“Yossarian?” laughed Munroe. “That’s your name? What kind of stupid pansy pseudonym is that? One of the biggest wimps in post-war fiction, that’s who you choose? Might as well be Holden Caulfield, biggest pussy of the twentieth century.”
Well, that made it easier. “Guilty.”
Aubrey pushed Munroe over with his foot. “Munroe Purvis, you have been tried and found guilty by a jury of your betters. You are hereby designated hostis humani generis , an enemy of the human race.”
“Fuck you.”
“You will now bear the punishment for your evil deeds.”
“Fuck your mother.”
Aubrey slapped the tape back over Munroe’s protesting mouth.
“May God have mercy on your soul, Munroe Purvis.” He strode to the far side of the fire, bending down to retrieve an object from its coals. The point of the large awl glowed a scorching red as he removed it from the flames. “Hold him down, everyone.”
Kilgore grabbed Munroe’s shoulders and pushed down, crushing him into the frozen ground. Offred sat atop his legs, Queequeg and Scout pinned his arms. Munroe bucked and tossed his bulk about to no avail.
Wielding the smoking tool, Aubrey straddled Munroe’s torso and tore open the front of Munroe’s shirt. Spongy pallid skin was exposed to the elements. Aubrey raised his arms to the stars, aimed the awl’s point skyward, then dropped his gaze down to the sacrifice. “I do this for Shelf Monkeys everywhere.” Aubrey dropped to his knees, settled himself on Munroe’s mid-section, held the smoking awl like a pencil, and began to compose.
The aroma of seared pork arose from Munroe’s chest. A sound like nothing I’ve ever heard escaped from the sides of the gag. An abattoir squeal. I fell back and vomited into the snow. Aubrey focused his attention on the lettering, stopping twice to reheat the tip, coughing to free his lungs from the odour. When he had finished, he fell back, sweating from the effort.
We hunkered over the raised letters, slowly making out what he had inscribed. La Mancha, and the rough outline of a windmill, teased from Munroe’s skin in steaming welts.
Shakily, spastic tremors running up his arm, Don Quixote offered the awl to Queequeg. “You next.”
Ten minutes later: Moby Dick, along with an uneven Maori facial tattoo dotting Munroe’s cheeks and forehead.
The night went on, each monkey autographing Munroe in a butchered parody of English composition. Munroe had thankfully passed out halfway through Aubrey’s labours. We were crazed, we were wrath. Scout threw up twice engraving Mockingbird , each time wiping her mouth and determinedly soldiering on. Lyra Silvertongue completed Golden Compass with relish, adding swoops and curlicues to her cursives. Laughing, Ford Prefect impressed a charred Don’t panic! above Munroe’s right nipple.
The body slowly became artistic attestation of our mania, a living library card.
Middle Earth, wrote Gandalf.
Breakfast of Champions, wrote Kilgore Trout.
Lady Fuchsia Groan flipped the canvas over and inscribed Gormenghast on Munroe’s back, cackling like a madwoman.
Offred wrote Handmaiden across the chest.
Raoul Duke penned Fear Loathing Las Vegas, skipping the conjunctions.
Ignatius J. Reilly combined literature and personal feelings on Munroe’s stomach: Dunce .
Valentine Michael Smith: Grok , perverting Heinlein’s intentions. Hagar Shipley: Stone Angel .
And I?
There was no question I would brand him.
It was wrong; I knew it then, I know it now. I was no longer Thomas Friesen. I was a force of nature. I was Hell, and my forces were legion.
I became unspeakable in my fury.
I pressed steel to skin. Catch-22. Followed by Joseph Heller . Followed by ©1961 . I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.
Our manuscript complete, we gathered around it for a final proofread. Blood stained the snow. Munroe’s harsh breaths were the only noise, save the occasional pop! of a pocket of air from the fire.
Danae took my hand. Her cheeks were red with excitement and frostbite. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “I need you. Now.”
“What do we do now?” I asked in the silence, provoking a squeak from Gandalf. “We can’t leave him here.”
“I’ll handle it,” Aubrey said. He had lurked in the background while we mutilated Munroe, a feral dingo waiting for scraps while the monkeys, now a family of enraged silverback gorillas, sated themselves. Now, he had taken charge again. “Kilgore and I. The rest of you leave now. Go on, it’s over.”
Lady Fuchsia started to sob. “What did we do?” She wasn’t Fuchsia Groan any longer, if she ever existed. There was no point in pretending. She was Muriel again, an assistant librarian in emotional distress.
Aubrey snapped at her. “We did what was necessary, Fuchsia. Go home. We have done a good thing tonight.” Ignatius, the rage finally passed and fully Cameron again, put his arm about her shoulders, letting her cry into his chest.
We dispersed into the night. Danae pulled me along, leading me to her apartment. I had no thoughts in my head. What we did might never have happened. A peace settled itself over my heart. I had never felt so alive. Free. Invincible. We never made it to the bedroom. Danae pushed me to the floor, I decided not to resist, what we were doing was by far the sanest act I had performed in months. We wrestled for hours, hands locked, our bodies sleek and delicious.
Afterward, somehow having reached the bedroom and collapsed in exhaustion, I began to dream.
The shelves stretch out to the horizon, each a kilometre high, crammed full to overflowing with books. There’s no rational order to the mess, no alphabetization, no connection as to size, no corresponding hues of book jackets. They’re squashed together, horizontally, vertically, diagonally, facing back, upside-down. Mashed against one another, spines bent and torn, pages ripped and dog-eared. I leap from one shelf to the next. I have an incredible sense of balance, my toes are longer, more flexible, fur covers my arms and legs, I have a prehensile tail. Springing from monolith to monolith, screaming “No order! No order at all!” as I grab books left and right, reshelving them, trying to manufacture a semblance of order, but the shelves are now conveyor belts and elevators, they move constantly, I no sooner find a place for A Tale of Two Cities next to David Copperfield than it has shifted down and I’ve inserted a Dickens next to a Mack Bolan. I curse, my teeth gnashing, saliva bolting from my mouth, coating a first edition Cat’s Cradle with salty glaze. I jump away, landing on Gutenberg’s Bible, horrified at the blasphemy as my ink-soaked fingertips soil the fragile parchment. On top of each shelf is a monkey, a million monkeys smashing a million typewriters, while Ray Bradbury sits next to me, vomiting onto his typewriter again and again. “Get down from there, fucker,” a voice snarls from below, it’s Ernest Hemingway, balancing an elephant gun on his shoulder, “you don’t deserve the privileges this life has afforded you,” and he fires, the Bible exploding underneath me, I’m falling, forever, imploring him, “But I always thought Mariel was underrated as an actress!” Grasping at the works of Pete Dexter and Emily Brontë, latching onto a precariously balanced edition of The Life of Pi with my tail, until hitting the ground. I hit the ground! I didn’t wake up! Virginia Woolf plants her feet around me, “Why don’t you kill yourself, best thing I ever did, look at my career now!” but it’s not Virginia Woolf, it’s Nicole Kidman with a big nose, and she’s thrashing me with her Oscar, joined by Fred Ward as Henry Miller, and I run, scurrying back up the shelves, they can’t possibly reach me up here. Strong, warm arms embrace me, smother me, it’s Oprah Winfrey, squeezing my innards out through my nose in a bear hug, screeching “What do you mean, you’ve never read Maya Angelou?” and I slide out, down, vaulting and sprinting, swinging through trees, each leaf a page from a timeless novel, I’m tearing off Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang with one hand while the other mangles passages from Gunga Din , they aren’t holding me, the pages are shredding under my nails, and I’m sliding down the vine, smac
king the bottom, and it’s a grave, my grave, Aubrey looms above me, shovelling books, they rain down, their edges striking me, I’m bleeding, and Danae! Danae is there! “Help, please!” I shout, but she’s shaking her head, “The books are all that matters, Thomas, you know that,” and she’s shovelling too, I’m buried alive, my sepulchre lined with Flowers in the Attic , that’s the last thing I’ll ever see, it’s not fair, I didn’t want this, Warren drops a match, I ignite, flapping my hands uselessly against the flames, and Munroe’s giant head swoops down from its perch and blows on the fire, the flames leap and prance on my face, I hear bacon crisping in the pan, I wake up next to Danae, and I’m screaming, she’s holding me, I can’t stop crying, she holds me until I pass out from exhaustion.
I opened my eyes, fully alert. Danae was draped across me, snoring loudly. How she made even that sexy I’ll never understand. I wormed my body out of bed without waking her. My throat was grated raw from crying. Pulling on my pants, I wandered through the apartment, looking at her shelves, lightly stroking the books as I read their spines. Red Earth and Pouring Rain. The Black Dahlia. The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. American Gods. The Love of a Good Woman. Tripmaster Monkey. The Grapes of Wrath. Crash. The Shipping News. In the Skin of a Lion. Junky. The Snapper. The Music of Chance. Eats, Shoots & Leaves.
I could have loved her, no question.
The sky was lightening in colour, black to a sooty grey. Soon, people would be waking up around the city. Page would be opening the store, cleaning up after Munroe’s performance. She’d hear about it on the radio, perhaps, or maybe she’ll get a phone call, Munroe is missing, is he there? The police would be called. Questions would be asked. Someone had to know. They’ll trace his steps. Employees will be separated, grilled under lights. Hotel staff will be quizzed. Surveillance tapes will be checked, apbs will be put out, a state of emergency will be declared.
The walls of the apartment warped and shrank, cocooning me. I needed space.
Snow fell as I walked, disguising my footprints, erasing the evidence of our act. Street lamps became ominous spotlights. Headlights lit me up from behind. I tucked my head down, pretended to be fascinated by my shoelaces, catching the first bus I could, giving the driver a surly early-morning grunt in response to her overly cheerful, “Late night, huh?”
I kept small in my seat until I reached Aubrey’s house. The curtains were drawn. The nose of Munroe’s car poked out from the backyard.
I knocked quietly at the door. Faint shuffling noises could be heard behind it. “Aubrey,” I said in a low voice. “C’mon, brother, it’s me.”
“Ubf!”
The door opened a crack, allowing Aubrey’s eye to peer out. It regarded me with displeasure. “What do you want, Thomas?”
“Let me in, brother. We need to talk.”
The eye withdrew silently into the dark. Hearing no movement inside, I pushed the door open and slipped in.
Aubrey had been busy with his houseguest. Munroe was drooped over the sofa. His neck lay at a painful angle. Short, bubbling breaths came out of his nose. Cigarette burns on his face. His legs bent in too many places. Margarita sloped herself over his lap, snuffling into his crotch.
Aubrey sat next to Munroe, lighting himself a cigarette, offering the pack to me. I politely declined.
He drew a long, deep puff. “I guess I went too far, didn’t I,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“We both did. We all did.”
“Oh, that’s right, you did, too.” He winked at me, inhaling smoke. “You remember that, brother. You did it too.”
“I know, Aubrey. I’m as culpable as the rest of them. Factum fieri infectum non potest and all that.”
“How’s that, friend?”
“What is done cannot be undone.”
He nodded. “Precisely, very good. I didn’t know that one.”
“What do we do now?”
Exhaling, he grinned, smoke filtering through his teeth. “What do you think we should do?” he asked, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. Serenely, his face neutral, he blew upon the embers until they glowed, and placed his cigarette against Munroe’s cheek. That odour of baked meat arose again as he ground the smouldering ashes in. “What should we do, Thomas?”
“We have to take him to a hospital.”
“That’s one option.” He didn’t seem inclined to follow my lead. “Hospital, yes. They’ll fix him up. That’s what we’ll do. Then we’ll go to jail. Get gang-raped.” He put his head on Munroe’s shoulder. A hushed moan escaped from Munroe’s mouth. “It’s what we deserve, after all.”
“Fuck that,” Warren said from behind me, emerging from the bedroom. “I ain’t goin’ to jail, not for this sack of shit.” He walked unsteadily to the couch, kicked Munroe’s leg. “He deserves all we gave him.”
“That’s one vote for, two votes against the hospital,” said Aubrey. “Democracy in action, Thomas.” He hopped to his feet, staggered his way toward me, putting his hands on my shoulders. Alcohol fumes burned my eyes. “Any more bright ideas, counsellor?”
“He’ll die,” I said.
Warren barked. “I thought that was the point.”
Aubrey looked at him. “Kilgore? You enjoyed it, I gather?” he asked.
“Fuck yeah!” Warren exclaimed. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
“I’m glad, Warren,” said Aubrey. “Are you glad, Thomas? Has any of this made you happy?”
“No,” I managed to say, a muffled noise. “Yes. This has all made me happy. No. I am not happy.”
“I know exactly how you feel, brother.”
“I have to make this right, Aubrey.”
“I knew you would, somehow.”
“Fucking pussy,” Warren spat. “Never a surprise from Thomas. No balls.” He made a slow, cock-eyed lunge at me, catching his foot on a beer bottle and crashing to the floor. “Slippery little fucker.”
“Warren?” Aubrey asked.
“What?” Warren made no move to rise.
“Go to bed.”
“Good idea. Big day today. Gotta trash the evidence.” Warren squirmed his way past me toward the bedroom. “G’night, Aub.”
“Good night, brother.”
“Good night, Warren,” I said to Warren’s retreating form. An eventual door slam was my response.
“He used to drink a lot more,” Aubrey commented. “Lucky for you he’s no longer that man. He was a mean drunk.”
I looked over at Munroe. “Lucky for all of us.”
“Oh, don’t blame Warren for all that. He got in his shots, but he’s too sloshed to cause any real damage. Most of that is my own handiwork. We all contributed to the piece, but as editor, I felt I had final say. Publisher’s privilege.” He blew a fogbank of smoke into Munroe’s face.
“We went too far, Aubrey.”
“You think?”
“We lost our minds.”
“That we surely did. I did. Where did I put it? I don’t care to know. Overrated organ never caused anything but trouble and misery to me.”
“I’m going to take him, Aubrey. He’ll die.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“I guess we’ll see.” He sat there, hunched over his knees, daring me to move.
I started to walk forward. I walked to Munroe. I shoved Margarita rudely from his legs. I gathered Munroe up in my arms as best I could, grunting with the effort. I walked backward to the door, dragging Munroe slowly out.
I looked over at Aubrey. He hadn’t moved.
“Take care, Yossarian.”
I began to cry again. “You too, brother.”
I dragged Munroe down the stairs, his mouth drooling blood onto his shirt, his feet thumping loudly at every step. I manoeuvred him into the passenger seat of his car, praying that Aubrey had left the keys in the ignition. Luck was with me. I drove Munroe to the nearest hospital, leaving him lumped on the sidewalk in front of Emergency. I went home, put some clothes in
a bag, grabbed what money and pills I could, and ran.
I imagine how my life could have ended differently. I stay a lawyer. I meet a nice lawyerette, settle down and litigate each other to our hearts’ content. Raise a litter of solicitors to carry on the gene pool, take some big cases, pervert the intent of the Law for my own personal success, raise a mint of a nest egg. I retire early, open my own second-hand bookshop, name it dog ears. People stop by to browse and chat, no pressure to make a purchase, I recommend whatever I feel like, and if I never make a profit, who the hell’d even care? Weekends, I hold screenings of movie classics in the back storeroom, discussing the thematic differences between the novel and its cinematic interpretation with anyone who cares to attend. Aubrey visits the store, and Warren, and Danae, we become fast friends, they tell me about a bizarre little book club they belonged to when they were young and foolish and honestly believed they could ever hope to make a difference in this world. We laugh over the whims of our youth, and rearrange the bookstore shelves according to date and publisher, giggling like schoolgirls.
We all know the rest.
Aubrey, Warren, and Danae. Gone. Together? I don’t know, but I’d put money on it. Aubrey’s house burned to the ground, I suppose a distraction manoeuvre. Aubrey splashed the entire house with gasoline, and in that house, what wasn’t covered with fuel was likely made of paper. The most indiscriminate burning of ’tags the Monkeys ever had. Firefighters didn’t have a chance at putting out this blaze. They sifted the ashes for days before they concluded that the house was empty.
Munroe slipped in and out of a coma for two weeks. Our disappearance was suspicious, but no one firmly placed us and him together until he awoke. Once he described Aubrey to the police, mentioning his hair, all the pieces fell into place, and the manhunt began in earnest.
The other Shelf Monkeys? Fortunately, Munroe couldn’t describe any of them in enough detail to conduct an effective search. They might have gotten away clean. But Emily, damn her therapist-encouraged soul, turned traitor in exchange for immunity. Claimed to find religion. Munroe has already professed to have forgiven her. Big of him. She’ll get a book deal out of this, I’m sure. Published by MuPu Incorporated. The brazen story of one woman’s fight to escape the clutches of a diabolical cabal of biblioclasts. I hope she appreciates the irony. Know this: that as she carved her entry into the book of Munroe, the look on her face was that of a child riding the teacups at Disney World, wanting the ride to go on forever.
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