Thu, 19 May 2005

A Joke For The Edificaion Of Travellers And Lost Souls
On Thu, 25 Feb 1999, jeffff (!) wrote: “A pirate, a priest and a monkey with a jack-o-lantern walk into a bar.”

The town where this bar was housed was in a country which had just gone over to a thoughtless variant of misunderstood and impoverished communism, which (in the heady rush of the government-in-transition) led many to tear down temples and churches of all faiths — massive corruption and opulence on the part of high-ranking clergy had led many to view the church as the primary cause of poverty and strife in this country. Thus, church officials were treated as traitors to the new state, whom all good patriots were to bring in before the junta to be tried and executed for their crimes against the people. As is often the case during the dangerous days after such a violent coup, many smaller towns found themselves unprotected by an organized governmental army or police force, and thus were laid open to plunder by bands of roving pirates. Many of the small towns in the hillsides to the south have been completely abandoned after repeated sackings had left the villagers still living nothing left to have stolen, leading to beatings and slaughter by the banditos. In order to secure public faith in the revolutionary forces just now getting the fit of the vestments of power, deputized villagers have been armed from the state arsenal and let loose on the land, ordered to shoot to kill any persons suspected of piracy. Certain of these militia bands, getting a taste for such a life, become pirates themselves, stealing from the original thieves, instituting a hierarchy of kickback and payoff as per the express design of the infant government.

The people of the town in which our bar resides have been fighting the “mola t’kh”, the monkey-army, for the past three thousand years, since back before the mountains were closed off by rock and ruin, back in the days when the lost legion of vayu entered this place and forgot their meaning, entering into bloody conflict with the people who had made homes near the rivers, crops of the vegetation, and “nature” of what once was everything. In the late summer nights, of which this night is one, the townspeople set aside talk of the old revolution and the new government and sing ballads of children carried off and eaten by the mola t’kh, of the victories their ancestors must have had (for was it not they, and not the monkeys, who had brought civility and order to the darkness?), and, drunk off the extracts of the tree-roots, fire pistols into the brush, taunting any foolish monkey to try to take their children.

These three should know better than to show face in the village, much less in the bar, where all those not sleeping are spending away the small hours, but they know nothing, having been made dumb by a vision they had shared while crossing the bridge.

Upon entering, the priest says “I have seen a most terrifying thing in the stars, a vision which has wrapped around and gnawed at my soul, and I cannot believe in any god who would allow such a thing. I defy the church, I defy god, and I need a drink, immediately.”

Following immediately after, the pirates says “I too have seen a most terrible thing, the form of which has brought me to a level of baseness which deserves not even the most menial of sustenance. I abandon the wealth and power I have stolen from the people and ask only that you provide me with drink enough to steady my nerves, so that I may go back out into the night and take my own life.”

On the heels of the pirate, the monkey enters the bar and says “As has the others, I have seen a most dreadful image in the stars, and I know now that I deserve not to wear the fur of my birth. My life has been a disgrace to my true masters, and vayu looks upon me as you people do, with disgust and loathing. I will walk back out into the night wearing only my skin, carrying this totem of my shame, and will never speak a word again, but I am afraid, and need a drink before I begin my vow of disgrace.”

The people in the bar sat in silence. Hours of drinking have left them emotional, months of conflict and warfare have left them drained, and talk of star-visions wells up as a thick black fear in their bellies. The bartender, who has spent too many nights in the arms of a vodka-stupor and knows that “permanent revolution” is nothing more than the abstract name of ghouls feeding on ghouls, is certain that letting these three into his bar will result in his execution come morning. The bartender no longer cares. Let it all come down, he sighs under his breath, and pours three shots of his finest for three who had entered the furnace and shat themselves in fear.

“I will give of you all the drink you can swallow, but you must tell me, what is the vision you saw? What could bring you to such states?”

The priest says “We were on the bridge, comparing our trials, speaking of all the terrible things we had seen as pariahs in your world, attempting to best the others with our depravity and suffering. As we were reaching a nadir, there was a light in the sky, and we fell onto our bellies in dear, covering our eyes, terrified.”

As the priest stopped to drink, the pirate continues the story —

“I’d seen things so terrible I’d rather remember nothing than have to see them again, but this, this was a thing much worse than any of that. I…I cannot speak of it, cannot, cannot find the words…”

The monkey comes to the aid of the pirate, saying “There is no understanding it! There is no way to speak of it! It is the absence of all hope, of all love! Better you never know of such a fate, so as to perhaps protect yourself, so as not to spend your handful of remaining days as we must!”

The bartender, pouring a second round of shots into the empty glasses, says “but we all know of the vision in the stars, for we have all seen it. It is the thing which turns the heart of the righteous into the tool of the tyrant, the seed of decay in that which lives. It is that which keeps us clinging to the ground, rolling all the same stones, consoling yourself with the litanies of stupidity woven into history. We all stare at that idol, and we all bow. We all cave and cower at the vision in the stars. The only solace left us is to align ourselves with the vision, to prey on those freshly-blinded, to tell ourselves ours is but a small evil in a world of great and gross wrongs. That we meant well.”

While the barkeep gave his speech, the patrons gathered around the three pariahs, pulling long knives from beneath their clothes, wiping the spit from their mouths with their sleeves.

As the three travelers lay in pieces on the floor of the bar, sawdust stained with blood, the three look at each other, knowing they have walking into the star-vision, and as their life pumps out of their bodies, the pirate laughs.

“What? what is it?” asks the priest.

“The thing of it is we weren’t even the first. Not even the first tonight.”

“Why do you say that?” asks the monkey.

“Well, that’s not *my* wooden leg!”
(12:08.05.19.2005) [/alpha] #