Apocalypticon

by Clayton Smith

  “Gender transmutation?” Ben asked, concerned. The friary suddenly didn’t seem quite so much like his fantasy kingdom anymore.

  Brother Triedit crossed his legs under himself and leaned forward, almost excitedly. “We are a strictly male sect, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the brothers around the fire. “But we wish to actively encourage the survival of the Order, a pursuit that seems more and more unlikely as we continue to fail to discover worthy acolytes. The Great Alignment, it seems, has claimed the majority of our planet’s males in an effort to right the natural injustice of humanity.”

  “The Great Alignment?” Patrick asked. “You mean M-Day.”

  “Ah, ‘Monkey Day,’ yes. Give it what sinful secular title you will, it was a day of great salvation and alignment for the human faithful, but our Order was left without women to assist in procreation. Therefore, with the guidance of the Prayers of the Aligned, we strive to transmute our own selves into the femalular sex so that we might procreate and spread the Word of the Aligned into future generations.”

  “Lemme get this straight,” Ben said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re all trying to turn yourselves...into women?” The brothers nodded. “So that you can have sex with each other?” More emphatic nodding.

  Patrick jumped in with both hands. “And you’re hoping that this questionably alcoholic beverage will do that.”

  “We do not hope. We believe,” said Brother Triedit.

  “Why on earth would you believe that?”

  Now it was Brother Waywerd’s turn to speak. He was a bookish man with horn-rimmed glasses and a boyish face. “Are you familiar with the scientific fact that some West African frogs are known to spontaneously switch genders, without any warning at all?”

  “Why, yes, I did see Jurassic Park,” Patrick answered.

  “Oh Jesus,” Ben said, his face flushing light green. “If you tell me I just drank frog sperm, I’m throwing up on every single one of you.”

  “Goodness, no!” Brother Waywerd exclaimed. “No, no. Not sperm. Just blood extraction.”

  “Centerwine is frog blood?” Ben asked, clapping a hand over his mouth.

  “Among other things, yes. That’s the main ingredient.”

  “We also use wild boysenberry, for flavor,” explained Brother Triedit.

  “You know, I thought I tasted boysenberry,” Patrick said, wagging a finger at the Holy Father. Ben looked as if he might actually be sick, at least on himself if not on everyone else. Patrick, however, was more scientifically intrigued than physically ill. “Has this screwball plan shown any signs of success?” he asked the hooded scientist.

  “Well, not yet,” Brother Waywerd admitted sadly, “but as we all know, life finds a way.”

  “Of course it does. You know, human physiology is a bit more complex than amphibian physiology. Does that concern you at all? Make you think, ‘Hey, maybe this, I don’t know, won’t work’?”

  “If the Order is fated to succeed, this is the manner in which it will achieve future greatness,” Brother Waywerd said simply. “If it does not work, then it should not work.”

  “Interesting,” Patrick said, tapping a finger to his lips. “Religious zealousy with a strong fatalistic bent. My Aunt Margie would’ve loved you guys. How long have you been drinking this centerwine?”

  “About two years now,” Brother Mayham said.

  “And tell me, how do you feel?”

  “Me? Well, I must admit, personally, I don’t feel much different,” Brother Mayham said.

  “Oh, that’s nonsense!” cried Brother Haffstaff from across the fire. “If you ask me, you’re much more sensitive now than you used to be.”

  “Was I not sensitive before?” Brother Mayham frowned.

  “You were always a bit of a human tinder box,” Brother Haffstaff admitted. “But you’re much more empathetic these days.”

  “I’d say the same for most of us,” piped up Brother Wildgardyn. “We’re all much more sensitive!”

  Brother Bickdraft snorted. “Too sensitive, if you ask me. It gets worse every week.”

  “There’s no such thing as too sensitive; there is only complete and utter insensitivity!” Brother Haffstaff cried.

  “You see? This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Brother Bickdraft grumbled.

  “How dare you insinuate!” Brother Wildgardyn exclaimed.

  “Brothers, brothers, please!” Brother Triedit lifted his hands and waved them gently at the assembly. “Be centered! Kyrie-eh-so domin-oos,” he intoned.

  On cue, the other brothers immediately relaxed and chanted their answer in unison: “Dom-ah doos-uh eff-ree-ay.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Patrick said with a short round of applause. “What’s it mean?”

  “In each one, we find the center, and in the center, we find all,” said Brother Triedit.

  “Wonderful. Better even than Pig Latin. Just wonderful.”

  Brother Wildgardyn raised his hand. Brother Triedit called on him. “I thought it meant, ‘Whensoever the sun doth rise, therefore too are the children of the wicket crickets.”

  “That is a wildly blasphemous translation, Brother Wildgardyn!” Brother Bickdraft screamed. “I command you to the Centrification Chamber!” The other brothers nodded their emphatic agreement. It was unanimous; Brother Wildgardyn’s blasphemy must be punished. The friar snuffled, collected the folds of his robe in his hands, and walked primly to the edge of camp, where he reached down and pulled up a hidden trapdoor, covered with sticks and brush. He held his breath and jumped into the hole with a loud SPLASH! Then the trapdoor fell shut, and the brothers turned back to the fire, each of them brooding on Brother Wildgardyn’s failure. Ben broke the silence by clearing his throat.

  “So. What else do you guys do? Besides hope for spontaneous sex changes?” he asked. Brother Haffstaff opened his mouth to respond, but Patrick cut in, his voice high-pitched with incredulity.

  “Wait, where on Earth did you find West African frogs?” he demanded.

  Brother Triedit and Brother Haffstaff exchanged looks. “Well, ahm...we haven’t actually managed to locate West African frogs as such,” Brother Haffstaff said slowly, tenting his fingers in front of his robe. “Yet!” he added.

  “But our frogs are just as good,” Brother Bickdraft insisted.

  Patrick leaned forward, clasping his hands under his chin. “Let me get this straight. You’re hoping for a widespread, irrational sex change from taking a few shots of blood from a species of frog that is not the one known for getting surprise gender reassignment surgery?”

  “If the Great Centralizer hears our prayer, anything is possible.”

  “Swell!” Patrick cried gleefully. “That is excellent! Cracker Jack of a plan you got here.” He gave thumbs up all around. The flask had made its way back around the circle. He took it happily and squirted another shot into his mouth. “Mm. You know, you’re right, you can really taste the ovaries. What do you think, Ben? Ovaries?” he asked, handing him the centerwine. Ben pushed it away in disgust.

  Brother Triedit stood and stretched his hands out over the table. “Brothers!” he boomed. “It is time for the Feats of Adulation.”

  “Oh-may for-tay lon-ee-yay,” the brothers chanted.

  “Oh my forty lawn yards,” Patrick echoed, making a religious sign with his hand.

  Ben leaned over and hissed, “What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk? Are you becoming a woman?”

  “This is easily the single silliest situation I have ever encountered,” Patrick whispered back. “I’m drunk on incredulity.”

  “Let us adjourn to the fire,” said Brother Triedit. He led the group to the friary’s fire pit, around which the men sat down cross-legged in a large ring. “The first Feat belongs to Brother Toldus and Brother Bic
kdraft.” The two monks stood and bowed to the Holy Father. “Doo-say port-oh mon-groo sat-ay,” they mumbled in unison. Then they turned to each other and bowed again. Brother Bickdraft motioned for Brother Toldus to go first. The latter folded his hands into his sleeves and cleared his throat loudly.

  “Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with this cedar twig, which I discovered underfoot upon my morning constitution.” He retrieved a small branch from within the folds of his robe that still had a few of what Patrick was fairly certain were oak leaves and not cedar needles. Brother Toldus held the twig over his head in both hands, closed his eyes, rolled his head back on his shoulders, and undulated in a proud and powerful Xena: Warrior Princess battle cry. His hands flew into a flurry, maniacally shredding the leaves from the twig. Then he broke the tiny branch into a dozen pieces, spun around, and hurled them into the woods. He turned back to the fire, bowed low to the flames, and said, “In Its Name, I adulate.” He sat down to the approving murmurs of his brethren.

  Now it was Brother Bickdraft’s turn to adulate. He drew his hands into his sleeves, just as Brother Toldus had done, and stood straight and tall before the fire. “Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with the gift of my tremendous broadsword, which I carved from the trunk of a mewling mulberry tree.” He turned and picked a small wooden sword from the ground behind him and held it aloft before the flames.

  Ben leaned in toward Patrick. “I’m not a ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ expert,” he whispered, “but mulberries grow on bushes, right?”

  “Yes. I am completely amazed by these lunatics’ ability to be scientifically inaccurate about absolutely everything,” Patrick said.

  Brother Bickdraft took the small wooden sword in both hands and began to perform a choreographed sword-dance routine that could only be described as mesmerizing, in the way that a hairless, drunken yak stumbling in a hoof-sucking muddy swamp might be mesmerizing. He swung the sword in frantic circles over his head, kicking one knee up and hopping on the other foot. He drew the sword back in a lunge attack position and squatted low, bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet. He fell to the ground, side-planking his body with one arm and holding the sword straight out from his hip into the sky. He rolled across the dirt, sword clutched in both hands and stretched above his head, like an armored wheel spoke, nearly spinning his way into the fire. He leapt from foot to foot, bobbing a wide circle around the ring of brothers, the sword twirling arrhythmically, accidentally slapping into a hooded pate every six or seven steps. He soft-skidded through a pile of dead leaves, swinging the sword from his hips like a clumsy codpiece. He flipped the sword into the air, end over end, clapped his hands three times, then yelped in pain as it smacked against his poorly timed fingers and fell to the ground. He picked it up and stabbed the air three times, let out a squeaky cry of what Patrick pegged as constipated irritation, then bowed to the fire and said, “In Its Name, I adulate.” The brethren nodded and murmured approvingly among themselves.

  Brother Triedit stood and quieted the brothers with his outstretched palms. “The Champion of the first Feat is Brother Bickdraft.” Brother Bickdraft raised his sad little sword in triumph. The brethren nodded their support. “Brother Toldus, step forth and receive the Agony of Defeat.” Brother Toldus stood and humbly approached Brother Triedit at the head of the fire. Brother Triedit ceremoniously removed Brother Toldus’s hood. Then he reached into the folds of his own robes, retrieved what appeared to be a rotten peach, and crushed it down upon Brother Toldus’s head. Dark brown juice and bits of blackish pulp trickled down the friar’s face and neck. He bowed low and said, “Thank you, Holy Father.”

  “Doh-mus ar-lay fonto-roh,” Brother Triedit said, nodding.

  “Ee-gree eff-no holly-mus,” Brother Toldus replied. He returned to his seat, rotted fruit flesh drying into his beard.

  “The second Feat of Adulation belongs to Brother Mayham and Brother Spyndthrift,” Brother Triedit announced. Brothers Mayham and Spyndthrift stood and bowed to the Holy Father. “Doo-say port-oh mon-groo sat-ay,” they said. It was decided that Brother Mayham would adulate first.

  “Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with a wholly accurate moose call, which I perfected just this afternoon.” He spread his feet and squatted down a bit, then brought his fists to his mouth to form a hand trumpet. He took a deep breath, then, with all his might, blew a long, low groan into the tunnel of his fists. “Mrroooooooooooooooooooggh-qwwufffffawhh.” He turned and bowed to Brother Triedit. The monks all acknowledged the astonishing accuracy of his call, and some even applauded lightly, though the squealing moan sounded more to Patrick like a gagged hyena than a moose. He clapped politely anyway. Ben did not.

  Brother Mayham’s moose call was so well received that Brother Spyndthrift was visibly nervous as he buried his hands into his sleeves and addressed the group. “Tonight I, uh, I adulate the Great Centralizer with a, ahm, with a poem that I wrote before lunch.” A few of the brothers audibly groaned. Waxing poetic was not a new hobby for poor Brother Spyndthrift. He ignored their premature criticism and began his recital:

  “The woods of yore, yon sickly saps, the braided heartache bring,

  A-shoomer, a-shonner, the dead leaves whisper in my ear.

  Thy trees of habit grow stagnant in oily pools of befuddled wisdom.

  ‘Were they ever? Were they ever?’ sad Atlas asks.

  Wisdom is slow, and viscous as sap,

  It freezes and pleases nobody but none,

  The owls lament the fruit of their lives.

  Were they ever? Were they ever? I ask, were they ever?”

  Brother Spyndthrift concluded to complete silence. He turned and bowed low to the Holy Father. He returned to his seat and waited nervously for Brother Triedit’s judgment.

  “Boooooo!” Brother Haffstaff cried. “Booooooooooo!”

  “Boooooooooo!” agreed the monks of the Post-Alignment Brotherhood. “Booooooooo!” Someone threw a rock across the fire. Brother Spyndthrift ducked with practiced ease. His poetry had fallen flat before.

  Brother Triedit stood and calmed the dissenting clan. “The Champion of the second Feat is obviously Brother Mayham.” Whoops and cheers went up around the fire from all but Brother Spyndthrift, who looked not particularly surprised. He stood and met Brother Triedit’s rotten peach punishment with as much dignity as a tortured poet could muster. “And for the third and final Feat of Adulation, we call upon Brother Haffstaff and Brother Bicon.” The two monks rose, and the others leaned forward in tense anticipation. Brother Triedit acknowledged their excitement and nodded. He reached behind his seat and pulled up a hollow gourd. “The third Feat of Adulation is the Great Test, and tonight’s Test shall be...” He reached into the gourd, trudged around with his hand, and pulled a piece of bark from within. Something must have been written on it, for he glanced at the bark, nodded again, and said, “...a Feat of Rhyme!”

  Wild cheers went up around the fire. Despite their collective distaste for Brother Spyndthrift’s particular brand of poetry, the Feat of Rhyme was a popular choice among the men. Brother Haffstaff shook out his hands while Brother Bicon rolled his head around on his neck. Brother Triedit gave them thirty seconds to loosen up, then called their Feat to order. The two men faced each other across the fire and shook hands over the flames.

  “This looks pretty serious,” Patrick whispered to Brother Bickdraft.

  “Oh, it is,” Brother Bickdraft assured him. “He who fails to adequately adulate in the Great Test is thoroughly punished.”

  Brother Triedit cleared his throat. It was time to begin. “Yesterday, I packed my van.” He motioned to Brother Haffstaff to go first.

  “It was driven by a rather merry man,” he said.

  “He was the leader of the caravan,” Brother Bicon shot back.

  “His name, I soon learned, was Dan,” said Brother Haffstaff.
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br />   “He had the most luxurious tan,” replied Brother Bicon.

  “He received it in the Caribbean.” There were murmurs of protest regarding Brother Haffstaff’s pronunciation, but Brother Triedit dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He would allow it. And so they continued, back and forth, the rhymes flying faster and faster.

  “The man in the van was my biggest fan,” said Brother Bicon. Patrick wondered if extra points were rewarded for multiple rhymes, or if he was just showing off.

  “He, like I, was born in French Sudan.”

  “Which reminded me at once of my master plan.”

  “One I’d concocted playing Settlers of Catan.”

  “It had to do with the nation of Iran.”

  “And the wayward policies of the nation’s Taliban.”

  “The man from Sudan with the tan in the van was content to sit and scan.”

  “While I relayed my plan about Iran on the divan.” Both men were growing red in the face. Brother Bicon’s hands were clenched in fists of concentration, while Brother Haffstaff’s fingers stiffened from his palm like metal rods.

  “But now, I saw, the plan was wan,” said Brother Bicon.

  “So I thought I might as well move to Japan.”

  “Or better yet, maybe Kazakhstan,” Brother Bicon huffed.

  “I could live on a farm of the variety pecan,” Brother Haffstaff puffed.

  “Or spend my days on a catamaran.”

  “Against hard work, I’d levy a ban.” Brother Haffstaff was grasping at straws now, and everyone could see it. Brother Bicon may have been faltering physically, but his mind was still sharp.

  “That trip might be over before it even began.”

  “The natives, I think, I would be better than,” said Brother Haffstaff weakly.

  “I wonder if you could watch reruns of Roseanne.”

  “I could--I could watch them while making dinner in my pan,” Brother Haffstaff wheezed.