Quantum Voices

by Sam Savage

  They had no choice but to enter a kelp forest and swim into a cavern. They soon realized that Max and Laroy’s was seedier than they expected. In a corner, six crabs played poker; they all wore visors on their shells and smoked Cohibas. Their claws clacked as they competed for cards, chips and nuts.

  On a small stage the Piranha Band, direct from Mindanao, played a covert set as a disinterested school of Spanish Mackerel swan by and an Octopus, behind the bar, tumbled in seaweed.

  Max and Laroy were bullshark-shitting with a couple Barracudas when Visa Versa saw one of the Tuna pull a sharpened pencil on his brother. They knocked bar stools aside with their powerful tails, the pointed led sticking from their mouths. Billy grabbed Visa and together they tumbled through a curtain reef and onto a submerged wreck.

  Inside the sunken schooner they found Neptune’s Garden. Hundreds of captive oysters lined the hull. An old Barracuda pried open their locked shells, foraging with his toothed snout to extract precious, yellow pearls from the exploited shellfish. Slowly backing away, they fell into the Seaweed Gulch. These slimy bowels of Max and Laroy’s featured live mermaid and merman wrestling. Goliath Grouper eyed the enslaved aquatic apes, their huge lips twitching.

  Billy and V were veterans of many classified missions. They had witnessed the South China Sea Plankton Massacre and had provided logistical support to the Dead Sea Desalination Project. However, even these seasoned cadres were shocked to discover a trench below The Sand Bar that displayed and sold only the most beautiful tropical specimens: The Marianas Fish Market. Greedy Eels munched bone meal as they branded and sold Angel and Clownfish.

  The two operatives continued their recon mission, gathering more intelligence on Rue Morgan’s diseased mind. A Cheesefish approached them with a heard of Seaveal and asked: Ever had a world class dining experience? Visa and Billy looked at the aquatic beef with compassion as the Cheesefish shot a soupy, Limburger film into the water. They reeled, for a moment then grabbed the tail of a streamlined Bonita who carried them through the water like a silver-blue bullet. The Bonita raced to the surface, leaving a Mardi Gras in its wake, propelling Billy and V out of the Sand Bar and back into the street.

  I could use a drink, said V.

  I know just the place, replied B.

  They processed the intelligence they had gathered as they made their way to the Lei Bar. The room glowed in pink and white light. All of the patrons wore flower leis and sat silently in lotus positions. The smell of sweet freshness circulated the room as baby gorilla waiters bounced around taking orders.

  V and B could now relax and prepare themselves for their inevitable confrontation with Joao. But first, they had to obtain coordinates on his lair, The Morgue. A simian baby hopped over to V and B. He wore a little white bib and apron, a flower necklace clasped around his throat. His innocence soothed the two weary commandos. They both ordered the house specialty: Apple Cider.

  The Polar Bears, Horace and Juvenal, tended bar. They both wore leis and only used apples from the Gardens of Thoth to make their acclaimed Cider. Baby gorilla waiters licked these apples and, with their magic saliva, transformed them into an elixir of unprecedented quality, according to Epicurus, food critic for The Times of London and founder of Epicureanism.

  Below a painting depicting the Eye of Horus, the white fur bears moved adroitly, pouring cider for their contemplative customers. Laughing, a cute baby silver-back brought two full glasses to V and B. Telepathy was the language spoken in the Lei Bar. Thus it was through a fragrant mental bridge that the laughing waiter transmitted the coordinates of The Morgue.

  Strengthened by the elixir, the special agents made their way to Joao’s lair. They moved through City Central to Central Park, down stairs into a warehouse into a jungle where a group of slaves known as The Bubble Gum Smackers ground Seaveal into patties they tenderized with meat mallets.

  Past these drugged zombies, V & B stepped into a bubbling pit and landed in the bowels of the The Morgue. Immediately, they came upon a steaming Bath House. These trained professionals peered through the foggy windows and saw Horst, a hairy man in his mid-forties, squeezing a towel round his loins.

  I suggest we move on.

  Agreed said Versa, as Horst tightened the towel round his genitals.

  They hiked deeper into the guts of this monstrosity and came into the room of iron orifices. These stainless steel tongues contained the bodies of Morgan’s minions. They were at rest but would soon wake and need morgue medicine so they could walk the streets as Joao commanded. Near the iron orifices stood a shrine upon which burned mustard-yellow candles, a shrine that stood like a sentry protecting the minions, a sanctuary to Morgan’s mentor, a creature whom the pimp idolized; none other than, the infamous Cocorocho-the-Turd-and his-Attornies.

  Morgan was near, in his chambers, dressed in a canary yellow zoot suit watching The Wizard of Oz. He was obsessed with The Munchkins and rumors of their alcoholism and rowdiness. V&B spotted their opening and penetrated the mind of the distracted Morgan with the words: Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain; pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. As these words echoed in Morgan’s head, V&B slipped behind a velvet drape and took up a recon position.

  A young girl was lying on, what appeared to be, a therapist’s couch. She did not appear to be drugged. Morgan approached, pulled up a Baroque Lounge Chair, sat and focused on the twenty year old.

  What brings you to The Morgue, dear heart?

  You bring me to The Morgue.

  Why you alone, little one?

  Cauz.

  Cauza what?

  Cauza Dwight.

  Whoz Dwight?

  My boyfriend.

  You’re boyfriend?

  Uh-huh.

  If Dwight’s you’re boyfriend, how come you aint with him?

  The girl sobbed.

  It’s okay, dear heart. What’s your name?

  Suzie Smith.

  Well, Suzie Smith. Don’t go an fret over that mean ole Dwight. Jus tell Uncle Rue what happened.

  See, me and Dwight was goin together back home. Mama wanted us to get married, but Dwight decided to go to the city. Said he’d send a bus ticket but he never did.

  I see, said Morgan, brushing the lapel of his canary yellow zoot suit.

  So, Suzie Smith, you came here looking for Dwight?

  Yessir I did . . . Oh Dwight how could you? Oh my darlin Dwight! We coulda had a life together. Why Dwight Why?

  Take this, dear heart, Morgan said to the child, handing her a butterscotch candy laced with morgue medicine.

  Now, said Morgan. What did that mean ole Dwight do to you?

  I don’t know.

  You don’t know?

  No.

  Now don’t you go an lie to ole Uncle Rue. You tell me what Dwight did an everything’l be okay.

  Yessir, I’ll try . . . Oh my darlin Dwight, we coulda had a mess a youngins and you coulda drank beer all day and collected unemployment while I did laundry for rich people and took care a the kids. And when I come home, you coulda complained about my cookin and accused me of adultery and beat me silly. Why Dwight Why?

  Behind the drape, Visa Versa and Billy listened as Suzie continued:

  And I coulda taken the kids to bible school three nights a week while you went out with your friends an spent all our money an got drunk. Dwight, why?

  Trying to control his rage, Morgan clenched his jaundiced teeth and spat: What did Dwight do?

  Well, when I found him, he was on dope.

  On Dope?

  That’s right.

  What kinda dope?

  Some dope he call junk.

  What Dwight do with junk?

  He heat it on a spoon. All his spoons black cauz he heat the bottom and he got a box full a cotton cauz the junk on the spoon melt, then Dwight suck up liquid junk through cotton with a needle.

  What Dwight do after he take junk?

  He stare at his shoe.

  I see, said Morgan, wondering if
the Munchkins had also used junk.

  He do junk suppository too.

  How he act after he do junk suppository?

  He stare at his . . . Why Dwight Why?

  Okay, Morgan spat, pulling a syringe and rubber tube from under the chair. You tie off now, Suzie Smith.

  The girl looked at him like some frail, bewildered fawn.

  Said Morgan to girl: I think you fix.

  I don’t like needles, Uncle Rue.

  I’m not you’re god-damn uncle! Stick out your arm!

  V & B leapt from behind the drape in synchronous rhythm, V kicking Joao in his drooping cojones; B grabbing the syringe and pumping the yellow load into the pimp’s belly. The young girl ran from the room, perhaps back to Dwight, as Morgan coiled in pain.

  The commandos then recorded the last moments of Rue Morgan’s miserable life: he crawled to his feet, brushed off his zoot suit, and said : Yellow sweet canary lapel, you dig? He then ran from his chambers screaming.

  Like a sallow blur he entered the room of iron orifices. His minions were gone.

  Hustlin, you dig. That’s what I do.

  It was clear that Morgan was about to break into a monologue when the junk froze him, yellow, where he still stands next to a shrine of his mentor, the flamboyant Cocorocho-the-Turd-and-his- Attornies.

  Thaght Thaght!

  Wooden quays lined the waterfront as I walked silently along the Thames. Olive Oil from Spain, Garum from Rhodes, Italian Wine and Samian pottery lumbered into port on creaking ships. Dock workers scurried round wharves, shouting, as timber hulks plodded toward their mooring posts.

  I walked and thought and came upon a woman who wrapped me in her shawl. Her touch transported me to a medieval monastery. I slept on the ground, confined by four stone walls. My hair was white and thin. A cloak, unlike that of the monastic discipline, covered my sagging shoulders. I had been a lecturer in Paris, a friend of Bonaventure and Aquinas.

  I was, now, a prisoner of the Pope- an inmate with dangerous theological views. The monks fed me sparsely and left me to contemplate the divine without ink or parchment. Thick stone walls trapped the cold of the mountain and echoed the hollow chants of the cloistered. On feast days the guards let me walk the upper cortile. High above the chapel, I fed on fresh air and on the sight of the sun and green, rolling hills.

  My view . . . that nature is god and all things one had enraged the Pope. I had already heard the words Anathema Sit, so daily I lived on the precipice of death. It became a spiritual practice. Without knowing nor intending it, the Vicar of Christ had helped me cross the boundaries of my own speculation.

  On the Feast of Holy Innocents, my hooded captors denied me access to the cortile and lead me through a labyrinth. The Abbott had summoned me. In his chambers, a monk known as The Beadsman kept vigil, polishing the Abbott’s jewel-encrusted crosier. His purple cloak and ring meant nothing to me, for my vision penetrated his soul. He was afraid. I felt uncertainty inside him as he and The Beadsman pummeled me with their dogmatic contempt.

  A tremendous wave of compassion poured from me to them. The irony of the scene brought tears to my aging eyes. The Abbott had been a most promising student in Paris. I remember he would sit above the sunken circle from where I lectured, wide-eyed and silent. We would walk together along the Seine and he would tell me of his village at the foot of the mountains, his home over which this monastery towered.

  He gestured for me to approach him. I did as he instructed. He stuck his ring in my face. I kissed it.

  Sit down.

  As I sat, I heard the cold intentions of dead religious echo in the labyrinth.

  Dottore, he said. You are a heretic and I reject your teaching. You have been silenced by the Holy Father because you mock the teaching of the Church. I renounce all your works. May they be burned and never copied again.

  They were burned, Father Abbott, all of them.

  You will burn as they burned, sneered The Beadsman.

  I remained silent. His soul was so tortured. How could I be angry with him?

  The Abbott took a deep breath and said: Dottore, something terrible has happened. My brother’s daughter is ill. Physicians can do nothing for her. They say she is mad, possessed by the devil.

  Matteo, I addressed him by his baptismal name; Matteo, how do these matters concern me?

  You are the only man I know who visits the world of spirits. You are both mystic and heretic.

  Father Abbott, I replied, I am an exiled philosopher, imprisoned here with you as my jailer. I have been condemned by the Pope and await my execution.

  The Beadsman: You will burn in Rome at Campo dei Fiori as the Pontiff has decreed.

  Enough, said the Abbott. Will you help me, Dottore?

  Yes, I replied and bowed my head.

  The Abbott and Beadsman led me passed the monastery’s Papal Apartments and through a slab corridor. In dim candlelight, I saw The Beadsman fingering a rosary under his scapula. Crusty cabbage juice stained his black tunic. The monk had no eyes, just two white ovals covered sporadically by batting lids. Our walk ended at an antechamber.

  She is there, said the Abbott, behind that wall.

  I nodded.

  Then he asked: Do you require the Rituale Romanum?

  No I do not.

  Then, of course, you will use the prayers of Paul the Fifth?

  No, I replied. I do not need them.

  What then? blurted the exasperated Abbott.

  I require The Beadsman’s services.

  He is at your service.

  Once the exorcism begins, he must do everything I command without hesitation.

  He will do as you say.

  Thank you, Father Abbott. Leave us, please.

  Alone with The Beadsman, I said: Bring me a dozen custard cream pies and three novices.

  At once, replied The Abbott’s servant.

  He returned with the pies and novices and we all entered the exorcist chamber. The Abbott’s niece was asleep on a straw cot. I huddled with these chaste religious and gave them instructions. The melee began when the novice, Paracelsus, nailed The Beadsman in the face with a pie. He then chased his classmate, Flavius Silva, through the exorcist’s chamber with a pie in each hand. The girl woke up smiling and was soon laughing and throwing pies. The howling monks could not contain themselves. The third novice who spoke with a lisp, Gaius Lucilius, then plastered the The Beadsman a second time - right in the crotch with a handful of cream.

  The Abbott’s niece was now free of whatever malignity had confined her. As I watched, I wondered why there were no sacred texts nor scholarly traditions that championed the power of humor. Regardless, this contagious laughter spread through the monastery until the evening bells returned the monks to their senses and called them to Vespers.

  I escaped amid the chaos and was last seen walking along The Thames, smiling inwardly.

  What was that again . . . about Boris? I asked the good Madame.

  He thinks he’s greater than any thought he could possibly think.

  Oh yeah, I chuckled and watched her multi-room domicile transform into a Studio.

  Marcel entered the town of Tittiesville discretely. He now travelled with a technological device that directed him to a building that had been whitewashed in Red Paint. A sign above the door read: Abandon All Sanity, All Ye Who Enter Here.

  Is this a place for madmen only thought Marcel. Is this the gateway to hell? The tiny time being had recently been concerned about his mental health because he was, no longer, easily offended. Where’s the outrage he questioned. Where, the moral indignation, the invective, the diatribe, the savage ridicule? Who am I without these things?

  In such a state, he entered the whitewashed, red building. Two obese men in tight shirts with the word Security written across their backs competed in a fat giggling contest. Marcel darted passed these distracted bouncers and came upon a cloak room. The attendant, who sported a beehive hairdo, busied herself sawing off a twelve gauge.

&nbs
p; Marcel found cover and observed: males of this species, upon entering, exchanged their minds for butcher paper and crayons. Their minds were then kept in cages in the cloak room while they indulged in all kinds of unmentionable activities.

  He followed these creatures into a tubal enclosure. It stretched a great distance, the ceiling covered in latex like some high tech barn. For a moment, Marcel thought he was inside a condom. A lighted stage stood like an altar in the center of the enclosure. The males jumped around near the stage, scribbling on the butcher paper with their crayons.