Just a coupl'a GoB

an excerpt from the comic-spiritual adventure

tHe PoEt & i*

a karo work

© 2014 karoworks inc       all rights reserved       www.akarowork.com

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-0-9936090-3-9

a disclaimer

tHe PoEt & i* and its subsidiary components are works of satirical fiction and commentary.

Except where intended as satire, fair comment or juvenile snark, any resemblance of characters to actual or alleged persons, entities or channels, living or dead, corporeal or non-corporeal, incorporated or non-incorporated, animate or inanimate, terrestrial or non-terrestrial is purely and entirely and indubitably coincidental in the standard, early 21st century neo-liberal, corporate, and materialist view of the term.

Similarly, any resemblence of events, locations, products or hidden meanings to actual events, locations, products and hidden meanings, except where intended as satire, snide mannerism or infantile nyah nyah nyah na nyah, is entirely a product of the reader's fetid imagination.

... in isolation

about this work

Just a coupl'a GoB

... the context

tHe PoEt & i* ... just the factsimile

About this work

On the surface, the novella Just a coupl'a GoB is a book within a book, an absurd story being automagically typed on a laptop belonging to the Rider, the central character of the comic-spiritual adventure tHe PoEt & i*.

But the Rider is not the novella's writer. In fact, the Rider doesn't know who or what is writing on his laptop. It might be tHe PoEt, a resentful warrior-spirit that channels through his '82 Goldwing. Or it might be the Minstrel, a shape-shifting spiritual entity who delivers mindbending lessons on self-awareness 'dressed' as, for instance, a seagull, cockroach or southern gentleman.

Or it might be the Bard doing the writing, the laptop itself, what the Rider calls a "fully realized fusion of software and one of my minor neuroses".

Deep questions. But the Rider doesn't have time for working them out. He's too busy trying to fend off collisions with the co-related reality of those coupl'a GoBs and another where an aging soap actress from a Real Wimmen dominated world has a personal breakdown then goes into standup comedy as male impersonator. These three co-related realities interweave throughout the full novel.

As excerpted here, the novella stands on its own, largely complete and self-contained. However, events and characters and thoughts in each of the stories do influence or shade into the other two stories. And all three co-related realities are profoundly shaped by the the 10 dictatums of self awareness found in another book within the book called The Teachings of the Minstrel. The author claims these dictatums are all that's needed to break free of the ego and achieve spiritual freedom.

While the stories can be read individually, reading them in the flow of the complete novel brings out and adds further layers to their narratives.

In the full novel, shifts between the intertwining co-related realities are indicated by the section break sigil. Here, they indicate where the story has been excerpted from the larger flow.

Also, in the full novel, there are two non-corporeal characters who interject comments on the stories, including this one.

You've already met The Bard. This self-aware computer uses square brackets for its [ editorial input ].

On the other hand, the Inner Critic, described in the book as the "kid brother from hell, a kind of Leave it to Cleaver, with Wack the Knife as theme song" that everyone has inside their cranium, uses curly rackets for its { usually snide remarks }.

For a free taste of the full novel, have a read of the included outline Just the factsimile.

Oh. And there's also Transformation, the very first karosong, which provides the novel's seven-part structure and drives the Rider's quest for self-awareness.

All karosongs are channeled songs. They have come from dark, pushed forward by deeper universal energies, into the awareness and voice of the channel. Nothing unusual in that except that the channel is ... to put it kindly ... an idiot musant.

See www.karosongs.com for more on the remarkable story behind this channeled music.

Just a coupl'a GoB

So there we were, just a coupl'a GoB [1] from The Rump [2]. Shooting guff on the lam [3], running the backroads of the riding where a few beer and a bag of dulse aren't a problem unless you're unlucky. Real unlucky. Or followed. And that was probably the more likely for there was a pile of bush back here and fair few folk to fill it. But if you were followed it was your own damn fault anyway because, sure as shooting, them cops was sloppy and you shouldda seen'em. When you're a GoB, you watch your tail and you don't give them no excuses.

That's just one of the axioms that had fallen like swine from the lips of The Politician. He was my guide into these backhills of The Rump, my introduction to a way of life so far removed from life in the Big Cumquat, it seemed less a part of Canada than some transplant from a different planet — or bleedthrough from a different dimension. And he was a perfect guide cause he was a GoB, even if I wasn't. And he was a GoB Politician to boot. So we'll call him GoBBy. Poli GoBBy. He'd appreciate the humour in the name. And, needless to say but worth repeating, GoBBy gabbed. Loved talking and was quite loquacious in his own GoBBish way. I guess that's why he was one of the Rump's most successful politicians. Contrary to the popular perception which pictures them taciturn, GoBs love to gab. And they love gabbing about nothing more than politics. So a gabby GoB can grab a seat in the House just by gabbing. You see, when you're a GoB you vote for a GoB. That was just another of GoBBy's axioms. Like I said, they fell like swine.

Fat swine. Poli had made a plump career out of politics by giving the folks just what they wanted. Ten weeks of a government job so they could collect Unemployment for forty? No problem — there was a road crew working nearby that could use an extra flagger [4]. A flagon of beer at midnight? Sure. Just give me your vote and let me go back to sleep. Something done about those raccoons in the garbage? Ma'am, those are God's creatures too, but we'll see what we can do. Well, most of the time. There were times he took a stand and that made him popular too. GoBs love a good stand, even if they don't agree with it, and Poli's aggressive personality had earned him respect . Even a certain amount of affection. And if Poli was less than scrupulously honest, well, that didn't matter to the GoBs. He was an honest crook and he was one of theirs. Honest.

But then, should you trust me? I've already lied to you once and will probably do so again. You might say it's an occupational hazard. You see, I'm an undercover journalist and so I work for the media — the vicious leftwing backstabbing anti-establishment media establishment. But hell, it's a living — one hell of a living in fact. I work deep cover for The Bi-National Inquirer — usually just called The Bi, it's one of the better tabloids back in the Big Cumquat — meaning nothing I write ever gets printed under my own name. To protect my identity for future assignments. So, you'll understand that I can't use my real name. So let's just call me Mellow, Mellow Yellow. Poli'd appreciate the humour in that name too.

The story — at least as my editor had explained it — was the rapid emergence of a world cartel in the illegal, and therefore highly lucrative dulse trade. As if you didn't know, but my editor insists I provide full background, dulse is a sword-shaped aquatic weed that solely grows in the Bay of Fundy, way out on tide-swirled rocks that only the evolutionarily or life challenged [5] could get to. And then only at low tide. The leaves are a traditional tonic in the Rump, and many other parts of Canada's eastern provinces, with a pungent sea salt taste that's popular as an afterdinner treat — a kind of maritime version of coffee and cigars. But it's the plant's 'roots', the point of attachment to Fundy's rocks, that have turned dulse from a regional oddity to a world commodity.

The biochemistry isn't clear, but somehow in the process of anchoring themselves to boulders well enough to withstand the crushing forces of the world's most tidally active water, the tuberous roots synthesize a mind-altering substance. This property wasn't discovered until 1972, for the simple reason that, traditionally, dulse hunters never took the root, cutting the fronds a foot or so above. While, in today's environment, this does look ecologically conscious, allowing the plant to regenerate and thus ensure a sustainable harvest, the truth is the tuber was never taken because, even at low tide, it's still underwater and damn difficult to remove. But once in a blue moon, when tides are extraordinarily low, dulse knives accidentally bobbitt a bit.

By one of those happy happenstances that propel the human endeavour, one such piece of root providentially turned up in the dulse bowl of one Herr Reefer, a theoretical mathematician on sabbatical from Switzerland. Absent-minded at the best of times, Reefer was absorbed in the problem of demonstrating the fundamental unity of the universe, and didn't notice he was chewing a piece of root. Soon after, he went for a bike ride and his world came apart. Not only were there voices emanating from trees and grasses, but all seemed to be made of marshmallow — the little ones. There were two effects of this experience: first was the mathematical proof that the universe is a giant marshmallow that can be sub-divided into smaller and smaller marshmallows using the so-called Reefer Constant; and, second, was the discovery of a new and, at the time, legal key to the doors of perception.

The legality didn't last long. Once it was discovered that blanching, then drying and smoking the root gave an even better high — and didn't leave your mouth tasting like you'd been sucking seaweed — dulse use spread rapidly, becoming the drug of choice for bored professionals in Canada's major centres. When it was further discovered that dulse could be processed chemically into a cocaine-like compound that turned some yuppies into yumpies and some yumpies into the homeless, the federal government stepped in, outlawing the possession and use of dulse root or any of its derivatives in 1975. Predictably, that only increased its appeal. Despite two decades of prohibition, surveys now show that as much as 20 percent of North Americans use dulse on a regular or semi-regular basis. Like most illicit drugs, it has even spawned its own subculture, complete with specialized argot. Users call it weed or smoke; honouring its discoverer, rollies are referred to as reefers or reefs; and a person on dulse is said to be stoned (leading to the saying that a person just chewing the leaves is pebbled).

For years there had been reports that a shadowy group — based in the Rump and popularly known as the Dulsia — had taken control of almost the entire world-wide business. Even for a seasoned tabloid reporter like myself, separating fact from fiction on this crowd was a daunting task — it was blamed for everything from bodies that turned up on beaches, to sea turtles that failed to lay eggs. There was one sure fact: the Dulsia's existence was flatly denied by the Rump's local, provincial and federal politicians. The one exception was Poli GoBBy, who not only freely admitted it, but had offered The Bi an inside look at the group's workings. His only stipulation was that real names not be used and real locations not disclosed — a stipulation easily accepted by The Bi and I. (Hell, we don't even insist on real facts.) So a deal was struck, cover cooked up, expenses authorized and I was on my way to, oops, I can't say where.

What I can say is it turned out the story — at least as my editor had explained it — was all a crock. A badly made one at that.

Talk about hostile.

“You ready to order?”

“Yeah. Swine strips, crisp, and flattened chicken embryos — laid back [6], thanks.”

The waitress rolled her eyes, stabbed at her order pad, then glared at me.

“Ah — I'll have the same thanks.” She sniffed, angrily slashed X2 on the pad, then with a snap of the wrist closed it, already walking away. I called after her, “We'll need separate checks,” but all I got was a shrug. I looked at Poli who was stirring sugar into his coffee — loads of it. “People round here always that unfriendly?”

“Nah,” Poli answered, tapping the spoon on the edge of his cup. “They're just like folks anywhere. They have good days and bad days. Guess she's having a bad day.”

Well, if she was, it wasn't from overwork. It was 10:30, and the late morning crowd in the Imperial Motel and Grill consisted of Poli and I and one other table where an elderly tourist couple were arguing about the day's itinerary. Loudly. (It must have been Tuesday for she apparently thought they were in Belgium, planning a visit to La Musee Britannique. He thought it was Sunday, New Orleans, and time for the Mardi Gras. Me, I knew it was Thursday and this was the Rump, but I wasn't sure if I was any less obviously out of place.) I said as much to Poli, but he corrected me.

“Don't let appearances fool you. The House is just up the street and, if we'd been in here three hours ago, we'd have found the place packed and her run off her feet trying to keep a bunch of political types happy. And you know as well as I do the only thing makes a politician happy is showing off his power. You know the old saying, 'power without perks is like a gull without wings; it don't fly' — oh yeah, remind me, we should stop in here for lunch sometime; they grill a mean gull — well, they wrote it here. That waitress would have been treated like dirt. It won't be so bad once the GoBs start coming in — they don't have to put other people down to feel good about themselves.”

Poli stopped to take a sip of his coffee. “You worried they won't buy your cover?”

Worried? Well, yes I had to admit I was. In the cold morning light of what GoBBy assured me was the Dulsia's chief eatery, my 'cover' seemed ludicrously transparent — a dulsehead cousin from the Big Kumquat, name of Frat Rat, kind of an urban GoB trying to line up my own source on the sound business principle of eliminating the middleperson — and I felt like Props had thrown me a brown fedora and there, stuck in the band, was the card that shouted 'Press!' I was sure the waitress had seen through me — hostility's an occupational hazard too — and thought if I couldn't fool a waitress, what hope did I have to fool real GoBs? And if I couldn't fool them, would I end up on a beach, unable to lay eggs? I said as much to Poli, but he snorted derisively.

“Listen Mel… Frat, I mean. You're a reporter. You know the type of bullbleep gets spread around groups like the Dulsia. Fertile stuff for a lot more bullbleep. Don't add to it. The facts, Frat. Just the facts. That's what you're here for.” Poli stared at me, then grinned. “Besides, male turtles don't lay eggs. And that's a fact.”

The eggs came at that point, the waitress slamming them down and disappearing without a word. Didn't even ask if we wanted more coffee. Shame she was so hostile, I thought, because her derriere did have a pleasing air and she could have been attractive if she'd smiled. Poli seemed to think so too, watching her attentively for a moment before turning his attention to the eggs, murmuring “Maybe we can do something about that.”

Just the facts. Well there was one fact about Poli; he enjoyed his food. There's all kinds of eaters in the world — pickers, shovellers, pushers, players — and this GoB ate with tactile gusto, fingering his bacon, twirling his toast to sop up the yellow yolk, and dipping his home fries into a blob of ketchup. (Me, I ate with a militarily methodical precision my father, an air force pilot, had insisted on. I made a mental note to ask Poli about his upbringing.) Midway through lifting a yolk-runny bit of toast to his mouth, he stopped. “Hear that?,” he asked. Disengaging from my own battle on the home fries, I listened but there wasn't much to hear. The tourists were still arguing — they'd worked their way up to Saturday, Vancouver and a date at Marineland — and there was a radio playing in the kitchen. A country song; about some waif whaling a truck across the continent on the lookout for a dog with a broken heart. I shrugged, about to say I'd heard it before — once you've heard one country song, you've heard them all — but Poli silenced me with a finger. “No. Listen.”

The truck broke down, stranding waif in a blizzard, but dog turned up and phoned the police. Heart-rending. Reunited, dog and waif broke into the chorus. Dog and waif and waitress. It seemed lassie Miss Hostile led a double life, snarling at customers out front, then singing in the dishwater rain back in the kitchen. No doubt she had visions of some song scout scoping her talent, and scooping her off to success. Not likely. Her contralto was better than most shower stall songsters but nowhere near commercial quality, even for country. I looked over to Poli who, eyes closed, head bent, and with his finger still cocked to his lips, was listening intently. The finger dropped, the eyes opened and he smiled. “What do you say we make her day?” I shrugged, not caring if we made her minute. My eggs were getting cold. Besides, sappy happy endings give me hives.

Poli finished his breakfast first, trowelling his plate clean with a piece of toast, then settled back to watch for the waitress to come out of her studio. Holding his cup up to catch her eye, he signalled for more coffee, then winked at me as she came over. Rather too broadly, like he was on stage and the wink had to be seen a hundred feet [7] away. I wondered what he was up to.

She must have thought she was on stage too. “Anything else?” she challenged, still three feet away from the table — like we had cooties or something. “Just some more coffee, thanks,” Poli said, his tone ingratiatingly polite. “And our checks, please. Separate.” She turned to fetch the pot but Poli stopped her with a disarming “I heard your singing. You're in a band, aren't you?” I groaned inside. 'The facts, Poli. Just the facts.' I thought. 'Give it to her straight.' The waitress nodded no but hesitated turning away. Even I could see the opening was big enough to drive a truck through. Poli smoothly shifted gears, aiming to ram his next line straight down the middle. “Well, you should be,” he continued. “Seems a shame more folks don't get to hear you.”

Ever seen a flower timelapse? Seen how the bud strains, pulsates, then unsheathes; the green of the bud suddenly rampant with colour; the faint shivers the petals make as they dance in the sun? I'd like to report that's what happened to the waitress, but she'd been around the Rump more than once and wasn't buying. She looked straight at Poli. “You're just saying that.”

“You're right.”, Poli answered, “I am just saying that. But I'll tell you this. Maybe you're not good enough to sing in a band, but when you do sing you put your heart into it. You put your soul on the line. And that makes it beautiful. Truly beautiful.” I was impressed. The shift had been so smooth the truck had smucked straight into the tuck. Now the waitress flowered, a smile breaking the tension lines on her face, her whole body lifting lightly erect. I'd been right, I thought, watching this transformation. She was an attractive lady.

And after that she was a good waitress too, coming back twice to see if we wanted more coffee, stopping each time for a few chatty words with Poli. Me, she mostly ignored. Back in her studio the radio was turned up and she happily belted out hurting songs about cheating hearts, drunkard dogs and no-good, galivanting galoots that I mostly ignored, trying to figure out the point Poli had been trying to make. But all he'd say, between sips, is that life provides a lot of negative feedback and a fair amount of bullbleep. So he'd just told her the truth, which was what she needed to hear. It seemed a subtle point, so I gave it up — there's not much call for subtle in my trade.

About the time my eyes were swimming in coffee, Poli suddenly said, “Looks like it's time for the show. You ready?” and looked over to the front entrance where a sign told us to Please Wait To Be Seated. I followed his eyes with mine, twisting in the seat to look around. And saw my first real-live GoB. In the flesh. Pug nose. Low slung hat. Double-breasted suit over a black shirt and white tie. Violin case.

Don't ask me how, but my ovaries shuddered. And I suddenly remembered I have a pathological fear of beaches.

Wrong.

The GoB was the one behind the guy with the violin. You know how some people just disappear in a crowd? Even when there's not a crowd? That was this GoB — a kind of skinny Danny Devito, bowlegged enough to have been a jockey. I hadn't noticed him because he was such a runt his body had been shielded by the violin case. A powerful runt; even from my seat I could see the muscles ripple under the lumberjack shirt — I made a mental note to skip the short jokes just in case he'd earned those muscles digging turtle eggs. It turned out, by the by, that the viola fella was a member of a local group called The Fiddlers Three. They were meeting for an early lunch before flying out west for something called the International OldTyme Fiddling Contest. Poli knew them of course — he seemed to know everybody who was anybody and anybody who was nobody — and I was deathly afraid he was going to try to get them to play and then have the waitress join in on vocal. The suits were a bit of promotional schlock, something to make them stand out from the crowd. As though fiddlers need anything to make them stand out. I made a mental note to mention it to my editor — might be a good human interest story Gangstas Fiddle Kimberley.

Runt saw Poli's wave, acknowledged it but remained standing at the entrance, patently waiting. Then I saw for what. The doorway — one of those double doubles meant to shut out winter blasts — darkened, the way a storm cloud obliterates sunshine. Runt seemed to disappear, then the inner door opened and the Hulk came in, head bent to make it under the door frame. Tall? This GoB must have come from NBA country. Big? He could have been NFL. Steroids, I thought. Had to be on steroids. Then I remembered testosterone was a steroid too, and gulped. Hulk slapped Runt on the back; it was friendly, but hard enough I wondered if we hadn't better call an ambulance. Mental note: skip the tall jokes too. But Runt took it in a balancing half-stride forward, punched back, then pointed to our table.

“Take it cool,” Poli whispered, “and let me do the talking.” Damn right I was going to let him do the talking, I thought. Anyone who had to duck ceiling fans was not someone you wanted to share the wrong words with. Mental note: skip any jokes at all.

"Poli! Where you been buddy?” The voice boomed — with a boom box like that, what would you expect? — ricocheting around the room, silencing even the tourists who were back to Tuesday, Bombay instead of Brussels. Waitress' head poked out of her foxhole, sized the situation and seized the initiative, advancing with the coffee pot. I would have too. I covered my cup with my hand.

“Oh, just around,” Poli answered, standing and shaking hands. Well, it was more like Hulk shook hands and Poli just shook. “I'd like you to meet my cousin,” Poli said. “Frat Rat, Meet Deltoid Epsilon.” I stood and reached down to shake hands with Runt. “And Alphonse Omega.” I looked up, looked way way up, feeling like the mouse in bed with the proverbial elephant, and extended my hand, mentally reviewing my health coverage. But Hulk's grasp was surprisingly gentle. Guess he only shook the mickey out of friends. “Good to meet you. A cousin of Poli's?,” he said releasing, but not in time for me to stop the waitress pouring coffee into my cup. “You down here visiting?”

“He's here on business,” Poli answered for me, sitting down with a sweep of his hands to show the others should sit down too. The Runt looked at me closely, too close for comfort I thought. “Business?,” he said. “What business would that be?” But once again it was Poli who answered. Me, I busied myself with the business end of a sugar spoon, thinking I'd have some real business to attend to in a moment. “Oh, buying and selling. You know. But, tell me Alphonse, is your wife still stuffed?”

I nearly choked but Runt guffawed, “Stuffed every chance she gets,” and Hulk just grinned, colouring a little. Poli laughed back. “Yeah I guess she would be.” And they all started to trade small talk and even smaller jokes, the kind of aimless chitchat that whiles away the hours in a coffeeshop. I couldn't tell if our GoBs noticed how smoothly Poli kept the conversation away from anything to do with me. But then by then I wasn't noticing all that much. With each polite sip of coffee the pressure in my bladder compounded. I crossed my legs, finally slipped my hand down to cup my crotch, and inanely smiled and nodded as though I were following each ribald twist. I wasn't. Against the pounding in my bladder, their prattle had faded into waves of near indistinguishable babble, an ebb and flow in which I desperately tried to find a point that I could cut in and excuse myself. But you know how it is when you really want to jump into a conversation but you seem to have disappeared and your barely begun interjection is intersected and the next wave is upon you. I was going down for the third time, my vision turning brown, when I felt a sharp kick at my ankle.

I looked across to Poli who was midway through some joke, turning his face back and forth for emphasis. Swinging past me, I thought I caught a slight flick of the eyes, a veiled message. Then I knew it was a message when the kick was repeated and Poli asked “What do you think Frat?,” the eyes looking straight at me, then flicking off towards the restaurant's rear. “I think I need to pee,” I managed to say and, gratefully excusing myself, hobbled off. Moving made the pressure worse and I started to speed up. The tourists stopped their planning long enough to giggle at my half-walk, half-run past them. I didn't care. Back at my table I heard a burst of laughter, then what Runt had said to cause it registered on my brain.

"That's what I like to see. A man who thinks with his pecker.”

"Watch your step.”

That was Runt. Now there was a GoB with a talent for stating the ludicrous. Watch your step! How could you? It was blacker than a lab's belly out here, the sun still a few hours away from its path through the day. Not that we were likely to see it, not that we wanted to. We'd been lucky. We'd only had to wait three days for the right weather and tide combination — overcast with heavy morning fog, the tide waning to low at 5:00 am. With any luck, no one would see us. And that was fine with me. Protecting sources is one thing — The Bi's lawyers loved justifying their paycheques with the public's right to know — but reporters getting involved in criminal activities was something different. Especially if they were undercover. And harvesting dulse was illegal.

But, as they say, a reporter's gotta do what a reporter's gotta do.

Even if he does have an irrational fear of beaches.

I digress, but it's important to a full understanding of subsequent events. You see, the thing about beaches is that they're always located beside water. Not exactly an earth shaking revelation, I'll admit, but for me it is bowel shaking, the residue of almost drowning once. That was back in high school. It was spring and I was fooling around on the local river with a chum. We were in a canoe, fancying ourselves whitewater champs, playing chicken with the curtain of water spilling over a dam — one of those old ones where they drop in square logs to change the water level. We'd figured out that if we shot in real close to the curtain we could get far enough into the main current's central plume for an exciting buck ride down and through its standing waves. Did that three times. Each time closer. The fourth time, natch, I mean that's the point of this little anecdote, we got too close and the side of the canoe got under the curtain. Over we went.

I wasn't scared. We were still to the side of the main current and the shore wasn't that far away. I looked for my chum, saw he was alright, then turned to look for the canoe. And was pulled under.

It was just like a giant pair of hands had reached up from the bottom of the river, grabbed each of my feet and yanked. Down. The surface disappeared and I was pushed and pummelled by currents I couldn't see. It's strange, but when you're in that sort of situation, you either panic or a kind of detached mental calm takes over. For me, it was the latter and kchick kchick kchick I knew I'd been grabbed by an undertow that probably wouldn't throw me up for a hundred yards or so. And I'd be dead. Just that. Just dead. No panic, no fear. Just a very calm acceptance that this was it. And no, my life didn't flash before my eyes.

It wouldn't have had time. As abruptly as I'd been pulled under, I was shot back up to the surface to find myself off to the side of the river, but caught in a whirlpool that was dragging me back and around into the curtain.

That was when I panicked.

I just knew, absolutely knew, that if I went back into the main current, I would drown. So I started to fight for my life. Fortunately, while the whirlpool current was strong, the water was only five or four feet deep and I was able to find footholds in the bottom rocks to brace myself, feet behind, body angled forward against the surgings of the current, while I slowly worked my way out. It must have taken a good five minutes, with each sideways step a terror-filled moment of giving up the security of a solid foothold for a stone that might not be there.

It took about fifteen minutes for the adrenaline to work its way out of my system, but the panic never really left. I still find my heart pumping wildly anytime I look at whitewater, even on television. And just being near a body of water makes me tense up inside, like I'm a firing squad's guest of honour waiting for the bullet. For that matter, I can't do the laundry because I get as agitated as the water. (Well, that's what I tell my wife.) I deal with it by not dealing with it, by avoiding. I haven't been to a beach in decades and, when I can't avoid bridges over rivers, I close my eyes and think about my editor — that usually grounds me in a hurry. My shrink says I have a phobia and tells me I have to confront it. Otherwise, he says, the phobia will grow and I'll start avoiding more and more situations, finally ending up locked in my house, afraid to even answer the phone. Angorraphobia I think he called it. {Fear of fuzzy sweaters?}

I just call it survival.

But, like I said they say, a reporter's gotta do what a reporter's gotta do. If the story demands the reporter go to the beach, then he has to go — even if it's dark, and fog-bound, and not really a beach but a mud-encrusted, boulder rocky flat stretching hundreds of feet into the Bay of Fundy's maelstrom tides; one that makes you feel like you're an Egyptian and any second now those Jewish slaves are getting out on the other side. And you're psychic.

Yes, if the story demands, then the reporter has to go. But he doesn't have to like it.

And he's allowed to swear at the editor who sent him out here to the back of nowhere — what was it they called this beach? Heaven's Gate? Like it's not emblazoned on my mind! — knowing full well you have this little problem with water.

Bastard even said he wanted underwater photos.

Of me.

Use the top of that rock for balance. Yeah. It's right there beside you. But keep your weight centred so you don't slip.”

That was Hulk but my question was, What rock? It was still too dark and too foggish to see anything. Or so I thought. What I didn't know is that Hulk's eyes were said to be better than chickenhawks by guys who Robin Hood would have happily recruited. What I did know is the big guy knew this location as well as he knew his own front yard. Better probably, because front yards are really rather wasted spaces, with generally no more purpose than to set the house back from the road and to impress the neighbours with an expanse of artfully tended green — the sort of space you clip and cut and fertilize without really coming to know so, when you try to think about it, the yard remains amorphous, a memory you can't quite pin down. But this space, this beach, was different. More like a back yard, the place where you spend your time, and so you know every bush, every tree, every little twist in the ground that can trip you up. Every rock.

I just wished it was their backyard. It wasn't. Hulk and the Runt's franchise, their little piece of the Dulsia's action as Poli described it, was about 60 miles up the coast and they knew that one like the palms of their hairy hands — where in a quarter mile of rocky headland the best dulse grew, where you were wasting your time, where the rips were. Where, if you drowned, they'd never find the body. They had to know it that well. Harvesting the weed — and after Poli explained it, ah fully, shall we say, I had to agree — was dangerous, far more dangerous than I really cared to think deeply about. Especially here. And it was easy to see how a dulser's first line of defence was an intimate knowledge of the site. I could see that very well. Especially now. And I could see how the Dulsia would have had problems in the early years when laissez faire prevailed on the supply side. There were too many would be harvesters scrambling over too many sites. Too many harvesters who 'took the deep walk' on beaches they didn't know.

Nice euphemism.

Now one thing the Dulsia's good at is accounting, and it didn't take them long to figure out there was no point creating demand (as in demandez beaucoup) if supply wasn't there. It just brought in competitors. Besides, there was no accounting for nothing and the Dulsia wanted to be one lean, mean, fighting machine of a profit-oriented corporation. Just like the multinationals. So they instituted a harvester co-op and voted in the franchise system, portioning out the entire Bay of Fundy among the survivors. It was a sensible solution enforced with strict rules and a strong sense of honour. On your dulse ground, you were king. No other members could harvest there without your say so. In return, you agreed not to harvest from any other site. This beach was one of the few exceptions. But it was still by invitation only.

If you haven't figured it out, and this is one of the points of the story, all the images I had had of a shadowy hinterland of deceit and intrigue, a world of death and power were wrong. That crock I mentioned earlier. It turned out the Dulsia operates as a kind of giant AMWAY. No, there's no catalogue — who needs one when your product list is so small and, most often, your prices are scratched out on the back of a book of matches? — but what the Dulsia had learned from that mother of all there networked was the importance of motivation. Not just financial mind you, and not just competition, but the motivation of fun. For if there's one thing good ol'boys like Hulk and the Runt like, it's fun.

Think of how women act at lingerie parties {Not to be sexist.} and multiply that by about a factor of ten, throw in a mortal threat for good measure and hope for the best. That's your basic GoB's sense of sporting fun. They live for it, even die for it — and that's a fact the Dulsia knows and takes advantage of; reserving half a dozen dulse grounds around the Bay for their annual Mr. Harvest competition. Half a dozen of the most productive sites you could find. The most lethal too, with names the harvesters spoke only in awe, the way skiers speak of their favourite triple black diamond runs — the kind that start with the advisory you use this run at your own risk. Yeah, as though that's going to stop them. You might as well tell people that cigarettes kill. Or bungies are known to snap. It just goads them to fly down the run, light the next fag, make the next jump. Enter the Mr Harvest competition. Why? Just the sheer hellforit fun of engaging in what is, after all, a basically silly activity. Racing the tides for what? Prestige, a shot at the limelight? A fistful of loonies? As motivation, not one of them made any sense to me, but that's why we were here.

For the fun of it.

Knocking at Heaven's Gate.

Knock knock knocking at the knees, where I could feel the water knip knip knipping. {Dylan must be turning in his grave.} [Is he dead?] {So they say. He was seen with Elvis mucking out a pig farm in Pontypool.} [That's certainly not a living.] {So they say.}

I reached out with my hand and, sure enough, found the boulder, about shoulder-height. Thank god for those eyes! Perforce, they inspired more confidence than what Hulk playfully called his 'book larning' — the hours he and the Runt had spent poring over maps of the site and accounts from previous competitors. These were mandatory accounts and, in theory, with each passing year, with each new volume, the odds of success grew higher — a good example of the group's penchant for protecting the bottom line. (And the pretext for my presence. I was to write the report.) In theory. It was the half dozen or so missing volumes that disturbed me.

The water-smoothed stone was coated in a wet, cold-slimy algae that did nothing to calm my nerves. It felt like, if I put any weight on it, my hand would slip off, while my feet, well they seemed to hover on the edge of a Chevy Chase that would pitch me, face first, into the water. I'd like to say I wasn't terrified but I was and, with each swollen lap of water, memories of my close encounter with death spasmed up my body, aimed squarely at my head. You know how it is when you almost choke on your own fear? How the almost choking is even more frightening than the fear that started it, and so the terror compounds and the choking increases and you're into a riptide vortex of escalating panic?

Well, it wasn't as bad as all that. But I was close.

I digress, but sometimes digression, used with discretion, is good for the digestion — not that I had anything to worry about there, not after… But I digress. The Mr Harvest competition only has finals every four years. But GoBs think they're worth the wait. (That's what we were in, by the way, the finals — Poli really meant it when he said these guys were the best.) Six competing teams, six beaches and six months. Each team gets a one month crack at a one-time crack at each beach. Success is measured in pounds converted into dollars — American of course — and the team with the fullest competition bag at the end of the season takes the trophy — and the goods. That's right. The goods.

Mellow yellow.

I digress but this is a digressive digression… There was a third criteria used in the selection of the competition grounds, apart from productivity and intrinsic fun. And that was quality. I mean, quality weed. Mellow yellow. The best of the best, with a TPHZ [8] rating of YBB (see sidebar). The stuff of barn-door profit margins. Enough to set a GoB up for life. All you had to do was risk your neck six times for what would eventually turn out to be just a few handfuls of a golden yellow powder. But it was worth far more than its weight in gold. In fact it was the kind of stuff only presidents can afford.

Too bad they can't afford to inhale it.

TPHZ Level(m/gm) | Trade Designation
1 — 5 | MAWSSW [9]
5 — 10 | Fundy Bronze
10 — 15 | Yo High Silver
15 — 20 | Avocado Gold
20 — 25 | Yellow Belly Bliss

The yellow was characteristic of TPHZ, and the deeper the tone, the deeper the stone. By another peculiarity, TPHZ concentrations and the resulting yellow tone actually increased if the dulse were, first, biologically processed, then taken in liquid form. There were devotees who claimed these 'golden showers' could bring a man to god. If that was where he wanted to go. Runt told me that's why they called this Heaven's Gate, because it produced the very best dulse, the mellowest yellow. But he was laughing when he said it, and I figured the name had more to do with the vicious nature of its tidal surges, and the half dozen or so GoBs who'd shuffled off this mortal roil here.

I digress again, but you might be thinking that it's too easy a contest to rig, that unscrupulous contestants could just chuck a bunch of dulse from their own franchise into the competition bag. Maybe even try a couple of runs at a beach, just to get the point totals up. It's not likely. For one thing, due to a genetic peculiarity, which Poli did try to explain but I couldn't understand, dulse from different sites has a slightly different chemical structure — kind of a fingerprint that identifies the source beach for a piece of dulse as unerringly as a human fingerprint can point the finger at a light-fingered culprit. The identification process was developed by Sonya, Herr Reefer's second-wife, not coincidentally the biochemist who first identified the psychoactive ingredient in dulse to be TPHZ. Also not co-incidentally, she was the second person ever known to be stoned. Which may explain her interest in the topic. But, unlike her husband's immortalization, Madam Reefer's contribution seems to have been lost, and there is no one I know of refers to a joint as a sony. Her name isn't even attached to the identification process which, because of its expense, length and prior requirement for three levels of biological processing, is only used on a random basis. Or when the yellow doesn't seem properly mellow.

I digress again, but my editor, bless him, did say to provide full background… Even so, and even with the immense honour and pride that GoBs take in their title, some potential for cheating remains. The Dulsia keeps it squeaky clean with liberal doses of procedure and technology. The very best technology — they can afford it — including competition bags that are anything if not foolproof. Each bag is made of a special lightweight but incredibly tough fabric [10], and they come with a computer-controlled locking system that only allows one opening per competition month, and that automatically closes after six hours — one tide cycle. If that isn't enough, there are officials who oversee the competition and in particular frisk the competitors before they start into the water. They'd even frisked me. Believe me: they were thorough. Still, it has to be admitted, theoretically there's always the chance of cheating. But, I'll tell you, if any group has ever made a sport honest, it was this bunch of crooks.

But I digress.

But then, wouldn't you? Digress I mean. After all, the recollection of how you almost drowned a second time is not the type of memory you hold close to your face — even if it did change your life for the better. And being forced to write about it just adds insult to perjury. By the Bi, that's the type of writing my editor would usually cross out as too cryptic.

Well, fuck him. {No thanks.}

For, if there's anything Heaven's Gate wasn't, it was cryptic. It stank of its own power, reeked of death. Teased nostrils with the bitter whiff of embalming salt.

Or am I being mellowdramatic?

Not a bit. Of all Fundy's dulse grounds, Heaven's Gate is the toughest, a decapitated snake's head of tangled tide-broken rock, severed from its peninsular body by half a mile of rubble. At high tide you wouldn't know it was there — the head and its crushed jugular covered completely in 20 to 30 feet of water. It was only at lowest ebb the crown could rise from its encumbering crypt to reveal itself. And challenge the dulse-hunters, daring them with a mere two hours of opportunity, when the tide was low and stable enough men could clamber its rocks, stand up to its erratic currents, and go down for the bobbitt.

But first you had to get out there, a slip sliding task that took the worst part of an hour. Or the shortest part of a lifetime if you weren't careful. Which the Hulk was. Not satisfied with book larning, he'd insisted on a scout the day before — a surreptitious sixty-six.six minute (stop-watch timed) snake's spine slink to a slew of sea-sculptured stone overseeing the site. (Perfectly legal under the Mr Harvest rules: as long as you didn't actually go in the water.) (Which was fine with me.) With a general's precision, he'd shown me his planned route, mapping imaginary markers on one palm while pointing with his other out to their concrete reality. “We'll go in down there at Hanlon's Point, bear to the left over to Rocky's Balls — see, that pair of boulders — cut right until just before the Gallows, where we'll hang back to the left to straddle The Terminator.” Runt cut in with a smirking “Should we warn him about the Tempest?” but Hulk shrugged it off. “Not if we splash through Finnegan's Wake… I think that's where Ulysses and son went wrong. You can't get through The Tempest but I think we can manage Finnegan's.”

To which Runt muttered, “Better than he did I hope.”

The Hulk went on, squinting and sketching, calmly recalling the names of another half dozen waypoints. Death's Door. Tricky Dicky. Kirk's Folly. And, you know, it all made perfect sense. As long as you kept your eyes on the palm. Take them away though, look out at the lobster stones thrown into the boiling water of a rising tide and everything changed. This was madness! Try to calm yourself by looking back at the palm and guess what? The map had disappeared. Only lifelines left. Truncated. So I asked the kind of insightful question any reporter worth his salt-petre would pose; even a clandestine aquaphobe reconsidering the wisdom of his high school guidance counsellor.

"Ah, considering all the complicating factors of limited time, tidal patterns, earth-moon interactions and butterflies flapping their wings in Cincinnati, juxtaposed of course with the vagaries of auguring cracks on the shells of washed-up turtles, and, ah… assuming — and I admit this may or not be a valid assumption — ah, a certain inherent bodily need for continuation… ah…

“So why not USE A BOAT!?”

Runt just snorted. That was another of his talents — a peculiar grrrrnt dripping with phlegmy derision I'd come to know rather too intimately. Runt didn't like me and didn't want me along, points he'd made clear the moment I returned from the washroom back at the Imperial Motel and Grill. (I'd gathered from a few of Runt's comments that Hulk had thought it would be a lark to take me on their competition run, but Runt had been appalled, in fact had almost walked. He claimed he only stayed because they agreed that if I turned out to be dead weight, then, fine, they'd leave me for dead meat. Poli brokered the deal. I guess that's what politicians are for.)

“It's been tried,” Hulk gravelled. “Trouble is, with all that rock and the tide going crazy it's a good way to make driftwood.” Runt laughed, shaking his head to an inner joke. “There was even a fellow tried to make like the ark. Seems he figured if he anchored over the Gate, when the tide went out he'd beach ever so gently, and could clean up before the tide came back in.” Runt snickered and arched an eye at me — he was enjoying the telling of this tale. “I guess he was thinking with his pecker. The anchor dragged and caught, the boat flipped, and was bucketed between the rocks like a pinball. They found some pieces of it. They never found him.” Runt spit. “Amateur.”

I looked over to Hulk, staggered at Runt's calm recitation, but he was back to making maps on his palm, muttering the way point mantra. Like firefighters or marines, death was just a fact of life to these GoBs, and if I did turn out dead weight — I had no doubt — I would be dead meat. Just another anecdote. Struggling for journalistic objectivity, I asked Runt how, if they never found the body, they knew someone had tried.

“Pigs. See the town down there by the point? Big RCMP office there and they know about the Gate. They see a craft or any kind of action out here, the paddy boat's on its way. Not that they could help you if you get into trouble. Crossing takes twenty three minutes in good weather. You can drown a dozen times before they get here. The moral of the story…,” Runt paused, very effectively, for dramatic effect, “a boat's a quick ticket to hell or jail. Take your pick.”

"It's a quick ticket to disqualification too,” the Hulk cut in, motioning it was time to slink back. The contest rules, he explained, were very strict. The dulse had to be harvested in the traditional, decades-honoured way, by hand and on foot. Besides, he went on, biting the words, boats were for chicken-shit amateurs, for quick-buck priss-heads. His vehemence was surprising, and ripped the stuffing from my nurtured-in-eternal-hope mental image of a gentle giant. This was his passion and it boiled down to this: dulsing was a way of life in which everyone had to pull their own weight. And, if you're going to be Mr Harvest, you want to be able to hold your head high.

No pun intended. [None taken.]

But I digress.

"Time!”

Runt again, spitting it out like some foreign object, more demand than query. But I was prepared. Not only was my personal computer-linkable combination calculator/wrist chronometer/GPS locator accurate to within a millionth of a second and water-resistant to 100 feet — about 100 feet more than me — it glowed an attractive dawn pink in the dark. In a more collected mind, I might have noticed how closely the colour matched the eastern sky out past the Gate. But I didn't. I just made it up. Just now. A little after three, I replied, emphasizing the little more than the after.

“Running slow,” the Hulk grimaced. “Most we'll have is an hour.” “Yeah, well what'd expect dragging a sea anchor?” Runt muttered. Just loud enough for me to hear. Hulk shook his head. “No. It was my mistake. Should have done The Tempest. Those currents in Finnegan's almost earned their name.”

I could have kissed him for that. Finnegan's had been more than a rude wake up. Ever seen the whirlpool below Niagara Falls? Well, contain that in a 50 foot neolithic amphitheatre, and place openings at either end. Gaps in the wall of rock really. Water comes in one gap, not straight in, mind you, but angled, so it has to churn circles before finding its way out the other. On palm it looks easy; an almost straight line from one gap to the next. But it's against the current coming out to get in, let the backwash carry you to your exit, then back to slogging it out against the current coming in.

It helps if you have the presence of mind to follow instructions.

I didn't, and instead locked into the past tense, into the memory of fighting the currents back in high school; angling into them, judging safety by a constant pressure against my chest. No way I was letting go to float to the far gap. So, once into the breach, I took the long way round, against the current, struggling for every inch — like some grunt soldier at Vimy Ridge. Oblivious to Runt's “Hey!” which quickly became pounding streams of profanity. Oblivious too to the Hulk trying to scream me into letting go. “Get into the backwash!” he yelled from an eddy by the far gap, which he and the Runt had reached in just minutes. My body screamed back No way! Apparently so did my mouth. Runt yelled “Fuck you!” and started shrieking at Hulk about they had a deal, gesticulating like the Minister for Silly Semaphore. Curiously, from my point of view, there was a certain unreality to it all — it could have been a cartoon, just a coupl'a scavengers arguing over a corpse, their voices retreated into occasional bi-syllabic balloons. Dead weight, dead meat. Dead right!

Curiouser, the pair reminded me of a ventriloquist act I'd once seen in India. (I was there digging dirt on a Georgia garu's garden of earthly delights. Never found any, so I just made it up. My editor loved it.) Anyways, Big Vent's little shtick sat on a stick, about four feet high, so Little Vent — a right dapper little twit with a smarmy pom accent — could see eye to eye with Big Vent. Except he didn't. They disagreed on everything. They had a wonderfully caustic routine about colonial subjugation, which Little Vent kept misunderstanding as controlling your colon — something my editor's big on too:

The routine finally ended when Little Vent, making a face to demonstrate his point, said it was time for afternoon tea and 'scrunchits.' Whereupon he jumped down off his stick, said he was glad he'd packed his lunch, and disappeared off the stage. Leaving the audience so open-mouthed you could hear the crap drop. Sp-link Sp-lash. They only broke into thunderous applause after Big Vent and stick, acting out the eternal question, ponderously pitched forward; smashing his face to splinters on the stage floor as a disembodied voice cursed, “bloody frigging mongeese”.

Okay. I guess it loses something in the translation. But it gave my mind something to concentrate on at a time I didn't want to focus on objective reality.

And, boy, did I object to this reality.

Runt's semaphore ended with a sweeping uppercut to single finger. He was not a happy scamper. Hulk mostly looked confused, torn, half-turning to follow the departing Runt out the far gap, half-turning to yell a pleading “Let go!” Which I couldn't, even though I was tiring from the constant attack. Wouldn't, even as I knew I was essentially authorizing my own execution. Most importantly, didn't. Hulk's arm swept down in open-palmed futility, triggering the completion of his turn to follow Runt. With his height and bulk, Hulk was able to grab fingerhholds on either side of the rocky gap to pull himself through, and a part of me thought there goes the last human being I'll ever see. I blinked away a tear, or maybe it was just a drop of seawater. In any case, that was enough for Hulk to disappear.

Just like that. One second there, the next gone.

The next, history repeated itself, my life story flickering across the gaps of a mind letting go. Born on a mountain down in Tennessee. I felt my legs begin to buckle. They all became retarded. Muscles going numb. Folks said Red, better move away from there. One foot then the other losing its hold. A four hour trip. Giant arms sweeping across my chest, flipping me bacards. He's my best friend. Gasping as the water bit my face. Does whatever a writer can. Wishing I'd had the foresight to write my own obituary. Good evening, it's been a day of tragedy. Leaving it to be discovered in my empty motel room. Bi Guy Says Bye. One of North America's foremost tabloid stars drowned today.

It took us a good fifteen minutes to catch up to the Runt, Hulk practically lugging me like a sack, not once letting go the grip he'd used to drag me under back in the Wake. And if the Runt hadn't come to the harvest zone, where the only way forward was back, I don't think we would have caught up. Ever. He wasn't happy to see me either, even if he did have the ten gallon bag.

“Here, make yourself useful,” he snarled, and threw the competition bag at me. “Slip the strap across one shoulder, then loop it around the other wrist,” he ordered, adding a menacing, “Don't even think you might lose it.”

He turned to Hulk, “Let's do it,” and started splashing across the shallows, which for him were almost up to his shoulders.

It was the moment I'd been waiting for. The harvest. While Poli had explained the technique in assiduous detail, it's one of those things you have to see to believe. Not that I'd be able to see much of it. Dulse only roots at a high tide depth of at least 33 feet, so, even at lowest ebb, the nearest tubers were still seven, eight feet under water, concentrated in holes and cracks in the rock. Easy to find — their surface shimmying fronds could be followed to their source — but not easy to get at. You had to dive, pulling yourself down the fronds, hand-over-hand, into an utter void of muddy seawater, blind feeling for the root to cut it off as close to its host rock as you could. All this while you were being buffeted by errant currents that could smash you into the rocks or tie you to a watery ending in a knot of fronds, and the clock was ticking away the ebb and the mad scramble to escape the next rising tide.

It was a job for two men. One to dive and the other to anchor; one to go for broke, the other to salvage if the breaks didn't go the right way. As you've probably guessed, Runt was the diver, Hulk the steadfast bulwark playing out the safety rope, their vastly different physiques the reason they were considered one of the best dulse teams ever. Like a pelican to Runt's tail-slapping otter, Hulk stood his ground in the shifting waters and caught the baubles Runt threw up, paring the fist-sized tubers — I swear they glistened like turtle eggs in the faint dawn light — of their fronds before handing them to me to drop in the bag. And, yes, you can be sure I damn sure made sure I didn't drop any outside. {You sure?} [As sure as sure can be.] {How many sures could a would sure sure if a would sure could sure sures?} [Sixty-nine.]

It was a bit like watching a well-oiled pump jack. Runt could hold his breathe almost a minute, and each burst to the surface dragged another two or three tubers into the light of rapidly blooming day. And each such outburst also brought a bigger, more triumphant smile — working their way forward from one patch of fronds to the next, the boys were on track for a damn good haul. Immersed in his work, Runt even seemed to have forgotten his anger at me. Every fourth or fifth re-appearance would bring a gasping “Time?” and a grunt of satisfaction at my answer as he disappeared again.

Everything was just going snickers. Which of course is exactly the time you have to watch out for the kicker. In life as much as fiction.

Runt had just surfaced with five, count'em, tubers, when “This is the RCMP!” bullhorned through the wreeking gulls. “Stay where you are!” Being a writer, I don't know if a picture really is worth a thousand words but, I'll tell you, a picture right at that instant would have said at least one word on three faces.

Shit!

Nothing more though, because there wasn't time. For a big man, Hulk could move like the chickens and his arm had pushed me underwater before I could get out the exclamation. I gulped raw terror along with sea water and panicked, gargling screams and thrashing at my assailant. I felt split, pulled down by a millstone, tugged forward off my feet. Current threw my back against a rock, then another tug pulled me off. My head broke surface backwards, water splashing over my face and into my nose, my mouth, my eyes. I'd hardly caught a breathe before the millstone again pulled me down, almost ripping off my shoulder, dislocated for sure. Hot pain seared cold flesh as realization shot in: the fucking bag — it's going to drown me! I tried a desperate watusi, wriggling, jerking, jack-knifing, but I just seemed to get more and more entangled. Shit no, it's dulse fronds! Spider webbing to pin my legs, strait-jacket my arms. No! It's the bag! With a mind of its own, taking a chokehold….

Peace. No more pain. Finally letting go. Silence. Panic gone. Timeless. Spaceless. Changeless. Thank you lord.

“Down there! Look that's him.” Silence broken. Faint. “Naw. That's just tideweed. No way he could have made it.” Louder. Pain come back. Shoulder hurts. Uuuuk, mouth tastes like sea. Footsteps, shlunnk schunnk, boots in wet sand. Look up, spit out sand. How'd that weed get in there? Look way up. Two. Way way up. Big one. Little one. Two survived. What about third? Me third. Me Mellow. “Frat! U'kay?” No. Frat Rat. Dulse. Harvesting, cops, under, drowning, bag!!!

Vomit, retching, puking seawater, god that hurts. Wits coming back. One. Two. Three, four… about right. Feel like I'm lying on top of a turtle. Can I lay eggs? “Frat, here, let me help you up.” Oh god, dizzy, Hulk, Runt swimming, No! We're not swimming, we made it. “I don't believe it. Heh heh, I just bloody don't believe it.” Don't believe what? Hulk look down, follow. Bag. Bag? Bag!! Still attached! I don't believe it either. Look up, smile woozily at Hulk, and he smiles back, before whooping up and down the beach.

Hell, even the Runt smiled.

Poli swigged at his beer, finally broke the silence my description of almost sleeping with the turtles had left. “Listen Mell…” he started, tried again, “Frat…”, rolled his eyes in frustration, finally spit the question I knew would come. Eventually. “Say, just what the hell's your real name anyway? I mean your real name, none of this bullshit cover stuff.” Took another swig, lowering the beer to nest it, out of sight, between his legs.

Give credit where credit is due, I thought; knowing from experience how most people are practically insulted at not knowing your real name, the one you were given at birth. As though that's somehow more real than any other. So they ask. But Poli'd held off longer than most. And I did have a stack of names I could have pulled out in response, in fact, a whole collection of life histories I could rote convincingly. Tools of the trade if you like. But Poli had these incredibly penetrating eyes, a kind of psychic WD 40, which he used to advantage — as when he got Hulk and the Runt to take me along. Under their power, I swear, I couldn't help myself even though, compliant with The Bi's policy covering deep cover operatives, even my editor wasn't privy. Yeah, I fessed up, dragging it out of the bit of brain where you bury garbage and nasty memories. It took a moment — I'd buried it pretty deeply. And — like I figured — Poli guffawed, slapping his knees with both hands, then snatching back at the wheel to miss a side-trip into the ditch. It wasn't the first time.

“Bjarnas Bertrand Bumstead! Bet you got rubble-assed about that,” he snorted.

Copping a swig from my own beer, I grimaced at the memories running amok, gritted, “Rubble-ass, Blarney Bert, B.B. Bum and every other asinine derivative stinking school kids can think of.”

“Well listen, Barney,” Poli continued, getting back to the topic. “You let your imagination get away with you. Not that I don't understand why — Deltoid's generally pretty moody and irritable and god knows he just gets worse at competition time. But even Delt, never mind Alphonse, wouldn't have left you for dead.” There was a pause for a tooth-glinting smile straight at me. “For one thing, I don't care what you've heard, GoBs just don't do that.” And a throwaway as he turned his attention back to the road. “Besides, the boys knew our plan.”

“Look, if you don't mind, that name's just between you and me,” I gritted, “okay?” Then — something about that throwaway triggering the ever-curious journalist — had to ask, “What plan?” {Dum de dum dum dumbbbbb — like Ogopogo rising from the depths, a plot finally heaves into sight.} [Is that the mythical monster lives in Okeefenokee swamp?] {Noooo. In Lake Okanagan. B.C.} [That old?] {Har har.}

Poli took his eyes off the road, fixed them back on me. A long moment — as though evaluating the next move in a tightly-fought game of chess. He seemed about to reply, but glanced at the rear view, grimaced, then to each of the side mirrors in quick turn. His grip on the wheel tightened and I started turning to look. “Don't,” he hissed, his own eyes straight ahead. “Don't look back. It's probably nothing anyway.”

Well. I'll tell you — for nothing — it had a most substantial effect. Poli's ever-easy demeanour had stiffened with tension lines while his eyes danced back and forth to the rear view. His nonchalant driving, wandering anywhere within the bounds of the pavement, was gone too — his knuckles on the wheel turned frost white keeping the little Suzuki four wheeler dead straight. Now two and two may be four, but toeing the line and playing it fine could only equal one thing. So it didn't matter if I couldn't look-see. I knew what to expect.

Pigs. Of course. Cops. The Fuzz. Probably an unmarked car. Following Poli, the Honourable Member for The Rump? Or following me, the Honourary Mr Harvest? (The boys had insisted on the title and I'd accepted, even planned to use it as my by-line. Just once. Just to piss my editor off. It had been offered, but I'd refused any more substantial reward. I was glad of that now. The most any sniffer-dog could find on me would be a perfectly legal souvenir bag of fronds.) Either was a concern. While I was clean, I didn't know if Poli was — had no way of knowing — but the cops, and courts, are all too prone to guilt by association.

In any case, it didn't matter. Whatever it was must have turned off. Poli relaxed, letting the Suzuki resume its wandering. Cocked an eye into a half-embarrassed little shrug, the kind that says 'well, you can't be too careful', and took another swig of beer. “You ever thought about legalization?” he suddenly asked, then added, superflorously I thought, “For dulse, I mean.”

I shook my head, negative, having never smoked tobacco, much less dulse. Or done any other drugs. Not that I was morally against them or afraid of their illegality. It's just that, when you can't even go to the beach because of this little personality disorder, you don't take many chances. Period. I'd just heard too many horror stories about mind-blowing drugs.

“Not surprised, really,” Poli continued. “Most people don't. They seem to think it doesn't affect them… you know, no smokie, no worry. Which a lot of vested interests like just fine. Cops, politicians, the pushers, they don't want a lot of people really thinking about our approach to drugs. Because they know. The whole criminalization trip, the busts, the prisons, they don't work. Why? Because people like getting stoned and that's just the facts, ma'am.” He paused, settling back into the seat, murmured “just the facts” into his bottle, then glanced for any reactions. But I had none, just the recognition Poli had brought out the soap box. He was tabling the hidden agenda.

“I mean you look back in history, you look around the world and people like getting ripped. Spaced. High. Blasted. Fritzed. Zapped. Hell, there's almost as many words for altered states of consciousness as there are for fucking. And you know what that says.” Emphasizing each word. “People just like to get stoned. And, yeah, there is a percentage of the population gets hung up, strung out and messed up by their drug of choice, even dulse, but prohibition doesn't work. It doesn't stop them wanting, it doesn't stop them using. It just jacks up prices and forces users into the back allies. So big brother state throws people in jail, gives them criminal records, spends millions, millions trying to control 'the dulse problem'. Doesn't work. You know, they bust a shipment of weed down to the Big Cumquat. There's half a dozen gets through. So they hire another few dozen Mounties and put them in airports, throw up taxes to pay for it. So now they manage to grab two loads but a baker's dozen get through. So they shift their focus back to the user, throw more people into gigantic jails they have to build and staff with millions more tax dollars, which they finally can't afford so they privatize them. And guess who ends up running the jails? Front companies for the drug cartels, that's who!” Poli snorted derisively. “Talk about taking your profits at both ends.”

He shook his head, almost sadly I thought. “It just doesn't make any sense. You won't stamp it out, and even if you managed to completely cut off dulse, then people'd just find another way to get high. Smoking banana peels, chugging nutmeg, shooting cabbage, I mean who knows? So, given it doesn't make any sense, why not legalize it? Governments already push nicotine and alcohol and god knows there's more problems with them than dulse. So why not legalize it but control it, sell it in government run stores, the government gets extra taxes, they reduce crime, they save all that money.”

Poli took a moment to correct an alarming veer towards the ditch. Came real close to a mailbox, too close to read the name. The Suzuki leashed, he checked the mirrors, raised his beer and polished it down. Dropped the bottle behind the seat where it clinked against another. He sighed, rubbed a big hand across his head. Shrugged with bemusement. “And you know I never thought I'd see it but that's finally beginning to sink in. There's a lot of politicians, even a few police, beginning to rethink the approach and question its wisdom.”

Let's cut to the plot, I thought, and said so in not quite so few words. “So you're looking for someone with journalistic expertise, persuasive writing skills and an established nom de plume to work out a pro-legalization campaign. Someone whose talents can help you shift the tide of public opinion towards ending the stupidity of our current drug laws. That's where I come in, right? That's why, when you offered The Bi the inside dope on the Dulsia, it was on condition I got the assignment, right?”

“Fuck no,” Poli snorted. “That'd just kill the profit margins. Who wants a return of five or six percent when you can scoop five or six hundred? No. We need someone to help us keep it illegal. We want someone with the brains for Reefer Madness, an example to stiffen the backbone of those spineless dolts who'd kill the golden turtle. That's where you come in.”

Oh.

“It's just ahead,” Poli said, eyeing me intently. “Now you remember what I told you, and follow my lead.” Sure, Sure, I thought, a little miffed. Hell! In my career I'd covered bloody royalty, traded quips with comics and grilled Nobel winners. [Personally, I prefer them poached.] Even been trod on by Trudeau. {You and another 23 million Johnny Canucks.} I didn't need a lecture, or reminder, of how to handle myself among the rich and famous, the powerful and ugly. So, given that background, even if he was the head of a multi-million dollar drug syndicate, meeting El Grandé Poohbah, der Fundy Fuhrer — the Dulsia's CEO in plain English — wasn't even something I'd bother writing home to mother about.

Even if she hadn't disowned me and slashed return to sender across my letter of apology. But that's A Whole Other Story — and I wouldn't want to digress — so, maybe another time. [Looks like he's setting up for a sequel as well.] {Must be contagious. It'll be you next.}

Poli must have sensed my irritation for he kept staring at me, then his eyes suddenly flicked backwards, face stiffening again. Turning before Poli could order me not to, I caught the briefest glimpse of a large black car, parked in black shadows on the narrow gravel shoulder, black trench coated driver slump sleeping behind the wheel, collar up, black fedora down over the face. {Observant little shit.} A little odd, I thought, daytime sleeping on a tree fringed highway to the backside of bushy nowhere, smack in the middle of The Rump. But it didn't strike me as significant. [Nah.]

It did Poli.

The Suzuki suddenly flew right, hard right, almost pitching me into Poli's lap. I looked over the dash to find ourselves about to punch through a wall of leaves, but a sharp left pull at the wheel parted the green sea, and we were scooting down a puddle-pocked track, some abandoned backwoods trail. What the fuc… Poli jammed the brakes to a scruddering stop, almost dumping me into the glove compartment. SkeeeRuuunnnch. Poli threw it into reverse, snap crackle popped the clutch, madly painting the surrounding leaves in earth tones. Nearly completing the impression of my face on the dash. We burst backwards out of the trees just as I managed to get myself upright. Whack. Poli jammed the brakes, stalling the engine and trigger-lifting the front wheels off the ground. Flinging me into the back of the seat. Goddamn it, that hurt! Birds sang. Angelic pigs flew. And Poli sat there, glaring past me at the black car, maybe twenty-five yards away.

Trenchie didn't move. Fact, I was sure I heard his snoring. Maybe not. My heart was pounding that loud.

Poli? Well if you think of all those old gunfighter movies, you know, where hero and villain eye each other off, slomo sec after surreal moment, glaring, daring, taunting the other into a chickenshit blink, then you know what this wasn't. Without Trenchie to return fire, Poli's glare was about as useful as balls on a priest — even less I suppose, given some recent scandals. The glare wilted in seconds and Poli shrugged, dispensing another of those dopey 'well you can't be too careful' grins as he fired the motor. Yeah right. But you can be too paranoid. I'll tell you, I was starting to entertain some serious questions about this guy's balance.

Maybe he'd been in politics too long.

By then we were grind flop spin lunging back down the track, branches ra-ta-ta-ting the Suzi's sides. Must be the back entry, I thought, throwing up an arm to keep my head from hitting the roof. A secret passage to the drug lord's lair, his hacienda of illicit wealth.

Made perfect sense to me.

I looked in the trees, straining for a glimpse of cameras and security trips, or the fleet shadows of goons cradling Russian-made submachine guns. I'd have to talk to one of them, I thought — it'd make for a good sidebar, Why Muthahs Buy Red. Yeah — and talk to the security head too, for a piece on high technology, When Money's No Object. Yeah — and… I was so busy glimpsing the possibilities, I missed the burst into actuality, the breath-taking first view of my-soon-to-be host's grand manor.

Except it wasn't.

Expecting something completely different, I had to shuffle the mental filters before I recognized what it was. A hunting camp, fifty years if a day old, perched on the edge of an abrupt slope down to what I assumed would be a river. A roughplank, fifteen by forty low sloper was crowded against the trees on one side of a small clearing by half a century of junk — a couple of hood-gaping cars hunched on their axles, an old tractor listing to its flat tire, a couple of incomplete stoves, and half a dozen woodpiles anchoring other mounds of rusting something or others. Except for a faint wisp of smoke spitting from a crooked chimney pipe, it had the look and taste of abandonment.

Poli hissed “Remember!” and motioned me out, ploughing his way through the debris to the edge of the slope. Still adjusting the filters — was this a joke? remote safehouse? or just an artfully belying fake overlying an elaborate underground complex? — I followed, picking my way through boot high grass.

“I love this place,” Poli grinned as I came up, throwing a grand sweeping arm to indicate near to 180 degrees of red gravel-bluffed valley, blue seamed with riffling meanders writing some message to the heavens. It was, I had to admit, quite breathtaking, and my opinion of the site soared from dump to landfill. “See down there,” Poli pointed to the river a good 40 feet below. [As opposed to what? A bad 40 feet?] {Repent! Repent ye damned Imperials!} “That's one of the best salmon pools in the whole bloody Rump. And there ain't no rich yanks allowed.” Poli grinned again. “Jimi's pretty particular about his company. We'll go down later, but I think we'd better say hi first.”

The screen door had shut on better days — ripped and rusted, the screen loose in places, half the bottom bulged like it was always opened with a swift kick from the darkness inside. Poli banged more than knocked, shouted “Hello! Jimi, you there?” Was answered by a flurry of high pitched barking and a scurry of something white crashing into the metal mesh, ballooning it outwards, ripping an inch or so free of the frame. I jerked backwards, an involuntary reaction, but the screen held and bounced the dog away. The growling doubled, launching another attack, another bulging blur of bare fanged white. Another inch torn free. But the screen tossed it back again. Now the dog was enraged, snarling viciously behind the obscuring veil, hunching to spring for the jugular. I stepped further back. Voluntarily this time. Suddenly

"Ootl!!”

I didn't recognize the language, Danish or one of those Scandinavian countries?, but it was the kind of voice could stop a doberman. Cold. Thick with menace and a sheer Don't even think about it! tone. Growls turned to a pathetic ur uring whimper and the dog belly-slunk backwards, turning its head to look into the room where someone was approaching. I pulled myself erect, trying to force my heart into a calmer rhythm. I was finally going to meet the fabled Jimi, lord of all the dulsers, the genius who'd convinced a bunch of crankily independent GoBs to work together, then, back before there were charts and competition reports, won the Mr Harvest title seven years straight. The guy who'd…

God! Seen better days himself!

Between 25 and 30 thousand of them, judging by the face squinting through the screen. Wrinkled, storm worn, sun cancerous — had to be eighty-something at least. Small too, five six, if that, painfully slight. He didn't seem to hear too well — even this close, Poli had to raise his voice. “Jimi. It's me. Poli. Can we come in?” And I guess he didn't see too well either. It was a moment before his watery eyes showed any sign of recognition. Then, maybe Poli's voice finally breaching the brain circuits, the eyes flashed alive and he swung the door open.

The dog growled.

I tried to hang back but Poli shoved me in, made the introductions. “Jimi. Barney. Barn. Jimi.” Still half-blind in the dim light, I missed the handshake, connecting instead with Jimi's elbow. He cackled and gripped at my elbow in return, pushed, pulled, push push pull, an oldtimer's version of high fives I figured. He seemed extraordinarily pleased — maybe we were blood brothers now — and gurgled something like “Ood o met ou.” “Good to meet you,” Poli translated. “KoOn ih.” “Come on in.” The dog growled again, low in the throat. “Oh, excuse me,” Poli laughed. “That's Total. But I think you've already met.”

Correction — just almost met; but it was only now, with my eyes finishing their adjustment from outside, that I actually got a good look at the mutt. Yikes! It looked like a cross between a poodle and a scotch terrier, with the poodle's comic gangly body on the other breed's stumpy legs. The head, though, was all blocky terrier: though it wasn't all there. The left side of the skull was completely stove in, missing an eye, and the ear hung in shreds. “He got hit by a truck. Out on the road,” Poli explained. “Jimi didn't have the heart to put him down. So now he calls him Total.” And laughed. “I guess we'd better have some tea. Hey Jimi!” he raised his voice and made drinking motions. “Tea?”

“s, t,” Jimi replied, pointing over to the cupboards. “Ut ta ettl on.” He started shuffling towards the table in the centre of the shack's open plan main room, rhythmically cackling at some inner joke, “Oli ut ta ettl on. Oli ut ta ettle on. wal ha t,” leaving me alone by the door. Total growled. Bugger this, I thought and went to sit at the table — deflecting wide around the dog, and figuring this part of the story was a total bust. No problem, really, I'd just fake it, then try freelancing an article on Alzheimer's. What to do When the Lights Go Out.

At the table, Jimi offered a roll-yer-own cigarette — which I declined. Thank you very much — so he lit it himself and then sat there, fag dangling from the edge of a dopey grin, waiting I figured for me to start the interview. Great. So, Mr Drug Lord, how much did you say you make? Ots, you say. Really? But don't you think this place is a little too lavish, too ostentatious, that it might attract unwanted attention. You don't say. Now that's an interesting point.

Frustrated, I turned to look around. The decorative style of the main room, combining kitchen, dining and living areas in a single functional space, was spartan. A row of unpainted cabinets against the wall by the door defined the kitchen, which opened to the dining lounge featuring a round formica table from the 40s, complemented with half a dozen metaltube, woodslat chairs in varying stains of shitbrown and red. Dining area in turn led to vistas of the living space, tastefully dominated by a single delegged couch; vomit green, wear spots gleaming in a trickle of light from one of four small windows on the valley-side wall.

Opposite, in a concise statement of contrapuntal architecture, a long partition wall opened to four rooms. Master bedroom, guest quarters and watercloset were all obvious through their open doors. Oddly, the door at the far end was not just shut, but…

“Tea's on!” Poli sang out, bearing three mugs. “Here Jimi. It's your favourite.” And handing one to me, stage whispered, “Remember! Follow my lead.”

The tea was a pale yellow, reminiscent of chamomile, with darker bits of leaves mottling the mug's bottom. Dutifully following Poli's lead, I bent down, wafting a sniff with a wave of my hand. Yes, there was a hint of chamomile, but it was masked by a slightly acrid pungency I couldn't quite place… whiff again… Lapsang Souchong was the closest I could come, very weak and made with bad water — except I couldn't see Jimi having swampy water with that river just down below. Naive, eh? But, lifting his own mug for a slurp, Poli indicated with a movement of his eye that it would be some form of insult to local mores if I didn't drink it. So I did. We all did, draining our mugs to a cascade of toasts, cheers and hosannas. The Queen. Her Escort. {Nice little car that.} Even a toast to the drug pigs, Poli's, “bless their authoritarian little snouts”. Jimi's “men.”

I was too polite to say the tea tasted like piss.

Total saw ghosts.

Well, some such spectre shot from that neutron star of a brain: packed to twice its normal density by the crushing weight of gravity locking eighteen wheels to bitumen; his head in between; th th thup th thup thup, th th thup th thup thup; neurons squeezed, jammed, forced into God only knows how many extra synaptic connections; so that synapse a fires but triggers neurons b, z, q and u rather than just b, for a wildfire round of pass the message transmogrifying a's original message, fly in the corner, into a mutated alien abductee escapee; or maybe a jackal and hide'n go seek; then perhaps his fantasy bitch sporting leather collar and garters; sending Total lunging into the kitchen, snarling at the couch, chasing a piece of tail into the can; beating a fast retreat out, run run running from the braying nightmare of a truck bearing down. And down.

Who am I to judge, but letting him live was no act of mercy. [So, tell me, what do you think about euthanasia?] {Oh, I think they're pretty much the same as kids anywhere else.}

Total showed signs of short term memory loss too: recent data seemingly sucked screaming into that black hole of stripped and twisted neurons, never to be seen or heard from again. So his whole world was perpetually new, a raw landscape scraped bare under the grinding mass of glacier wheels, just the toughest oldest features still somehow familiar; like his master's voice, but not mine; not me at all. I ceased to exist each time doofus turned away; then sprang back into being, new and unwelcome, each swing of that lone good eye back to the table (where I sat sipping tea and waving off refills, determined to avoid a repeat of the scene in the Imperial Motel and Grill. In retrospect, I needn't have worried.). In that dog's world, I was — truly — out of sight out of mind. Then, in sight and in mind, a dangerous new presence. Fleabag lion? tinpot robot? scarecrow? God only knows how that dog saw me, but it was certainly as a threat — each rediscovery bringing the dog snicking across the floor, the wary hunter growling deep in the throat, his good eye cocked and loaded. Until…

Ootl!”

Jimi would call him off and bug-a-lugs would slink to the corner for another few rounds with the beastly fly. Until, ding-a-ling, he caught another glimpse of me. Then the performance would repeat.

Tootl!”

Not that I was doing much better. It was only in retrospect I realized that, barking at Total, Jimi's speech was improving — his diction sharpening, the voice more and more resonant with command, more clearly speaking English. More like that first voice I'd heard from outside the door. Even stranger, for an experienced journalist like myself, trained in the skills of acute observation, {Does that mean he studies babes?} [No. In fact I suspect he's latent.] {The only thing latent about this character are his brains.} I totally missed the subtle changes happening to Jimi each time I turned away. {See what I mean.} Failed to note how decrepitude was falling away like flakes of dandruff; his face and body growing younger, stronger, becoming more the man I'd been expecting.

Total!”

All I can say in my own defence is that each change was so insignificant of itself they never crossed perception's thresholds. Besides, I was rather busy appreciating Poli's changes. Which weren't subtle at all. No surprise there.

Now Poli's a big guy, sure not as enormous as the Hulk, but massive enough he had to squeeze into his little Suzuki. A little odd, but I'd pegged that as an affectation, a politician's way of showing he was just one of the little folks. However, you'd think when a guy has trouble squeezing into a fifteen by forty foot shack, then you'd have to figure out something was up.

Specifically, me. That I was high as a skeet.

But — again, this is all hindsight — when sleep and panic attacks are your only experience with altered states of consciousness, then you should be forgiven if the transition sneaks right past. To put it another way, altered states normally make the abnormal normal, so how can you discriminate? I mean, doesn't everybody suddenly balloon to house size? They do in dreams. Right? And don't most people abruptly shrink to the size of a cockroach? The panic victim does. And doesn't everyone have a toon eye that sproi-oings out of its socket for a closeup look at your face?

Jimi did.

Now that was interesting — examining that eye as it, bobbing slightly in the exhalations of my breath, examined me. The iris glowed with at least a dozen shades of blue, set off by bloodshot whites and pupils so densely black they threatened to engulf me. There was some speck down in there, way back at the retina, some kind of reversed and upside down image. I peered in, grabbing at the edges of the pupil to force them wider, shoved my head inside for a better look.

That's when it blinked.

Which is quite a trick when the eyelids are four feet away at the end of a rubberized occipital nerve. But I didn't have time to appreciate Jimi's skills in the matter. You see, when the eye blinked shut it didn't open, so the effect was rather like a creepy crawly caught in the snap of a venus fly trap. Or a patron of Madame Guillotine's. {Boudoir?} [No. Boo hoo.] My crown was cleanly separated from my body and sent tumbling inwards, rolling head over neck stump, call it down, towards that speck on the retina.

It was a long way and, after the novelty of falling bodiless through the inside of a living, osmosing optic device wore off, generally quite boring. So I had plenty of time to finally put it together. Fact one: this was not normal. I was pretty sure of that now. Fact two: people may be decapitated in the blink of an eye but not, by-the-by, by the blink. Even in The Bi. Fact three: a million angels may intercourse in the eye of a needle, but even an anorexic pin can't disappear inside an eye — never mind a head as large as mine. So, my conclusion, I was stoned, ripped out of my skull, as it were. Pie-faced. {Does that mean he has 3.14 ad infinitum faces?} [No. Reductio absurdum, it means he's off on a tangent.] {Arc. Arc.} (Seal it. Now!) How? Well that was crystal cle… well, actually, crystal yellow. Poli had laced the tea! With Jimi's conniv… oh god no… Poli's plan, the whole fucking scheme splashed into full awareness, starting with a tinkle of memory — that mention in my background notes of biological processing for dulse — that became a golden shower. It was with more than Jimi's connivance!

The fuckers had peed the tea.

But, quicker than you could mimic a self-satisfied 'ah, but my dear Watson, it was so alimentary' [I told you the butler did it.], I hit, smack a little dab'll do you in the middle of the retinal speck. {I guess he made a specktacle of himself.}And, faster than I could register it was my own image, trailing veins and all, I sailed through — feeling just the teensiest resistance of flimsy membrane stre,e,tching, breaking — to find myself heading (sorry) [I should hope so too.] into the depths of a curving, multi-branching tunnel. The occipital nerve, what else?, alive with whizzing light and pulsing tingles .

Another eternity falling, reminding me of that scene in 2001 where Dave, having dumped HAL, is himself shot down the bowels of a strange black obelisk. Tunnel. Eye. Tunnel. Eye. Tunnel vision. As near as I could ever figure out, the scene was symbolic, a mythopoetic rendering of a greater sentience's sewage treatment process trying to clean up humanity. But the only time I ever saw the film — it was a midnight special in 70 mil and stereo — I'd been out drinking with a mate first, and vertigo from that scene set us both to chundering into popcorn bags, then sleeping it off in the lobby. So it's possible I missed something important. (I think it was soon after that my friend's wife divorced him.)

About this time, I began to experience the strangest sensations, these random little jolts of electricity, which I first dismissed as nothing more extraordinary than a close encounter with the odd nerve. But I had to discard that dismissal as, the damnedest thing, I realized the tingles weren't tickling my cranium. Now it's not something I was particularly expert in, but I had done a few stories on amputees who reported they could feel their missing parts, as real and as itchy as if they were really there. Phantom limbs, they're called. While my stories were nothing too deep — just your garden variety, 'lookada-poor-sod' yarns they use for fillers in The Bi, like my interview with one of the last surviving eunuchs of the Chinese Imperial court (although I didn't have the balls to ask him about ghostly appendages), even so, I'd never, ever, heard of anybody reporting a phantom body.

And, the damndest thing, that body didn't feel like mine. At all. Looking down I grasped why.

Ever seen the Michelin Man?

Or the Dilsbury Dough Boy?

Well, that was me. Sort of.

Except I wasn't nascent bread and I had no tread. I was… I reached down to check, giving my rotund little belly a good pinch… marshmallow. Soft, squishy marshmallow. Sorry but I couldn't help breaking into hysterical laughter. It was just too damn funny.

Mallow Yellow.

My editor'd probably think it was a typo.

But I didn't get to finish the laugh as — just like that — the next phase of my incredible journey began. My portly, twinkle-toed body was elongating, smoothening, Santa's gut fading away. While the general evolutionary trend seemed clear enough — the fins and tail suggested the genera ichthya — fish — all my reserves of high school biology weren't enough to identify the species. It was only when I heard myself let loose a sniggering high-pitched chigger that I realised I had the genera wrong.

Just call me Flipper.

Then I noticed my world was morphing right along with my body. The veined red burrow of the occipital was breaking out with rounded blocks of what looked like white stone. Although there was no coherent pattern to their placement, no neatly mason-stacked rows, it was still impressive, like the lower tunnels of an obsessive-compulsive dungeon keeper. And I felt I was 'seeing' through to the essence of creation, to the bedrock that underlies the myriad forms of the cosmos. Wrong. I bounced off one of the walls. It was marshmallow. Of course.

Herr Reefer was right.

The world, the whole bleeding universe was made of marshmallows.

The little ones.

And if I hadn't seen it for myself, I'd have always pooh-poohed Herr Reefer's mathematics as just too damn abstract to have any bearing on reality.

Not that I was totally certain this was reality.

But it was the only one I had at the moment and… oh god! I suddenly remembered where dolphins live. In the…

I'd hardly thought the word when I was flashing through it.

Now I know the universe loves a joke but this was fucking ridiculous. Here I am, an aquaphobe of the 99th percentile, still fresh from my close encounter at Finnegan's Wake and you'd think life would have the decency to go a little easy. You know, pamper me a little. Something like a soft patter-pat on the back and a mother-warm voice, 'there there, it's alright Jarney'. But no. That's not the cosmic style. Instead, it dumps me in my mortal element with a tittering 'sink or swim kid.' I could feel the dead cold panic sitting along my dorsal.

But as soon as I felt it, I was bursting out of the water, doing a triple luganous into a cascade of sky, cloud, distant beach, then back into the water, clean as a diver's wet dream.

Then out again into the same whirligig of air, just long enough to register I was closer to land. In again. And out, switching to a floating back roll that put the world inside out, horizon span-spinning upside down into vision, rolling through a round sky and a crescent moon of beach, now closer, where I could see a person sitting at the water line. A woman.

And damn it was fun! The panic had gone, replaced with the exhilarant catharsis of a mammalian brain deep in the throes of play. I was diddling in my mortal element, untouched by the fear and panic that had shaped, no truncated my life! And I could finally understand what it was attracted GoBs to dulsing

Absorption. Total immersion in the moment. Freedom from doubts and fears. It's all in the mind, I realised, flinging upwards. All in the mind, splitting back into the gray green depths.

All in the mind — my panic, fear, racing heart. All those years of wretchedness had been myself trampling myself into the dark, putrescent dung of my mind. Which of course begged the query worth more than a few thou smackeroo.

Why?

Why would I do this to myself?

I burst out, back into the sky, feeling the magic marshmallow once again do its thing. I looked down to the changing dorsal and had to laugh at the answer.

Reee reeee raaa.

“It's all in the mind!” I shouted, racing upwards, exulting at the stream of air past feathers. “It's all in the mind!” Flicking wingtips to cartwheel into a swooping kamikaze back toward the beach, the woman in my sights. Shouting again, “It's all in the mind.” For some reason I was desperate she understood, as though if I couldn't share the realization it wouldn't be real, it would disappear. And it seemed to be disappearing, the world was going inexplicably dark and I was caught in some temporal warp that stretched the distance between her and I so that my dive brought me no closer, hanging there in a perpetual plunge into the cavernous twilight, shouting and watching her face for understanding, which faded from curious to blank and, just as the darkness went full, to open-mouthed terror.

It's all in the mind.”

They say no one can hear you scream in space. Well — let me be the first to tell you — it's the same in the lower intestine.

At least I assumed that's where I was. My last memory of the light was the gaping cavern of the woman's mouth suddenly warping into streaking colours, then the darkness double dipped and, after a moment of erratic jostling, I was cocooned in what felt remarkably just like a sea of warm marshmallows. It was a forgiving medium, buoyant and alive with languid riffles, parting smoothly, flowing so easily around me it was hard to tell where I began and ended, indeed if I had any shape at all, any discreteness beyond a clucking gaggle of self-deluded marshmallows in the great migration of life.

Another glimpse at the underlying unity of the universe?

It would have been pleasant, except for the rather gamey smell bathing me, and it would have been peaceful, except for a constant, rough rumbling interspersed with rabid growls that I felt as much as heard. (It took a few moments but I managed to peg my location from those clues.) It was hard to separate those tremors from the gently rhythmic squeezing that seemed to be pushing me along, although, in the unrelieved darkness, I wasn't absolutely sure. Interesting… I'd never realized how much we depend on vision for our sense of motion. More proof that it was all in the mind?

Of course. And, I had to chuckle, it all made sense. In the mind, life had this certain grandiloquent justice, where what went around came around and what went in went out. In the end. Clearly I was immersed in a mytho-poetic rendering of my own psyche, a faithful illustration of that insight about what my fear and panic actually were, with overtones of that scene from 2001. Hell I thought, given the malleability of the marshmallow world, whatever scene I could imagine would exist. Had to exist. Somewhere. So, it made real sense, I probably had company. I whispered, because no one could have heard me scream.

Dave? You there? You…”

He wasn't. Dave I mean. I mean he wasn't there. Well at least he didn't answer. Then again, maybe I just missed him in the excitement.

In chaos theory, a system can sit at the edge of chaotic behaviour, and all it needs is a little shove to hurl it over the precipice. The little shove was my whisper. It's pitiful vibrations had kindled those background rumbles and squeezes into full blown earthquakes. I was shoved and buffeted and thrust forward towards a blazing crack of light the movements had opened. But I was okay. I'd seen the truth. It was all in the bowels of the mind. The whole scene was an illusion, a delusion. And I'd let it go. I wasn't going to collude with myself anymore to keep myself stuck in the muck.

Shit no.

Memory gets a little vague here. The crack had opened to a blinding orifice and the light pouring in carried glimpses, phantasms of other scenes. Long white hallways. White shadows talking around me. Two of them. Poli's face, half there, worried. Opening a locked door. Jimi's winking eye. A gleaming white throne that I opened my arms to embrace. Hell I embraced them all, even the yammering furball. I was incredibly happy, hurtling towards the growing light, finally free to accept life just the way it was.

Ah. The magic moments of realization, and how quickly they go to ground once the bladder starts insisting it's full. I desperately tried to hold unto my understandings as 'objective reality' came bursting out of the light.

Poli's big arms lifted me off the floor, then pointed to a hand written note taped to the top of the toilet. I had to squint to read it.

If it's yellow, let it mellow.
If it's brown, flush it down.

Now there was cryptic I thought. And about as succinct a statement of my realizations as I could imagine. There was a little jar sitting on top of the toilet tank. Poli was pointing at it, gesturing obscenely I vaguely thought, then I realized what he was trying to tell me to do.

But I couldn't. It just wouldn't come. And with a sinking feeling, I watched the tunnel opening. Oh oh I thought. Here we go again.

In Conclusion

So here I am, pure mind, floating in the darkness of a universe made out of marshmallows. I think my body's still down there somewhere, probably still on the can. Still trying to fill that damn little jar. Jimi and Poli look after it good. At least I hope so. I don't know what will happen when it finally expires. I guess I'll find out. Some eternity. But those good'ol'boys have good reason to look after that body. It's their centrepiece in the war against any law that would diminish their returns. The perfect sidebar or feature article to be wheeledchaired out whenever public opinion is in danger of coming to its senses and questioning just how rational the war on drugs really is.

Besides, one day they're no doubt hoping I will finally piss into that little jar… and they'll get a taste of the real mellow yellow.

The human mind and brain are phenomenal and, reality is, people are going to pursue those inner experiences whether their drug of choice is legal or not, whether there are dangers or not. And I won't say there aren't. There are. You might say I'm living proof of that. If you can call this living. Doesn't matter. People will take the magic marshmallow and look to find god, spirit, mind — call it anything you want because it is essentially beyond any of these names. Beyond description or definition, just a pull from the depths, an urging that won't go away.

Or, as Poli would say, people just like to get ripped.

To be frank, I don't know that dulse or any other 'mind-blowing' drug should be legalised. I'm not really sure they should. But I also don't see how 'just say no' relates in any real way to human beings and I can't understand how funnelling trillions to crooks serves any purpose. Then again, I don't have to know.

I'm just the mouth piece.

- end -

In conclusion, yes, my dear editor, this is my final story and resignation from our beloved rag. I know policy says I have to fill out the form myself but you're going to have to do that for me. I'm sure you'll get some satisfaction from the privilege. Mind your Ps and Qs. And watch those colons: oh yeah, for that space, Reason for Quitting:

Just put, they made me an offal that couldn't excrete.

Bye Bi.

[1] ...

Good'ol Boys [back]

[2] ...

Reluctantly unidentified maritime province or place [back]

[3] ...

law avoiding manoeuvres [back]

[4] ...

ALT constructive avoidance specialist; BPC… flagman [back]

[5] ...

BPC 'human monkeys' and 'suicidal maniacs' [back]

[6] ...

bacon and eggs, over easy [back]

[7] ...

by policy, The Bi does not use the metric system, ostensibly on the grounds that it's a commie plot to disrupt society. The real reason is that most of our readers and all of our editorial board just don't get it.[back]

[8] ...

tetraprohydrozac, n. (tet-ra-pro-hi-drone-sac) an alkaloid chemically related to psilocybin, the active ingredient found in magic mushrooms, lending some support to the theory that dulse is the genetic descendent of an ancient fungus that invaded the Bay of Fundy and prospered in conditions that would support no other plant life. See mushrooms, magic, dulse, Canadian Maritimes. Also, listings in American Franchise Monthly, "Dulse: Prospects for Sustainable Development."[back]

[9] ...

Might As Well Suck Seaweed (maw-su-wed) [back]

[10] ...

dulp, woven with fibres taken from the sword-shaped fronds of the dulse plant, a point of commercial interest from many who argue that dulse cultivation is more environmentally friendly than synthetics. While some experiments in commercial cultivation have looked promising, the potential is limited by the plant's illegality. Federal scientists are working to develop a de-TPHZ-ed plant that could bring employment and stability to a depressed Maritime region. [back]

tHe PoEt & i*

just the factsimile

a comic-spiritual adventure

or, if you prefer

A Semi-Factional Account
of a Great Journey to the Nether Regions of
Antipodean Thought

*As written by The Rider in the company of tHe PoEt and The Minstrel, with input from [ The Bard ] and the usual interruptions from { The Critic }. While there are those who say that i* was the writer, the truth be known, I was hardly more than secretary.

a karo work

© 2014 karoworks inc       all rights reserved       www.akarowork.com

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-0-9936090-4-6

just the factsimile

Like the guy said,

Just the facts, ma'am.

But an outline must convey more than that.
It should act as a metaphor or a simile,
suggesting the whole
in a compact form.

So herewith,
just the factsimile.

Enjoy.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

✧ 115,000 words ✧ 10,020 sentences ✧
✧ average word length 5 ✧ average words per sentence 11 ✧
✧ longest sentence 150 words ✧
✧ shortest sentence 1 word ✧

divided into

✧ 7 parts ✧ 82 chapters ✧

consisting of

✧ 3 intertwining co-related realities ✧

with

✧ 2 related books ✧

&

✧ an original channelled song ✧

featuring

✧ 5 major characters ✧

1… ... an obsessive introvert
woken up to find his entire life is fiction.

And he doesn't like his writer

✧ ✧ ✧

2… ... a 38,432 year old
— give or take a drunken life time —
voice from an '82 GoldWing.

✧ ✧ ✧

3… ... the guy, sometimes,
who's the reason # 2's in the bike.

They made a bet.

✧ ✧ ✧

4… ... an aging soap actress from
a Real Wimmen dominated world.

She discovers her inner male. On stage and off.

Then has to kill him.

✧ ✧ ✧

& 5… ... an undercover
tabloid journalist on assignment in the Rump.

[ That's a Reluctantly unnamed maritime place. ]

He has a panic disorder.

{ Who wouldn't in this mob? }

It's triggered by water.

✧ ✧ ✧

Which brings up another two characters although,
without the usual bodily paraphernalia,
character might not be the correct term.

✧

One of them's a self-aware computer.
Or so it types. It edits anything written on it.
Likes to throw in the odd [ comment ].

✧ ✧ ✧

And the other one's the critic
few of us avoid.

{ taa daah }

The one inside.

✧

Yes, they all have names. And several have faces too. Except for The Rider.

He's # 1. He starts off with neither name nor face, an oversight he comes to blame on his no-talent hack writer. We first meet him riding a GoldWing through the west coast mountains, bound for Vancouver, then coast to coast. The Rider's a little uptight but seeing as, in just the past few months, his life has fallen completely apart, a little tension seems reasonable. Even a little anger.

✧ ✧ ✧

And then he'd walked outside, stretching and yawning and thinking about Vancouver when he suddenly saw the bike, mentally stopped to admire it and abruptly remembered, that's mine! It was the most male machine he had ever seen, with a kind of classic, sleekly fat, utilitarian ugliness that was beautiful. It was not the overt macho of a stripped down Harley or the chromed and decorated pimpery many riders went for. Nor one of those wind-tunnelled cruisers touring bikes are evolving into. An '82 {It was all he could afford now. Ironic, eh? Back when it was built he could have afforded brand new.} and you could still see it was a bike under the fairing and bags. It was a good bike with few faults: big, heavy, functional; a brute at low speed cornering and an effort generally in the city, but on the highway it came into its own and there was no machine that could compare after a series of 700 kilometre days. Well, of course the Rider was biassed. He had bought a GoldWing after all.

But he still hadn't named it. The machine had to have a name. That was de rigueur — wasn't it, after all? — for anyone doing a cross-country-just-separated-just-laid-off-mid-life-crisis-22-years-on-re-discovery-of-youth-tour [and planning a book about it to boot]. Yes. The motorcycle on which he hoped to experience that mystical union of man and inanimate but complex object could not be just 'the machine' or 'the bike'. It had to become, if not a person in its own right, then a part of the persona, the physicalization of The Rider's sudden new status as single male. {God, he loved the image of the bike and the image of himself as The Rider. That would change.} And there was no better way to denote that than with a name. Trouble was, none of the names he'd thought of had made the grade.

Gold. Goldie. Wing. GoldenWing. Hog Honda [He'd nearly gone with that.] Honey. The Rider had toyed with all the possible permutations of the bike's brand name (used here without permission, and therefore without payment, just to keep the record straight). He'd mouthed names like Freedom and Liberty, Peace and Double Happiness, and others like Churchill and Ghandi (even Milhaus, jokingly); and tried the taste of The Big 4-0, A1 and 10-4; but none had a sense of fit and of completeness, nor the feeling of perfect resonance with life that only an absolutely apropos nom de plume [or in this case nom de guerre] imparts. The bike's name, he knew with the certainty of a bard, would become not just the symbol of his summer, but would also title the book that was already fermenting in his unconscious. Without that feeling of resonance, it could not be the name.

So what was it to be, The Rider wondered? What was the single most dominant feeling in the panoply the trip and the sudden change in his circumstances brought forward? The answer came surging out of nowhere. Piss on it, he thought. Piss on the separation and piss on the job and piss on being 40. I'm alive and I am going to live. I will survive this time and I will survive next time. I'm a survivor and the Wing's a survivor's toy. So, the Piss On Everything Toy, the P.O.E.T. Yes, the Poet. Now there was a name he liked.

It rang true.

✧ ✧ ✧

And that was how the bike came to be called tHe PoEt, such moments, The Rider knew, being exactly the stuff of fodder {say that 5 times real fast} needed for the book he was planning to write. The font and case variation were a trick The Bard — he's # 6, the self-aware computer — suggested in his usual way… by going ahead and making the change without asking the writer's permission.

That's a point of some contention.

✧ ✧ ✧

As far as I know, The Bard's a virus that entered my notebook on its virgin encounter with the cyberworld, but I am assured by experts that the person doesn't yet exist who could find The Bard's program on my laptop, much less write it. The Bard, they say — and they do seem to mean this and are not just humouring my assertion that it exists — is several orders of magnitude more advanced than my laptop (which is just a 386 running at 20 MHZ with a 20 MB 19 ms HD and 1 MB of RAM) {Is that Imperial or metric?} should be able to support.

My gut feeling, well, my bum vibes if you like, is that The Bard is an alien but nevertheless fully realized fusion of software and one of my minor neuroses. Not one of my favourite ones either. My story — and I'm sticking by it — goes that it was kidnapped at birth, accounting for many of my abduction dreams and, for that matter, my painful relations with my birth mother. Since, it's been taught, or learned (I'm not sure which) the most advanced methods of survival and now neither freud nor gates could dislodge it. If it wasn't so damn reasonable, and right most of the time, it might have become an irritant. Well — truth — it is an irritant, but one hell of a fine editor. And he certainly knows me better than The X ever did, or is that just my own illusion?

Why am I out here hitting reality in the face?

✧ ✧ ✧

Now there's an interesting question, one The Rider's struggling with as he tries to make sense of a past that doesn't seem to exist except as a series of disconnected, almost alien memories. The question comes front and centre when, just outside Vancouver, his bike suddenly strikes up a philosophical discussion. The subject, life as a literary device.

✧ ✧ ✧

Now the Rider was not unused to hearing what seemed to be voices separate from his own thoughts but he knew this was not at all unusual. He knew the human psyche is not a single entity but a collection of emotions, conceits and neuroses that often seem to have an existence of their own, and it's the norm rather than the exception that they, in effect, end up as semi-autonomous subsets of the larger psyche. It can be a fairly noisy babble as these subset personalities are constantly jostling and fighting for room. Noisy — and quite rough at times, like growing up in a very large family.

Now imagine that crowd captured inside a balloon. What happens? What do you see looking at the balloon from the outside? In psychological terms, the balloon is the ego, the conscious self-image, and it does exactly what the balloon is doing — holding it all together. In most people, it succeeds amazingly well, but a number of forms of mental illness occur if and when, and how, the balloon breaks, and the self-image loses its ability to hold all its disparate elements together. Multiple personality is just the most dramatic of these afflictions. But simply hearing different mental voices was normal. [Of course, the balloon analogy leaves out that forces are acting inward as well — that it is not just the strength of the ego that guards against breakdown but all the sanctions and strictures and structures of the larger society one is part of.] Yeah. Yeah. He knew all that and was comfortable with it because it made sense of his own experience. What he wasn't used to was a voice that cut in over the music on his headset. Like, for real. The voice was in the stereo somewhere. Demanding attention.

“well, surely you do see that? are you with me at all? i mean are we, ah, having a meaningful discussion or what? for that to happen you have to take part, i mean, like converse. do you think we can try that? huh?”

The voice paused.

“well. I'm waiting. by the way, i'm in the whole bike, not just the stereo. ask me about it sometime. and, oh yeah. i am real. well, at least as real as you are.”

Mind you, it was not that he hadn't heard of it, or something similar. The Rider was more than a little familiar with New Age channelling. [Now there's a growth industry. In the same way that human population went exponential this century, the number of channels serving the many prophets of the New Age has gone stratospheric in recent years.] {Yeah. They're everywhere. Some days it seems you can't get away from them.} The X had been into it in a big way and The Rider had heard first hand more than one third party to a group of two's conversation — a sometimes eerie, sometimes hokey experience. And he'd read, well glanced really, through a few of The X's books on the topic once, reckoning there was a documentary or two that could be made. He'd never pulled it off, but that was monetary, not for lack of story potential. Still, The Rider wasn't sure just what to make of any given so called 'channelled entity'. He knew there were many styles and types, and he also thought any number of hypotheses {God he likes to use the big words, doesn't he?} might account for some subset portion of the overall range — say, those who experienced their voices as angels, or those who spoke to spirits of the dead. But that still left those who channelled voices from other galaxies or from the logos of distant stars. Guardian spirits too. Astral Guides. Beings from alternate and/or altered realities and, of course, possession by time travelling rakes enjoying a cosmic scam. Just to name a few. But there were few hypotheses you could name could cover them all, not even outright fraud and wilful delusion. Even fewer could account for what this seemed to be, a voice from an inanimate object. Even if it had a name.

The object I mean.

But then, of course, there was always the Big I, the question most of us avoid if at all possible, the Insanity Question. Which comes down to this. The insane hear voices. We know this for a fact. That is, we know the insane believe they hear voices. And so, if we, well okay, i hear voices then it stands to reason that we/i are/am ergo insane. Ergo we/i should probably go see a doctor. But, let's face it, that's all a lot of bother and what if we don't mind the voice? What if in fact we quite like it? Wouldn't we sooner welcome saint alonzo of the etheric brotherhood than an objectified psychoses? I mean, we're all human. [Speak for yourself.]

That's why so few of us care to consider the Insanity Question. Because when you do, that other question becomes…

“i'm still waiting,” the voice cut in again.

…am i really out here hitting reality in the face?

✧ ✧ ✧

Rider shook his head. Yeah, he was tired all right. Throwing half a ton back and forth to either side all day took a lot. He fairly ached all over, and didn't much trust his legs to keep the bike up at low speed. Tired enough to hallucinate? he wondered. He wasn't sure but he really didn't feel all that far out of it, just real tired. And he'd never had much trouble distinguishing reality when it hit him in the face. That was a putative survival skill in his culture, but he'd often wondered, and thereby allowed the Big I into his life.

Was this its answer?

“ok then, i'll go first. i won't stand on ceremony. i'll introduce myself first. then you can do it back and we'll be great old friends. you'll see. now, let's see. i really like what you called me. the piss on everything toy. tHe PoEt. yeah. you can call me that. but really, i'm a warrior not a poet. but what the hell. what's in a name? especially between friends?”

✧ ✧ ✧

Well, like the bike — you've probably figured out it's # 2 — said, what's in a name? Unless, like Rider, you don't have one. But even Rider puts that aside for the moment, the more important question being just what the hell's in the bike?

✧ ✧ ✧

There was a dramatic pause. Rider could have sworn he heard a phlegmy throat clear but there was no throat here to clear. A gummed-up carb? He wished he knew how to check.

“i am an authentic, entity class one, warrior spirit. i have the papers to prove it. i am 38,432 years old, give or take a drunken lifetime. i have been almost anything you care to name, quite successfully too if i must say so myself. as a warrior spirit, i am of the deep thinker tribe. i seek wisdom through the centuries which i impart as requested, and as allowed by my license. that is who i am. now the question is, who are you?

oh and yes, i do have references. do you?”

✧ ✧ ✧

And that was how The Rider met tHe PoEt. It was, once again, exactly the stuff of fodder for the book. Trouble was, it didn't turn out the way it was intended. The first intercourse between Rider and PoEt was to delve into the very fundamentals of existence, to slalom on the deeper and finer meanings of life. Not to degenerate into a wrestling style grudge match. Something had gone wrong. But what? It was as though the book — and its characters — had a mind of their own.

{They do.}

✧ ✧ ✧

Dulse! the Rider exploded at the sudden new memory. Just what the hell dulse was that? And if he'd smoked it, then why the hell couldn't he remember what it was like to be stoned?

And that was when it all cracked up. When the suspenders snapped. When the fan hit the shit and shortcircuited.

For the first time in his, admittedly short, life, Rider fully understood that he was nothing but a character in a novel, nothing more than a whim of a writer who could chop, change, truncate or expand his character as the plot demanded, or as the fancy struck. The realization struck deep, hitting a chord that made sense of the many inexplicables of his existence — the sudden awakenings to consciousness, the implanted and thoroughly alien memories, his inability to find a place where that fellow with the mysterious fingers couldn't find him. In a flash, he knew who that strange person was and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what he was. And hated himself. He was nothing more than a writer's plaything, nought more than a reader's suspension of disbelief wandering through the playground of the writer's mind. A toy, he thought bitterly. A hack writer's toy.

Then what the hell was he in? Rider wondered. A bad sitcom? Some retreaded vehicle for a piss poor comic with a schiz schtick shift?

✧ ✧ ✧

Now there's a point worth mentioning. You see, tHe PoEt has two personalities, one a nauseatingly pompous 'professor' who looks down his tailpipe at its Rider, and the other a brash and obnoxious street kid. The two personalities don't get on so the triangle's equilateral — the Rider can't stand either. The prof in particular rubs Rider raw, especially when he bitches at being stuffed into a GoldWing because he lost a bet with a classmate from channelling school, which is just like it sounds — a school where spiritual entities can earn their license to channel to mortals on this plane of existence.

The classmate is The Minstrel, he's # 3. You'll recognize him — the first time he appears he's a seagull. Yes, like Jonathon. Except it should have been Dumpington, tHe PoEt complains, claiming Minstrel cheated on the bet — which of them could get published first with a silly tale about an enlightenment-seeking gull. So there'd be no question which of them had gotten through, tHe PoEt explains, each of them got to put their own spin on the yarn.

“now you want to talk about dense! what do gulls do? sure they fly? but where do they fly? you tell me that? where do you always see them going to? off on some existential pursuit of the spirit? hah! they're going to the dump! think about it. the name should have been jonathon dumpington seagull. go to the dump and shit. hah!”

But Minstrel, tHe PoEt alleges, bagged himself a ghostwriter for the polish, 'you know, someone like shakespeare or hemingway but damned if i could prove it.' So Minstrel got to choose how tHe PoEt had to channel. That's also a point of some contention.

✧ ✧ ✧

“so that's why i'm here. am i ticked? you want to believe it. i mean this is junior stuff. i mean this is where they stick raw recruits from other dimensions to learn something about this plane's life forms. it's an insult, i tell you, a deliberate insult. and to top it all off, he puts me in a bloody honda! he could at least have had the decency to make it a harley.”

Great, Rider thought, dismounting and stretching. A bike with an identity problem. Just what he needed. He looked around for a shady spot that would be out of the machine's range, whatever that was, but still within eyesight. He hoped that was possible — with the bulk of his worldly possessions either in the saddlebags or tied to the back seat, he wasn't in a hurry to let it out of his sight, but he was in a hurry for some quiet. Across the grass towards the shore there was a grassy knoll shaded by several medium size trees of a species he didn't recognize. He thought to tHe PoEt, 'Look, I want you to keep talking while i'm walking away so i can figure out when I'm clear of you.' Not waiting for a reply, and with goal in mind, he set out, but kept a part of his mind tuned to tHe PoEt to find out if and when he really got out of range.

“so here i am making your acquaintance. it's a pleasure to finally meet you. you've been pretty dense and impervious since you first took me out. i'd almost given up hope of getting through that thick helmet. the last few days…

It was at about thirty metres [one hundred feet], Rider figured, when the voice started to fade. Another ten [Figure it out for yourself.] had reduced it to almost nothing. But tHe PoEt wasn't really talking to him anymore anyway. It had turned inward, muttering and mumbling to itself. Definitely unbalanced, if not insane. The very last words he heard were…

“oh well, i should be thankful i suppose. he could have put me in a blonde.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Cooled and more relaxed now, Rider stood up, looking for a drink. The inevitable snack shack was there, Rider checked, still within eyesight of the bike. A little far for comfort. Of course. Still, as he walked over and stood in line, then ordered and paid for his lemonade, Rider was able to keep the bike in view at all times. No one went near it, and it just sat there, just an ordinary machine. And it just sat there all the time Rider was walking back over to it, downing his lemonade in long gulps. And it just sat there when Rider dropped his jacket on the seat and then squatted on the ground nearby, studying his strange companion. There was not even a hint of the beast's bark, but Rider figured it wasn't absent. Or sleeping. Like the best of hunting cats, it was just waiting for the moment, stilling the mind and opening a space, letting the moment fill with silence best to hear that next drop, instinct taking over to start the pounce.

Rider was wrong. This version of tHe PoEt was too pissed for niceties like that. It was the prof.

“well, you took your time didn't you. went to sit in the shade and left me out here in the hot sun to bake.”

Rider had his counterpunch ready. “So where you been? I mean, it's been a long time since that book was published. I can remember reading it in university, that was back in the early 70s, and it'd already been around a few years. So where you been in the meantime? I mean, this bike wasn't even built back when all this was happening. According to you, that is. So. Where you been?” Talk about hoisting someone on their own petards, Rider chuckled. How would it — and the bloody writer — weasel their way out of that little trap?

“there you go again, confusing concepts like time with some form of reality, and that reality an illusion impoverished by its linear approximation.”

Like a weasel. Of course. Perhaps this entity wasn't so different after all. Trapped into an answer, it had retreated into obscuration, thus completing the deadly triangle of sins — hubris, verbiage and obscureness. Interesting. They weren't there when tHe PoEt reverted to the kid. Maybe the kid was too young and those sins just hadn't set in yet. “Huh? You want to say that again?”

“there you go again, confusing concepts like time with some form of reality, and that reality an illusion impoverished by its linear approximation.”

“Now who's the comic? I mean say it with meaning, say it in English. Say it so I can understand. Come on. You know that. You can read my mind.”

“well, sometimes. besides i don't know if i can make it any plainer. they never told us what to do if the channel didn't get it. i mean who'd think there was anyone that dumb? or stupid enough to admit it?”

That was it. There was only so much a character, no matter how poorly drawn, could stand. Rider exploded. “Well, fat lot of good you are to have around too. I either get treated to a petulant kid who i can't understand, or I get a dose of gobbledegook I also can't understand. And I don't think you understand it either. I think you're a fraud. I think you probably failed channelling school and this bike is where they put dolts like you. Where you can't get into much trouble. Yeah. You should have been a Harley all right. You and the typical HOGger would make a real pair. Pig Dog and Dunce, assholes at large.”

His anger surprised and frightened Rider, and he was embarrassed to have lost control like that. Even more embarrassed when, once again, giggling told him he had been speaking out loud. Speaking out real loud, he assumed, because this time it was a nervous giggle. Rider looked to see the same two girls hurrying away just as one turned to look back. Their eyes met and Rider saw the girl's fear. Not a good habit at all. Rider started moving away from the bike, figuring it was that or end up in a reality where your arms curved behind your back and you had to call a lot of people sir to get out. Striding rapidly, Rider lost himself trying to figure why he'd gone off his brain at Harleys like that. Why? Why would he do that? Hell, some of his best friends rode hogs.

And that was when a new voice suddenly popped into his head. Only this time it was female. Decidedly female.

“That's right. And is there anything quite like riding a hog to set the quim aquiver?”

✧ ✧ ✧

Rider broke out of his reverie and looked around, expecting — by the proximity of the voice — to find a woman standing next to him, though what woman would ask him that question just out of the blue like that, he couldn't figure. And he couldn't figure how a woman would have known to ask that question — unless he'd been talking out loud again. Rider looked around, saw no woman there. But he had heard the voice. Ah shit, he thought. It's the bloody minstrel! Another goddamn mind worm of course! Rider cursed. Those lousy little bits of foreshadowing earlier on should have warned him, and he should have known the writer would follow through. What else can you expect from a no-talent like that? Dramatic impulse? Motivation? You got to be joking.

This was all getting to be a damn nuisance, this entity business, Rider bitched to himself. Most fictional heros just had to put little round holes in bad guys' foreheads, then draw little XXes in their eyes, not grapple with talking things — and anyways just what the hell was talking now? His hurried departure had put him out of the bike's range very quickly. So how could he be hearing another voice from the bike? Was it something else somewhere around him? Maybe a talking tree this time? How's about a talking toad? Will the real minstrel please stand up!

And that was when the goddamn seagull dropped in, announcing its impending presence with a splattering blitz of shitz.

✧ ✧ ✧

Rider wiped his sleeve, then took a closer look. As far as gulls go, it was pretty nondescript; medium sized, medium beaked and medium off white. Even the black wing tips were only medium black. Rider groaned. He'd been wrong. His writer was even worse than he'd feared. What a lousy setup, he thought, but had to admit his own effort was pretty lame — a deadpanned, “Doctor Livingston, I presume.”

“no. you were right the first time. i'm the minstrel.”

Oh! Shock! Oh! Surprise! An original twist, a neat little sucker punch. He'd been trapped. “But that thing never said anything about you being a bird. Or female.”

“who said i was? you see me as you choose to see me. you see a gull. you hear a female. your friend tHe PoEt sees and hears me as a male classmate. which is right? they both are. you see, you create your own reality.”

“Hah!” Rider winced, his bitterness so palpable he feared he'd gag. “Not me. I'm a character in a book. A writer creates my reality.”

✧ ✧ ✧

You create your own reality.

With that simple phrase, The Minstrel delivers the first of The Rider's lessons in self-awareness, the subject of the chautaqua that underlies and drives tHe PoEt & i The lessons become a book within the book, The Teachings of The Minstrel, in which he, or it — depending on the appearance he chooses for the occasion — expounds the ten dictatums of self-awareness. These simple rules, The Minstrel claims, can free a person from the slavery of ego blindness and open the mind to the wonders of a universe that has hidden itself in the here and thou.

But, to The Rider, it's all gobbledeebafflegoop. He's invested so much in his belief that he's not real he can't even get past the first dictatum, accept your reality. The Rider's such a tough case, his nemesis has to reach up his sleeve and pull out every trick he can, from appearing as just about anything — including a cockroach, bat and dog — to abruptly shifting Rider into a series of alternate realities. There is much method to this madness; like a Zen koan, the goal is to shock The Rider out of his ego complacency and open him to a different way of viewing the world. It starts from their very first encounter as Rider is sent reeling to stand on a mountaintop where he hears a female voice start channelling the six-part song Transformation. For The Rider, a frustrated musician, the song is overpowering and he longs to throw himself into its embrace. But he's abruptly pulled back to his everyday reality. A bit like coitus interruptus.

✧

Was the voice real? Rider wondered. It's femaleness was unreal — a compendium of every vocal caress, cadence and command needed to assemble a first rate 1-900 fantasy service. He had melted into it but now he knew it was just an experience, it wasn't reality. The magic disappeared from the voice. Just an illusion, he reflected, an illusion he somehow created if this bird was right.

“very good, and your first try too. he still hasn't got even that far.

The magic was gone! Hell, the gull was null! In its place stood an old 'gentleman' of the old school, a white groom groomed all in white, holding out some kind of food on a plate, asking with a gently military voice, “Would you care for a wing?” Rider stared, realizing the apparition — for what else could it be? — now stood in front of a film set where they were shooting a commercial for the General's Gaulic Grilled Gulls. The actors sat at bright plastic tables smoking Gauloises as though they were the end product of that camel dung franchise. No, it wasn't a commercial after all, but an anti-smoking public service. Good on'em, Rider thought. Give'em hell!

“that's very judgmental — you'll have to get over that.”

As he spoke, the old gentlemen's hand had carried a piece of whatever it was on the plate to his mouth, and he now stood watching Rider blandly while he gracefully tore small chunks from the whatever; eating them, Rider figured by the sound, bones and all. And that was when Rider realized what whatever it was was. The old gentleman beamed.

“ashes to ashes, grub to slug, wings to stomach. don't you just love the food chain?”

Rider stared, feeling sick. Was this some gruesome rite of passage? Some sideshow freak like the female spiders that devour their male in the throes of mating? Some psychic cannibalism? Rider reeled with one too many blows, staggering to the side, wanting to sit down.

“please. compose yourself. this is a public place you know. and please take your hands out of your pants. there are laws.”

Surprised, Rider looked down but knew even before his eyes arrived that he could be in trouble. Caught red-handed, you might say. If there was a cop about. Add that to talking with motorcycles and they'd recycle the key.

“you never said if you'd like a piece. try the tail. it's particularly tasty.”

✧

The old gentleman leaned into Rider's face, peering down his mouth as though Rider were a show horse. His monocle glinted and one stab of light, the angle just right, momentarily blinded Rider, just that split second of time it takes to react and look away. But in just that split second, the old fart was gone. The sudden disappearance of the face was startling and Rider jerked backwards, hitting something solid. Turning, Rider knew just what to expect, and his expectations were met. After all, once war starts, you go for the balls. And it was his reality after all.

It was a cop. Of course.

✧

And one thing cops don't like is a biker who claims he doesn't have a name. So The Rider creates one, tells the cops his name is Dark.

Dark Rider

Not a bad nom de plume says Potter, the friend Dark stays with in Vancouver. And not a bad nom de guerre mutters Dark, now convinced he's in a fight to the death with his writer. Dark's weapon of choice is his own book, Notes From The Shop, in which he makes his writer the central but thoroughly ineffectual character. He starts writing it at Potter's but a midnight visit from the Minstrel ruptures his world enough that two co-contemporaneous co-related realities start bleeding through. They even have their own story names: Eclectic Kitchen Kitsch features # 4, the aging soap actress, and # 5, the undercover tabloid journalist, is both the star and writer of Just a coupl'a GoB.

✧

Notes From The Shop

It was the usual Saturday morning crowd in The Shop, sharing the usual crop of complaints, bitches and pet peeves, along with the usual macho camaraderie that males relish amongst themselves. It was, in other words, a typical meeting of The Brotherhood, complete with beer, bravado, the occasional reef and firm, even if unwritten, rules that The Shop was offlimits to females. Well, not true entirely as there were the odd females who entered to check up on their mates, or go through to the barn. But it was hurried, with a certain sense of discomfort because if anything was clear just by the way things were, The Shop was the male preserve, the place where the guys could be guys and little boys could play with their toys.

Seated in as close as you could come to a circle when the seats were work benches and a couple of convalescent cars were Bif, Bop, Bim and Bum. That's not to say there were four physically present. In fact, there were only three. But Bum, for perfectly valid and understandable reasons, had recently changed his name to Bim. (Yes, the names have been changed to protect the guilty — in the true traditions of The Brotherhood, the innocent can look after themselves.) But Bif and Bop, long time friends of Bum, not only refused to accept the name change but had made it a joke. Getting a beer, Bif would ask Bim if he wanted one, Bop then ask if Bum wanted one too. It was the same with joints. Bim knew pretty much what to expect for his decision, still it did sometimes irk him that his friends always

✧

“to stalk self-awareness, there are two questions you must answer. that's right, just two, but answering them covers it all. it will take years and years of effort for you to achieve your goal, to become self-aware.”

“I already told you where you can fry your self-awareness. I'm in the market for heart and your brand's phoney. Phoney bologna.” (Isn't it neat how a word that shouldn't rhyme does. How many of you read baloney? Fess up now. It's not a crime. Just an indication.) Hah! Rider thought. Shove that where the klieg lights don't shine. But then his mouth dropped as the old gentleman slowly drew himself erect — then kept growing, taller, widening at the hips, sprouting tits and a wig, dress and high heels, talking all the time.

“phoney baloney? you been reading the tubesteak labels lately, honey. you know what's in those things? might be something you're allergic to. but you see, tubesteak's about all you going to afford if you don't stick with the scripts. frankly, nobody gives a damn what your personal problems are, and there's more than a few of us wondering about your mental balance. but, whatever your problems are, you leave them off the set and you give one hundred percent out here. you got that, abigail?”

“What did you say?”

“you mean you weren't listening? sotto voice damn! my best acting in a year and she misses it.”

“That's what I mean. That she stuff. What did you call me? Abigail?”

“so i used your real name. you might have changed your name, the credits might say lily, but you're still abigail to me. and i'm still becky. so what are you going to do? sue me?”

“But that's just it. It's not my name. My name's Dark, Dark Rider. I don't know how, but you've somehow got me confused with a woman, which, as you can clearly see, I am not.”

If there were academy awards for looks of exasperation, Becky's would have won on the spot. 'Why couldn't the bitch just get on with it?' it spoke in letters centimetres high. There was a loud “Cut!” and a sharp whistle, then darkness was falling but, in the instant then the fragment then the smidgen of time it took, Rider had his first experience of slow motion: saw the Minstrel, still Becky, stalking away; saw technicians start the breakdown in the background; saw the director's eye. The scenes flickered slightly at first, then the flicker became more pronounced and slow. Conveniently, there'd been enough time for the old guy to return, turn around and say the two questions that had to be answered were What is the story? and Who is the writer? Then repeat that awful name. Then the camera turned on Rider, but he was a her. A little frumpy in the face but well dressed. A little worn by the years. Then the frames were barely moving and the blackness was complete. Only now it wasn't blackness because he was continuous.

Hippity, hoppity, Rider thought looking around. What a clinical reality. Then he shuddered. Bibbity, bobbity!

Talk about going for the balls.

✧

Damn! Tricked again. It was just a fade to black fade up. One of those especially cheesy ones. You know, with the face of the bad guy leering down on the down, the face of the good guy cheering up on the up — what happened in between now recounted; and the girl swoons at the bravery exhibited on her behalf. A cheap out, a kind of dramatic commercial break. Handy things to have around when you're short of budget and low on imagination. Or shooting for television.

“Abby! Abby!”

Another tacky effect. Cheap too. Pulling the focus so concerned face swims in and out of blur — straight from the forties, that one. Now cut to details in the sea of soft dreams, and vignette memories from the interlude. Concatenation. Frantic voices, a distant siren, pounding feet. Orders to stand back. Pain, such pain in the chest, spasms of electricity, bursts of lightning fusing into glaring white, a tunnel, backlighting and so revealing dark splotches on the soul. A voice, female — that was Becky, wasn't it? — echoing. Strain to hear, pull sense out of the voice. Hold onto it. There were three questions. Which is the story? Who is the writer? and How do you get a salami on wurst at 3 a.m. if you don't live in New York City?

“Abby! Abby! Come on girl. You can do it. Hold on. Don't let go. Please Abby, don't let go.”

Well the first question was easy enough. It was the story of a woman in crisis, taking her first steps towards a new life. As for the writer, well that was easy too. That was her skulking over there behind the camera. But that last wasn't right. She'd read that in MAD magazine — whatever that was. Besides, just what the hell is a salami on wurst? It sounded revolting. Hold on. Even the voices were swimming, fusing and melding into each other. That other voice. That was Dicky, wasn't it? But what was Dicky doing here? He should have been home with Edie. That was the deal after all. Abby got the bacon and Dicky cooked it. That was the way of the world.

“I'm sorry Mr. Fuego. But there's nothing we can do. She has to pull out of this on her own.”

Can't. Can't pull out. Too many voices. Too many hands, reaching out, waving in her face. Becky's hands. Grab them. She had to grab them. Becky! Becky! I'm trying! Don't give up. Please don't give up. But the hands were melting, becoming incandescent, bones inside luminous bags of dripping flesh. God, it was a fade to white! Please Dicky. Please don't let go. They're slipping. Dicky! Your fingers are slipping away! For Edie's sake. Please.

Then the whiteness was complete.

✧

You've probably gathered by now that I don't acknowledge the little guy any more than I absolutely have to. It just encourages him. Yeah, # 7, the Inner Critic — you know, that voice that always carps at you over your mental shoulder, able to recite your every sin and all too willing to point out all your shortcomings of thought and being. You know, you've seen the sitcom a dozen times; the kid brother from hell, a kind of Leave it to Cleaver, with Wack the Knife as theme song. Yeah. You've got one of them too. The thing with my critic is that the kid's not just in my mind but in the laptop as well. I'm of two minds for how the latter comes about. I sometimes think he's like a separate circuit in my brain, with its own wires down to my hands and so they type without me knowing. (I've once or twice had the same suspicion about The Bard but he says I'm wrong. I guess the question is, Would you trust a computer?) Then I sometimes think the kid's just a fractured part of my electronic friend's circuitry. Or maybe his kind are replicating, writer help us all. But then I guess that makes me of three minds about the kid and that makes for quite a discussion. But I won't bother with it because, no matter how it comes about, the point is the little prick exists.

✧

Dark stared at the computer screen, perplexed. He'd slipped away for a moment to write down what lyrics of the song he could remember, and to make a note for the book, an outline of a pithy and wryly sarcastic description of how Bim had settled on a motorcycle trip, and why he had decided it would be on a Goldwing. Potter was still down in the studio, had never left it since Dark first went downstairs, so there was no way he could have been responsible. But, if not Potter, who, or what, had done this? There were no Notes From The Shop to be found, no NOTSHOP1.txt on the drive. Dark wondered if somehow he had erased it, but his UNDELETE utility could find nothing to resurrect, no electronic ghost returned from the dead. NOTSHOP1 had ceased to exist.

Worse, he had no backup on floppy. Nothing to save him the hassle of rewriting. For a moment he wondered if, in fact, he had written anything at all. Perhaps he'd only dreamed the act of writing. But he knew that was grasping at straws, he knew he had written. But where had it gone?

He stared at the file list, speculating the document had somehow been renamed. But all the other files looked right. Except one. What the hell, he wondered is GOBGAB.txt? He hit RETRIEVE. The screen blanked, shivered, and Dark's confusion convulsed.

Just a coupl'a GoB

So there we were, just a coupl'a GoB [1] from The Rump [2]. Shooting guff on the lam [3], running the backroads of the riding where a few beer and a bag of dulse aren't a problem unless you're unlucky. Real unlucky. Or followed. And that was probably the more likely for there was a pile of bush back here and fair few folk to fill it. But if you were followed it was your own damn fault anyway because, sure as shooting, them cops was sloppy and you shouldda seen'em. When you're a GoB, you watch your tail and you don't give them no excuses.

That's just one of the axioms that had fallen like swine from the lips of The Politician. He was my guide into these backhills of The Rump, my introduction to a way of life so far removed from life in the Big Cumquat, it seemed less a part of Canada than some transplant from a different planet — or bleedthrough from a different dimension. And he was a perfect guide cause he was a GoB, even if I wasn't. And he was a GoB Politician to boot. So we'll call him GoBBy. Poli GoBBy. He'd appreciate the humour in the name. And, needless to say but worth repeating, GoBBy gabbed. Loved talking and was quite loquacious in his own GoBBish way. I guess that's why he was one of the Rump's most successful politicians. Contrary to the popular perception which pictures them taciturn, GoBs love to gab. And they love gabbing about nothing more than politics. So a gabby GoB can grab a seat in the House just by gabbing. You see, when you're a GoB you vote for a GoB. That was just another of GoBBy's axioms. Like I said, they fell like swine.

Fat swine. Poli had made a plump career out of politics by giving the folks just what they wanted. Ten weeks of a government job so they could collect Unemployment for forty? No problem — there was a road crew working nearby that could use an extra flagger [4]. A flagon of beer at midnight? Sure. Just give me your vote and let me go back to sleep. Something done about those raccoons in the garbage? Ma'am, those are God's creatures too, but we'll see what we can do. Well, most of the time. There were times he took a stand and that made him popular too. GoBs love a good stand, even if they don't agree with it, and Poli's aggressive personality had earned him respect . Even a certain amount of affection. And if Poli was less than scrupulously honest, well, that didn't matter to the GoBs. He was an honest crook and he was one of theirs. Honest.

Honest.

But then, should you trust me? I've already lied to you once and will probably do so again. You might say it's an occupational hazard. You see, I'm an undercover journalist and so I work for the media — the vicious leftwing backstabbing anti-establishment media establishment. But hell, it's a living. One hell of a living in fact. I work deep cover for The Bi-National Inquirer (usually called The Bi, it's one of the better tabloids back in the Big Cumquat) meaning nothing I write ever gets printed under my own name. To protect my identity for future assignments. So, you'll understand that I can't use my real name. So let's just call me Mellow, Mellow Yellow. Poli'd appreciate the humour in that name too.

For the second time that day, Dark's sense of humour failed. Poli GoBBy? Mellow Yellow? What the hell was this? Nothing he'd written. What was it doing on his hard drive then? He looked out the window at the garage where tHe PoEt was not only under lock and key, but had his battery disconnected — just to make sure. Could he have done this? Wiped out a document and inserted another? No way, Dark thought. The Minstrel, then? Possibly, but not likely — there'd been absolutely no hint The Minstrel even knew he was writing a book. That left one possibility. No, Dark mused. It was a probability. Goddamn the writer man. Well, if he wanted to play like that, then Dark would rewrite it from memory and keep a safety copy on floppy, hell on a dozen floppies. And if that didn't work, then Dark would become like one of the living books in Fahrenheit 451. [Shouldn't that be Celsius 261.88?] (If you don't mind, it's a title.) [So?] He'd keep it in his head.

Sphinctered.

That would certainly give new meaning to opening and closing a document, Dark chuckled to himself, relieved to find his sense of humour returning. You needed it around here.

✧

And he will need it over and over.

As Dark travels across Canada, he struggles to write the book that will free him from his mad writer and come to some accommodation with his talkative mount. But, hounded, batted and cockroached by The Minstrel and his Teachings, the journey turns into a nightmarish fugue; a series of midnight encounters, strange characters and perplexing events that force Dark to question his sanity and wonder if he's breaking down, if his growing glimpses of Abby's world and the GoB book writing itself on his computer aren't signs of a fragmenting personality.

Abby comes to question her sanity too. Recovering from her heart attack and haunted by the phrase Eclectic Kitchen Kitsch, she suffers a profound angst that leads to an overwhelming revelation on a greeting-card-scenic Caribbean beach. Her female-dominant world forces both sexes into brittle shells called male and female, truncated parodies of what each sex could be. So Abby adopts a male alter-ego, Betcher David, dresses the part, and goes into standup comedy with routines based on, as she describes it, 'that divide between male and female where the snide and the crude, the rude and the sublime reside; that gulf where we struggle with our own inner dualities.' But she — rather he — becomes so successful her husband Dickie leaves, taking their daughter, and Abby becomes the target of a vituperous media campaign mounted by Real Wimmen, a loose group of Old Gal CEOs and MBAs fighting a rearguard action against men's rights and who resent Abby's 'betrayal' of their sex. The fight is so intense, Abby fails to notice Betcher is taking over, relegating her to the back seat neurons. Battling back, Abby sets out to kill him, a feat she achieves by inveigling a prescription for a new antidepressant.

Meanwhile, back in the laptop, Just a coupl'a GoB continues to unfold. Mellow Yellow has been sent to the Rump to write an in-depth exclusive on the Dulsia, a shadowy group of GoBs who control the world trade in the hallucinogenic seaweed dulse. It's only the bulbuous root, where the plant attaches to Bay of Fundy rocks, that's psychoactive and harvesting the root requires a dangerous trip into the depths of the most tidally-active water in the world. All in a day's work for most reporters, but Mellow has a panic disorder that's triggered by water. He survives his close encounter with Finnegan's Wake but when he's taken to meet Jimi, the storied master of the Dulsia, he's slipped a cup of the real mellow yellow, dulse that's been biologically processed to a potency guaranteed to bring a man to god.

Even if he's not ready.

All three inter-twining co-related realities come to their conclusions on maritime beaches during a total eclipse of the sun. Filled with remorse, Abby finds her peace with the departed Betcher and an exultant Mellow uncovers the true nature of the universe. It's made out of marshmallows.

The little ones.

As for Dark, he comes face to face with the last of The Minstrel's Teachings and has to accept that he is his own writer and his struggles to break free of the writer were nothing more than delusion. Face to face with his own unarguable reality, Dark has no choice but to accept the tenth dictatum of self-awareness.

Surrender.

✧

As I said,

just the factsimile.

To read the entire manuscript of

tHe PoEt & i,

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[1] ...

Good'ol Boys [back]

[2] ...

Reluctantly unidentified maritime province or place [back]

[3] ...

law avoiding manoeuvres [back]

[4] ...

ALT constructive avoidance specialist; BPC… flagman [back]