kagablog

{an extract from the novel in progress - ‘The Heartstring Noodle Bar’}

I suddenly remembered that it was in fact Genevieve’s birthday today. A small sinking sensation came over me as I hastily shuffled through my correspondence box. She had sent me an invitation last week and I had shelved it along with a donation plea to aid some species of near extinct butterfly. So it was after much rummaging that I finally came across the rather grotesque invitation. The invitation was written painstakingly in blood, no doubt Genevieve’s own, and scrawled along the inside of a human femur. I was aware of the fact that she had recently acquired several dozen human skeletons from a now defunct medical museum in the seedy side of town. I admit, I had become curious as to how she would choose to express herself through the medium of bone. Admittedly, the idea of birthday invitations simply did not present itself to me. Perhaps I just did not the comprehend the ‘goddess-given artistic drives’, as Genevieve and her circle of Night Maries put it. I examined the femur for the time and address of the party. I was obligated to go and it just wouldn’t do to not make an effort. I thought that If I hurried I might be able to make it to the dregs of the celebration, hang around long enough to wish Genevieve, either personally or via one of her Night Maries. I began to scrabble mentally through the contents of the room for some manner of gift whilst scanning the blood scrawls for information. I finally registered that the party was in fact only scheduled to begin at four am and was located at some venue in an old and disused railway terminal somewhere on the outskirts of town. I looked at the clock and realised that if I hurried, I might make it on time after all. I telephoned a reliable taxi service and pulled on a partially crumpled, grey and salmon pink zoot suit. I discovered that the only gift which I could produce on such short notice, which was even vaguely appropriate, was a large penyata the same size and dimensions of a young boy. The head was a caricatured skull and the entire thing was crafted out of bone-white sugar candy mixed with flour. The mixture had by now become quite stale and had warped vaguely, probably due to a prolonged exposure to sea air. Ominous rattling sounded from within its depths, denoting secrets yet undivulged. I had been trying to get rid of it for weeks but even the seagulls wouldn’t go near it. Here at last was an opportunity to kill two birds with one very ugly piece of candy. I pulled on a white fedora, my best dancing shoes and a pair of spats. Hans, my cigarette-smoking iguana jiggled from his perch, slid across the desk and hopped nimbly onto my shoulder. I scooped up the candy penyata boy and Han’s cigarettes in one deft movement, turning off all the lights on my way out. Outside the wind threatened to take my hat. Hans tucked his triangular head into the folds of his neck fan like a budgie, and together we struggled up the long sandy drive .The dunes rolled away on either side in the pale moonlight, and we eventually emerged onto the side of the highway. Flocks of tumbleweed chased each other like gazelles across the receding strip of grey tarmac and the night smelled inexplicably of nougat. I did not have long to wait before I saw the faint glare of headlights intensifying across the lunar wastes. I was however surprised to see a small white milk truck emerging from the murk. It chugged up the highway like a little extracted tooth and stopped infront of me. The back of the small truck was open, in the manner of a golf-cart, and laden with many gleaming bottles of milk. The driver was a skinny young man in a cowprint uniform and a matching skullcap. There were no doors and the roof was stretched canvas. A frolicking little red cow had been painted along the bonnet. I noticed that driver wore enormous goggles to protect his eyes from the wind, for there were no doors in the milk truck’s cabin.

“Did you ring for a taxi sir?” he called to me over the wind.
“I did indeed,” I answered, approaching the flimsy vehicle.
“Well, climb in then sir!” he smiled professionally.
“But you seem to be in the process of delivering dairy products.” I protested.
“Yes, well unfortunately there’s been some trouble in the city and the taxi service has been experiencing difficulty in reaching some of it’s more distant customers.”
“I see,” I said in a perplexed fashion.
“They call us milk boys when there’s a problem in the early hours sir, you see, we know the roads us milk boys, oh yes we do. And we don’t have much to do on these long stretches between suburbs. Plain Jane wilderness from the milk factory to town sir, one or two farms but that’s it really. We’ve all had trouble since the new regime sir, and we all have to do our little bit. We all have to work together so to speak, to keep the engines running smoothly, so to speak. The taxi services, very modestly you understand, planned for every possible contingency. They, in their wisdom understood that a little extra business couldn’t hurt the milk trade, and well, they offered us milk boys the option of moonlighting for them sir, so to speak. Ironic that isn’t it sir, moonlighting!”
He laughed, turning his huge goggles moonward.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I suppose it is ironic.”
“I mean, you certainly wouldn’t see one of us milk boys ferrying around customers in the day now would you? All night working at the factory, making sure that the milk is just so, that the cows are happy and all of that, getting the milk to the general population in time for cornflakes..This little window between loading and pre-dawn, well its all the moonlighting time we have to offer! And you won’t find much else besides the moon at this time of night now will you sir?”
“No, of course not.”
“I mean the day! Come on sir! that’s for postmen and garbage trucks! And who would take electricity bills and rubbish over a nice, wholesome glass of milk?”

I realised that I was beginning to grow rather annoyed with the milkman’s rather smug attitude. Certainly, there was no way he could know that I myself had something of a pathological fear of cows and their ridiculous white secretions. As a child I used to cry at the sight of an ice cream. I was not precisely sure what it was that vexed me about the issue. Perhaps it was the knowledge that here was an entire industry based around the glandular secretions of a captive animal.

“Listen,” I said in a firm tone. “I have an important engagement and I’m in something of a hurry.”
The milkman once again smiled in a professional sort of way.
“Of course you are sir, step right in.”
He indicated the white passenger seat beside him and I clambered up into it. I placed the candy penyata boy between us, in the manner of an extra passenger. Within no time at all, we were both watching the highway drone past under the wash of the headlights. The pace was unbearably slow, but regular. Tumbleweed flickered past at odd intervals, overexposing in the harsh white glare, and then vanishing into the darkness. I turned my collar up against the maniacal draughts which flooded the cramped and door-less interior, pulling my hat down as far as it would go. The noise of the engine was deafening. I struggled to light a cigarette for Hans and then gave up after several attempts.

“Would you like the air-conditioner off sir?” the milkman shouted in a polite sort of way.
I stared into the enormous circular goggles, searching for any sign of a joke. Seeing none I simply shook my head with a feeling of despair. He nodded sprightly and then with a swift motion turned on the radio. I did not notice before but the milk truck had several large cone shaped loudspeakers attached to it’s roof, and it was through these that the radio blared. At first the sound was indistinguishable from the general noise of the wind and the engine. Then the milkman cranked up the volume to a piercing level and the blare of a badly recorded trumpet fanfare echoed across the pale and lonely dunes around us. I imagined what we must look like from the side of the road and cringed in embarrassment. A tiny pool of intrusive whiteness, in hideous contrast to the moonwashed beachscapes. A rudeness of light and sound, crawling slowly toward the urban anthills looming along the horizon. My irritation must have reached some sort of crescendo because I blurted out:
“And just what is it that makes you think the cows are happy!”

The milkman gave a jittery start and regarded me with a nerve racked expression. Within seconds, the air of positive professionalism had reasserted itself.
“Oh I know it sir,” he smiled. “And many regard me as something of a professional in these matters.”

Their was a faint undertone of dictatorial arrogance in the milkman’s otherwise cheery demeanour and I took it as a sign to let the matter lie. I returned to the difficult task of lighting a cigarette against the wind. I finally succeeded and watched as Hans fought for purchase in the buffeting gusts, his eyes slitted against the slipstream. He inhaled and I felt his claws poke around my shoulder in satisfaction. At that precise moment, the insane marching band din was cut short by a public announcement.

“Citizens of the New Republic!” boomed the voice of an authoritarian woman. “This is a civic address! As many of you already know, there was a fire-fighter’s strike in the Spanish quarter of our city earlier today. The fire-fighters had set several large advertisement billboards alight to protest the imminent inauguration of our beloved leader, General Alcazar. The military has been fighting all day to contain the blaze, but to no avail. The fire has already spread to the municipal library, and thousands of books are burning even as we speak!”

“Those vexatious fire-fighters,” the milkman grumbled. “Always making trouble.”
“Until your cat is stuck up a tree,” I muttered.
The announcement continued, booming out across the deserted beaches and over the empty highway like muted thunder.
“There have always been factions who say that the military are the ones who wanted to burn these books, but now it is plain to see who the real book burners are!”
“I myself had a library card,” the milkman added with outrage.

I simply ignored him. The woman’s voice conjured up images of head mistresses in gloomy boarding schools. I could almost picture the woman speaking as one of those commanding teacher archetypes with thick ankles and flat soled shoes. Her hair would be pulled into a cruel grey bun and she would be wearing a creaseless prison warder skirt. Blinding spectacles would be perched upon her bony nose as she peered down over the cowering population like some enormous bird of prey.

“We the military, want you the population to know that we will do our utmost to protect your books! We are here for you in your hour of need. That is why we must raise the penalty for striking to death! We cannot allow our advertising to be pillaged and our libraries to be burned. So feel safe in your beds tonight citizens, the iron eye of the army is watching! Thank you for your attention.”

The announcement abruptly ended and an old bossanova track fuzzed in, filling the night with lilting guitar melodies and the gentle code of marracas. We drove on for a while without saying anything to each other. I became engrossed in the strange intonations of a spiralling oboe as it crackled out into the darkness. I was about to ask the time when I noticed a faint glow up ahead. The light was emanating from somewhere in the fields, large patchwork fields which had just appeared to the left of the highway. And as the glow grew steadily stronger, I realised that we had entered a farming area. The truck trundled closer to the flickering source of illumination and I became aware of some sort of commotion up ahead.

“Now I wonder what that could be?” the milkman yelled thoughtfully.
The glow, which had by now had revealed itself to be a towering blaze, was coming from a large cornfield. An enormous man-shaped effigy had been erected in the centre of the field, and it stood with its arms akimbo, utterly consumed by fire. I realised that soldiers were blocking the road and a dizzy feeling of panic set in. I noticed a small crowd of people and some vehicles huddled together at the edge of the field. Their long wavering shadows danced across the road as the fire coiled and spat before them. I looked over to the milkman and saw that, although he was still smiling, a faint glisten of perspiration had begun to oil around his upper lip. A jeep had been parked in the centre of the highway and three soldiers in olive uniforms were waving for us to pull over. As the milkman slowed I began to recognise the field. I remembered it’s profile from a series of photographs in the small press. I then recalled that it was in this precise field that the first scarecrows, whose features mimicked several well known abductees, were discovered. An ominous feeling fell upon me as the soldiers approached in the headlights. They were wearing livid green helmets and carried automatic rifles around like cricket bats. Behind them was a large van which I took to be some form of news vehicle. An enormous satellite dish rotated slowly on its roof, beeping quietly below the clamour of voices and the whooshing roar of the fire. I glimpsed other figures, in different uniforms, lined against a fence in the manner of prisoners. Three or four other silhouettes were moving before the blaze, carrying equipment and trays of hot beverages. A skinny teenage girl with peroxided hair and white jeans was sitting under a portable spotlight, filing her bubblegum coloured nails. The truck came to a halt and the milkman turned off the engine. For some reason he forgot to turn off the radio, and the soothing oboe solo continued to klaxon out of the loudspeakers above our heads. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his hands had begun to shake uncontrollably at the sight of the guns.

“So, ” said the first soldier, eyeing the skull-faced candy penyata boy with utter contempt. “You’ve come to burn another effigy of our beloved General Alcazar.”
“Get out of the golf cart you cowardly dogs!” yelled another, cocking his rifle.
The milkman began to stammer some form of explanation as we climbed cautiously out onto the cold tarmac. The third soldier had gone around the back and was tapping the frosty bottles with the handle of his bayonet.

“What’s this then?” he asked the milkman suspiciously.
“It’s full cream, pasteurised…” he squeaked. “Low fat is just underneath the..”
“Paint you say!” the third soldier shouted insanely.
“M…milk,” the milkman stuttered.
“Never heard of it,” the second soldier hissed suspiciously.
The milkman looked around helplessly, his enormous goggles finally rested on me and I was reminded of some sort of cartoon insect I had seen on television once.
“And what are you doing with that cockroach on your shoulder?” the first soldier asked me belligerently.
“Hans is an iguana,” I stated calmly.
Hans stared, unimpressed, at the trio of gun-toting maniacs, the cigarette hanging nonchalantly off his lower lip.
“Why is it so green!” the third soldier shouted, coming up behind me.
I was about to answer when the second soldier smashed a bottle of milk on the road. The milkman jumped at this, staring at the spread milk as though it were blood.
“There’s no use crying over spilled…” I could hear him whimper.
He was whispering the phrase over and over like some form of prayer.
The first soldier cut him short with a brutal slap.
“We’ll set the mood here!” he bellowed at the cowering milkman.
The second soldier had squatted down on his haunches and was drawing milk patterns along the tar with his index finger.
“They were going to use this paint to cover the walls of parliament with their subversive slogans,” he muttered indignantly.
I suddenly felt the cold steel eye of the third soldier’s rifle barrel against my ear.
“Right then you filthy rebel agitators,” the soldier gnashed from just behind my head. “March!”

They led us away from the milk truck and toward the fence of prisoners. As we approached, the heat grew steadily more intense. In the distance, across the field, vortices of livid sparks were spewing from the effigy’s head at an alarming rate. The monolithic columns of pungent smoke caught in the heavy coastal breezes and whipwhirled over our heads and out to sea. I looked down to see that the uniformed figures against the fence were in fact ragged fire fighters. Their faces and hands were sooty and occasionally bloodied. They looked completely exhausted and were drooped over the wire mesh in exhaggerated postures of fatigue. Behind the van I could see the busy figures of technicians, sorting coloured leads and boxes of hardware. The teenage girl in the spotlight glanced up at us as we passed and then returned to her nails. Everything was bathed in the surreal, shifting glow of the inferno. On the other side of the highway, shadows danced wildly across the dunes. A man with a clipboard and spectacles stood, calmly surveying the chaos. It was to him that we were unceremoniously led. He noticed our approach and turned to face us. I noticed that he was wearing a dark trenchcoat and a cap not dissimilar to Federico’s. A small sheet of paper had been pinned to his back and there was no sign that he was aware of it. The paper had the word ‘LIEUTENANT’ typed neatly onto its surface. It fluttered a little in the wind.

“What’s this then?” he asked the soldiers.
“Agitators sir,” the first soldier said. “We found them running a golf cart full of paint out to the city”
“Paint you say?” the lieutenant frowned.
“Yes sir,” growled the second soldier. “They were planning to deface all the statues in the park.”
“Well that’s rather serious,” the lieutenant said after a pause.

I realised that part of me was still listening to the strange cadence and intonation of the oboe soloist in the bossanova track. The music continued to blare off the milk truck at an abominable volume, diffusing strangely in the wind and heat. Somehow the oboe player was managing to obstinately ignore the restrictions of the western scale and was now introducing a faintly Arabic flavour into an otherwise conventional melody structure.

“I am but a simple milk boy sir…” the milkman began to protest to the coated figure of the lieutenant.
The first soldier rammed the butt of his rifle against the milkman’s face with a sickening crunch. I saw the milk man totter and then raise his head in a dazed fashion. A line of blood had left his nose and one of the enormous goggle lenses was now webbed by a series of hairline cracks. He smeared at his bloodied face with white latex gloves while the soldier scowled down at him. The lieutenant ,who didn’t seem a bad sort at all, became somewhat offended by this display of violence and went back to his calm surveillance of the scene. It was at this moment that the femur chose to drop from my sleeve. I felt all the eyes in our party snap to it at once. The lieutenant even leaped two or three paces back.

“What in the name of God is that?” he spluttered, recovering his composure somewhat.
“It’s a human thigh bone!” the second soldier screamed.
“And it’s covered in blood,” the first soldier grumbled.
All at once, I felt the three rifles raise and level themselves at my head.
“What are you doing with a thigh bone up your sleeve?” the lieutenant asked me coldly.
I cleared my throat, trying to maintain a sense of calm in an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
“Its a birthday invitation,” I explained calmly.

They all stared at me with something like incredulity. The lieutenant even blinked once or twice. I looked around, weighing my options. I noticed that some of the fire fighters were now looking in our direction and whispering amongst themselves. The technicians however, were still working in an ant-like state of industrious obliviousness. The peroxided teenager, in contrast to their insectile disinterest, was utterly engrossed in our exchange. She blew slow bubblegum bubbles, listening as the events developed, flicking her nails to dry them. A technician came out of the shadows, heading for her pool of light. He handed her a steaming beverage in a Styrofoam cup, which she sipped at carefully, avoiding any damage to her pristine make-up

“Do you mean to say that this is…Art?” the lieutenant asked with a sincerely disturbed expression.
“Well, I suppose…for want of a better word, yes.” I nodded half-heartedly, unsure of my ground.
A vast range of inexpressible emotions, some bordering on psychotic anguish, some close to a sort of religious fear, seemed to surface across the lieutenant’s spectacled face in the space of a moment.
“Shoot them,” the lieutenant said suddenly. “Shoot them all.”

The soldiers grabbed us and began shoving us forcefully in the direction of the fire fighters. We had gone about three paces when something in the milkman snapped. He turned and screamed up at the lieutenant.
“You people force our freedom from us and then you milk us dry! You take away our children and then take the food that was intended for them! You stuff your faces with our lives and then demand more! More! More! All you do is imprison us and then herd us in huge numbers to the slaughterhouses! And for what! For what! Abuse! Greed! Ignorance! You take our children and milk us mercilessly! You..”

At that point a howling siren echoed from somewhere just behind the van. The milkman stopped in confusion as the soldiers all snapped to attention. Even the lieutenant turned to face the sound, straightening his arm into a salute. The girl, I noticed, had jumped up suddenly, spilling her coffee onto the ground. She spat out her gum and had begun to feverishly adjust her hair. Tacky charm bracelets glinted at her thin wrists. I noticed for the first time that there was a white limousine parked amongst the nondescript vehicles. I wondered how I had failed to notice such an ostentatious sight amidst the other, more functional vehicles. I watched as a door opened slowly in its side. A shining jackboot emerged. The jackboot was followed by the considerable bulk of Federico’s father, General Alonzo Lazarr Alcazar. An invincible stillness seemed to radiate from his impeccable uniform and resonate in the eyes of all those present. Raging fire glinted off the hundreds of medals pinned to his enormous breast. Sunglasses obscured his eyes and he twirled a cigarillo in his white magician’s gloves. A riding crop was tucked neatly beneath his arm, a brace of six shooters glittering at his enormous paunch. I watched as a vaguely skeletal soldier exited the front passenger door to attend to the General. The pair began to stroll casually down towards us, the General’s medals clinking loudly with each step. The skeletal soldier followed closely behind, his head skulking to and fro, observing and recording all. They stopped when they had reached the girl. The General however seemed to ignore her completely. He stared out at the flaming image of himself with an air of galactic indifference. The skeletal soldier, on the other hand, engaged the attention of the girl, passing a sheet of paper to her and pointing out several details along its surface. They remained in conference for several moments, the girl nodding frequently and occasionally checking her make-up in a small compact. After a while, they appeared to reach some form of decision. The girl picked up a small green flag and waved it over her head for all to see. The technicians, upon the girl’s signal swarmed down on the space around her, spilling screwdrivers, headphones and doughnuts as they ran. They began setting up elaborate banks of sound equipment and dragging cables everywhere. A microphone was suspended before the girl. Within seconds a make-shift studio had been constructed. Two gaffers ran leads down to a small control desk and a sound man gave a thumbs up. The girl produced a red flag and the sound man counted her in. I was surprised to hear the distant oboe solo cut short. The girl raised her arms in the manner of a cheerleader and spoke into the enormous chrome microphone.

“Citizens of the New Republic!” she intoned in her schoolmistress voice.
I could hear her words echoing in from the milk truck’s loudspeakers. The broadcast carried with it a delay which clashed with her real voice. The effect was rather disorientating, as the words began to phase into each other, creating a sonic mush which was altogether unpleasant.

“This is a civic address!” she continued in her all-powerful voice. “We the military have recently discovered the whereabouts of many of the book-burning, fire fighter rebels. They have been engaged in further acts of vandalism, including the destruction of much of our city’s farmland. Crops have been ruined and religious effigies burned. We are pleased to announce that the criminals have been executed and burned along with their ultimately futile acts of resistance. Our beloved leader General Alcazar has decreed that a curfew be placed on the city, active immediately! All citizens are instructed to return to their homes and remain there until dawn. The curfew will last from Ten pm to Six am as of tomorrow and will remain in effect till the rest of these heinous criminals can be brought to justice. Thank you for your attention.”

The girl held her arms up, dropping them only when the sound man had raised his green flag. The technicians descended like vultures, stripping the equipment in seconds as the girl produced a glossy magazine. She sat chewing gum and flicking through the shiny pages, oblivious to the hardware which was being ferried around her. The soldiers remained frozen as the General and his aide walked slowly down toward us. The milkman had by now collapsed into a trembling, sobbing wreck and I could see a number of the fire fighters crossing themselves in preparation for death. The General approached us, and ignoring the soldiers, placed his arm around my shoulders. He led me slowly toward the fence.

“How are you////” he enquired in a rich and fluid baritone. “We have not seen you around the house in a many months.”
“I’ve been depressed,” I answered truthfully.
“Yes, yes, ” the General nodded slowly. “The artistic temperament, I know it well. I once entertained notions of a life spent in pursuit of the finer things.”
He took a thoughtful puff on his cigarillo and I smelled the pleasant aroma of roasting cherries above choking smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies. We drifted nearer to the towering, burning likeness of the General.

“I had always wanted that life for Federico you see. It was after all, why I had him sent to Paris to experience the Arts and the more etheric channels of the soul. Unfortunately Federico is a boy after his father’s heart.”

The General gave a small chuckle at this. Our stroll had taken us close to the fire fighters now and I could see the fear and hatred in their grimy faces.
“It pained me to watch Federico enlist in the army,” The General frowned. “For in truth, I had always wished for him to grow into someone more like yourself. Perhaps you do not know it, but I have always valued your friendship with my son. My wife and I have followed your successes with great pride over the years. Why only last week I had a guitarist spared from the interrogation rooms because his recordings put me in mind of your artistic achievements.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this praise, so I maintained a respectful silence.
“Ah! The vagaries of chance,” he said wistfully.
I nodded as we came to a halt, close to the fence. The heat was blistering this close to the burning effigy. I could feel my hair begin to singe. The General, however, seemed impervious to the onslaught and stared thoughtfully into the inferno. At some point, part of the effigy’s head detatched and crashed to the field below with a scream of igniting material. Sparks detonated violently over the corn and flayed about in the air like hellish fireflies. I could smell the unexpected perfume of the roasting corn and it began to make my mouth water. I realised that I hadn’t eaten anything for hours. I looked over to the fire fighters and saw that they were staring at the General with an unbearable tension.

“General Alcazar,” I said, turning to face him. “Would it be somehow possible to spare these fire fighters?”
“Ah ///,” the General said, slapping me on the back with a hand of iron. “I applaud your noble intentions and your sensitivity to your fellow man, but unfortunately these men will shortly have to face a firing squad.”
“I see,” I replied, thinking for a moment. “Would it then be possible to fire over their heads?”
The General slowly raised his cigarillo to his lips and inhaled deeply. He breathed out a slow cloud.
“Fire over their heads you say,” he said, evidently mulling the proposal over with great seriousness.
“Yes General, over their heads.”
“Poetry,” he grumbled with satisfaction. “Sheer poetry.”

He signalled for his aide, who had remained, loitering respectfully with the soldiers. The skeletal soldier ran up to us in long loping strides and bent as the General beckoned for his ear. Some vague mumblings passed between them before the aide returned to the soldiers. I watched, shielding my face from the heat as the soldiers lined the fire fighters up against the fence. The fire fighters responded sluggishly, as though already resigned to their fate. The aide then whispered instructions to the lieutenant. The lieutenant nodded curtly and yelled a command. The soldiers trotted in formation and stood smartly to attention some meters before the condemned men. The lieutenant then shouted another command and the soldiers raised their rifles. The command was repeated and the rifles were raised another fourty five degrees until they were trained, rather ironically, at the effigy’s disintegrating head. The fire-fighter’s were looking at each other in a frenzy of confusion. The lieutenant gave a sharp shout and the soldiers fired a salvo. The fire fighters all jumped as the volley passed over their heads, striking the effigy’s head and shredding it into an explosion of burning debris. The wind caught this flaming shrapnel and scattered it toward the hills in a rather spectacular, though unintentional pyrotechnic display.

“Sheer poetry,” the General repeated, gazing at the flying remnants.
He turned to me once more.
“You have done well here tonight ////,” he stated. “You have demonstrated, in very practical terms how Art can be beneficial to the common man.”
I blinked frantically, shielding my face against the raging heat.
“I know that you think my life to be a life devoid of such poetry,” he murmured, tossing his cigarillo into the field. “But I can assure you that this is not the case.”
I could feel Hans trying to crawl into my jacket to escape the scorching air.
“The artist offers his crumbs of poetry to the overwhelming mediocrity of the masses,” he said with great conviction. “Whereas the task of the dictator is to make poetry of that mediocrity itself.”

By now the heat was so oppressive that I found myself curling up into a little ball in the grass, pushing my head deep into the stalks to protect my raw skin. I eventually opened my eyes to see the General striding back to his limousine. I pulled myself away from the fence and staggered to the cooler shadows as the soldiers released the condemned men. I watched the fire fighters all run to the General and fall at his feet, weeping and offering their heartfelt thanks at his unexpected display of mercy. Already the aide was instructing the technicians to measure the prostrated fire fighters for olive uniforms. The peroxide girl was walking amongst their kneeling forms, smiling with glossy lips and distributing bright green helmets. A fresh stock of rifles was being unlatched. I walked down the hill, retrieved the femur and assisted the injured milkman back to his truck. He wordlessly accepted my help and we drove off down the highway.