

“I knew it!  I knew you cared!” the android cried.  “After all this time, the years of inner torment, the trillions of seconds when life seemed too wretched to…”

“Actually, Dennis,” Adam interrupted, “we were wondering if you had any friends.”

It is said on Paroophoron’s home planet that all great endeavors originate around the moons of Adnexia. So, in good form, Adam and Paroophoron parked the showroom ship in orbit around one of the moons and the two entrepreneurs got to work.  As it turned out, Dennis had a surprisingly large number of unemployed and miserable robot friends itching for any kind of attention, large enough, in fact, to have a pilot to man every one of Adam’s sleek black ships.  By week’s end, the pair had launched their new product, The End of Diets outerspace delivery service with the slogan “If it’s in outerspace, we’ll bring it to you”.  It was a smash hit and everyone was happy.  The robots were tired and overworked, but they finally felt like they were making a difference.  Paroophoron quickly re-amassed his fortune and to ensure that things stayed that way, he arranged for all of Epoophoron’s dinners to be catered through his new company for free.  As for Adam, he was far more gifted and successful as a delivery magnate than he had ever been as a spaceship salesman.  In the end, few if any people ever again felt the need to shoot at the tentacled alien’s ship as it approached.  And that suited him just fine.

Speaking of shooting, there was one quite peculiar outcome of Eric Silver’s adventures into his locker that was, somehow, inevitable.  And, as you may have already guessed, it had something to do with African Hedgehogs and the President of the National Rifle Association.  Whether it was some small bit of climate change, a minute alteration in the orbit of some distant planet or just one beer too many, something caused a single tiny sperm with an unlikely genetic modification to find its way into a ripe ovum one sunny day in the state of Florida.  Of course, for years thereafter, there was still a President of the NRA, that will always be true as long as there is a United States of America.  But, as it turned out, the man who should have been…no, was destined to be the President, somehow, was never a man in the first place.  Yes, despite the fact that a Florida obstetrician, his nurse and a distraught woman all told the same story…despite the fact that there were numerous sightings of a large rodentious beast running out of labor-and-delivery at Holy Cross Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, no one anywhere would believe the story.  The local tabloids ran headlines about it for the next few news cycles but then quickly lost interest.  However, for once, their bathroom-quality slapstick journalism had actually gotten things right.  It was true.  The man who, by all rights, should have been the President of the largest non-governmental organization in the world devoted solely to the pastime of shooting things, had turned into exactly the kind of thing its members loved to shoot.

Being an African Hedgehog outside of its normal ecosystem, the poor creature felt about as comfortable as his normal self would have at a vegan-catered gay-pride rally.  It goes without saying that the beast did not survive long in the Florida swamps.  Somewhat fittingly, about a week and a half into its unfortunately life, the hedgehog was shot dead by a card carrying member of the NRA. But all should not have been lost.  You see, the finding of an African hedgehog in the North American wild would have constituted a tremendous scientific discovery…if, of course, it had been reported to the proper authorities.  Unfortunately, however, for the field of science, this particular NRA member chose instead to roast the hedgehog’s innards in a spicy mesquite barbeque sauce and, thoroughly satiated, then decided to turn the beast’s fur into a silly looking hat.

As for Jude and Flower, the world had changed again, but they hadn’t.  The two humans found themselves disoriented and in different places, but they knew.  While everyone else just went with the flow and acted as if nothing had happened, Jude and Flower remembered everything.  They had been blessed with something that very few humans had ever been given, real awareness.  Both of them made their way to Jude’s apartment where they found each other and locked in a silent embrace that lasted for many minutes.

“Oh yes!...Oh baby!...Oh!...Oh!...That’s the spot!...Oh yes!...Oh yes!,” squawked Jude’s parrot Raymond as Flower quietly sipped at her breakfast orange juice the following morning and tried to watch the weather report on Jude’s battered old television set.

“Shut up Ray,” said the parrot’s owner as he walked into the kitchen with the morning paper, leaning over to give Flower a peck on the cheek.

“I missed the local forecast,” Flower complained.  “It’s ridiculous.  I’m not interested in the pollen report or what the smog level in Swaziland is like this time of year.”

A man in an offensive teal blazer stood in front of a map on the TV screen.

“…and now let’s turn to Europe where farmers in Northern Italy are bracing for one of the coldest, rainiest springs on record.  Mama mia!” The weather man put on a forced chuckle.  “More weather in minutes.  Back to you, Ken.”

Jude took a mouthful of cereal and shifted his chair next to Flower’s, nestling his head on her shoulder.

“Let’s go to Italy, Flower.  We deserve a vacation.”

“You want to go to Italy right now?” she replied skeptically.  “Didn’t you just hear that report?”

Jude shrugged.

“Oh, don’t listen to that garbage.  The weather channel is strictly there for entertainment, not news.  Trust me, that guy’s Jerry Springer, not Charlie Rose.”

And so it happened that exactly one week later, Jude and Flower found themselves standing in the Piazza Maggiore in Bologna…a more terrestrial Bologna this time…on a hot, sunny, spring afternoon.

“Stupid weathermen,” Flower muttered under her breath as she sipped at her espresso.

“You see,” replied Jude smugly.

Over the course of the day, Jude took Flower around the town to see its various sights.  When they walked into the San Petronio church, Flower half expected to see flying saucers.  Instead, they were greeted by a tiny, elderly man in clerical garb who said “niente foto”.

As they perused the giant frescos in the cavernous building, Flower was struck by something.

“Jude,” she said tugging at his arm, “why are all of these people taking pictures?  Didn’t that priest say ‘no photos’?”

But when Flower pointed back to the old man, her eyes narrowed as she noticed that he had surreptitiously pulled a camera from beneath his own robes and was quietly snapping shots of one of the larger murals.  Jude nudged her.

“Don’t you love Italy?  It’s like being on another planet.”

That evening, Jude took Flower on a romantic walk up to the San Luca church, passing by the eerily familiar villas and looking down at the city lights as a cool breeze filled the night air.  They had gotten the vacation they deserved.  The couple spent the next few days traveling around the north.  The following morning, they went to Jude’s favorite pizzeria in the ancient Byzantine city of Ravenna before heading to Florence.  There, they shopped for jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio before making the arduous and claustrophobic climb to the top of the Duomo.  The sea of red-topped buildings surrounded by the hills of Tuscany was the most beautiful sight Flower had ever seen.

And then, the couple was off to their final destination, Venice.  After exiting the train station, Jude and Flower took a splendid but exorbitantly priced gondola ride through the city.  And then, he surprised her.  As they walked through one of the narrow alleys near the Rialto Bridge, Flower stopped to admire a little green alien molded out of Murano glass in a display in a shop window.  While she did this, Jude disappeared into the store, emerging three minutes later with a pair of black capes and two Venetian masks, a squarish male face with a hat and an oval female one.

“What are those?” Flower asked with a frown.

“These,” Jude said proudly showing off the masks, “are our costumes.  I’ve arranged for us to go to a party and this is what we’re wearing.  I’m going as Casanova and you’re going to be Ardelia.”

“Oh, forget it,” said Flower.  “I’m not wearing that.”

“But you have to,” Jude protested.

“Come on.  It’s hideous, Jude,” said Flower.  “Give me one good reason why I should wear that mask?”

Jude thought for a second.

“Because it’s tradition.”

At this point, it’s fair to say that the story of Jude and Flower and their improbable adventure is nearing its conclusion.  You see, all tales come to an end.  It’s tradition.  No one would want to read a story that never ended.  It would be dreadfully hard on the eyes.  Besides, traditions are surprisingly powerful things.

Take for example the Molochea, a tadpole species who lived eons ago in the swamps of the asteroid known as Basalmash E.  The people in the business of making Hollywood summer blockbusters would be shocked to find out that their most coveted secret weapon originated with a Molochean tradition.

It all started with a bureaucrat, a bureaucrat on Basalmash E, the Molochean president.  His name was Chee Tfluffin and he is still widely regarded as one of the greatest legislators to have ever lived.  Though only a tiny tadpole whose life lasted a mere ninety minutes in Earth time, he was single-handedly able to jumpstart more initiatives in that short period than any head of state in Earth’s history.  Among other things, he balanced the budget without meaningful cuts to social spending, halved the swamp debt, spearheaded a push for universal health care, signed a comprehensive bill on campaign finance reform, cracked down on illegal amphibians and tightened up the swamp’s borders while at the same time instituting a temporary amnesty to all those foreign tadpoles who had already made it through.

The word prolific could have been spoken multiple times in any sentence describing him.  Though, practically, this didn’t happen much since it was quite difficult to hear anything underwater.  Unfortunately for the Molochean people, however, Chee suffered from a fatal flaw.  You see, he was a bit too enamored with the opposite sex.  In fact, during his second term in office, his appetites became so overwhelming that he impregnated nearly half of the female Molocheans in the underwater capital city of Basalmash E.  Now, this would not have been a problem, except that since each female gave birth to approximately ten thousand offspring, Chee’s progeny were increasingly becoming a more sizable proportion of the electorate.  This did not bode well for his political career for two reasons.  First, his children were younger, so their views tended to side with more liberal candidates and, second, most of them hated him because he was a deadbeat.

In a series of private meetings in the president’s rhomboid office, his wife Knolice Polepork and his senior political advisors begged Chee to ensure that his offspring fell in the ‘safe zone’, making up no more than forty percent of the voters.  At one point they even confined him to his office and asked him to run the swamp from there.  Alas, something about the rhombus reminded this tadpole nymphomaniac of the genitalia of the Molochean female and, unable to control himself, he managed to sneak several junior interns into the room for a secret night of passion.

When the nearest star came into view on the following morning, the fresh eggs hatched and there were enough Molocheans disgruntled with Chee Tfluffin to vote him out of office.  But they didn’t.  Despite their exceedingly short lifespans, the Molocheans were a wise people.  Indeed, over time, they had come to appreciate that Chee was a truly gifted executive officer and that it would be a mistake to remove him.  So instead, they came up with a compromise that satisfied almost everyone.  They voted to have their president castrated.

And that would have been the end of the story, were it not for a surprise phone call to the operating room just before the procedure was set to begin.  In a stunning decision, the Molochean supreme court had ruled that it was inhumane and, therefore, unconstitutional to completely sterilize any Molochean citizen. As explained in the majority opinion written by Chee the MMMMMCCXVIIth, “it would be unfair and an affront to all of our most basic values to destroy any person’s inalienable right to procreate, even if it is dad”.  The court decreed that although the operation could go forward, the surgeons would have to leave a single strand of Chee’s spermatic cord intact and attached, to create just the smallest possibility that he could father more children.

And though the highest judges in the land didn’t know it at the time, they had started a trend that would repeat itself over and over again throughout the ages across the universe.  On Earth, it is a custom that has been co-opted with much success by American filmmakers.  It is, of course, the fine tradition of leaving things open – just enough – to allow for a sequel.

Jude and Flower were enjoying their final day in Venice.  They strolled leisurely through the city and shared a gelato before walking to the Piazza San Marco and feeding the pigeons.  After visiting the main church and taking in the Museo Correr, they sat down outdoors at Café Florian to listen to the orchestra and have their afternoon cup of Earl Hutchinson tea.  It had been a perfect trip in every conceivable way.

And with the day drawing to a close, on their way back to the train station, Jude and Flower had the whole front of the Vaporetto to themselves.  Splayed out together along a row of empty seats, as the boat drifted lazily between stations, they watched the sun sparkle on the azure water.  Flower nestled her head into Jude’s chest and, for a moment, the couple were so at ease that they barely registered the massive explosion in the sky above them…

…and that was when things really started to get interesting.