The Mayor’s Business

 

 

 

The Mayor’s Business

by

James L. Secor 

 

The Mayor was a man who liked paper. He believed in paper. And so there was lots of paper on his desk. It was a very big mahogany roll-top affair with a throng of cubbyholes and myriad drawers. Stacks of paper adorned his deck, a side table and the bottom shelves of the bookcase. The Mayor’s office was a veritable library of paper that, to the untrained eye, looked like chaos. But The Mayor had a practiced eye. He knew where everything was.

On this particular day, he was furiously reading papers in three different piles. He stood up from his padded leather swivel chair and laid out the papers from each pile so they were next to each other. They were full of figures. The Mayor liked numbers, believing in the basic mathematical numerology of life. He moved from one to the other to the other and back again. And again. Again and again. And then he slammed his hands down on the papers, stared at or through the office wall and smiled. His eyes grew big. He put the papers together and slipped them into a particular cubbyhole, pulled down and locked the roll top and strode out of his office.

“Lunch meeting,” he said over his shoulder as he shut the City Offices door.

It was 10 AM.

The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky. Even with his 10-gallon white hat on, The Mayor shielded his eyes as he walked across the street to the Lone Star Inn and Bordello Lounge and Coffee Bar where it just so happened that Medusi Minkowski IV, Captain Bill and a few of his other cronies were gathered chewing the fat over the weather, the immigrants and the fate of the world over a cup of java. The Mayor scuttled across the dusty main street and down the boardwalk and into the Lone Star Inn and Bordello lobby like a horny toad after a good meal. He didn’t even slow down to say hello to his two favorites hostesses, Jezebel and Delilah. They, of course, hailed him in passing. Before even sitting down, The Mayor began his pitch:

“Boys. I got us a opportunity.”

“Take a load of, The,” suggested the Sheriff.

“Hey, boy!” ordered Captain Bill. “Another cup o’ black joe.” He elbowed his buddies to either side, “I just love sayin’ that to that jigaboo.” And laughed and laughed at his own joke.

“What is it, The?” asked one of the other good old boys.

“We got us a bidniss,” The said.

“Spit it out, The. You know we’re always lookin’ for a way to make a buck,” said Medusi, twisting his head from side to side and brushing off his badge.

“Here it is–thanks, boy,” said The Mayor as his coffee was set before him. “This town’s been growin’. More’n more people been comin’ in.”

“Tell us somethin’ we don’t know, The.”

“Every year the past three years we been growin’. Steadily. Each year a bit more. Now, what’d'ya think that means?”

They all looked at each other.

“The town’s growin’ bigger?” ventured Medusi.

“You been readin’ yer figgers again, The?” Captain Bill teased.

But The Mayor paid no mind to their ribbing.

“It means they gotta have houses.”

“Yeah-uh. Since it’s against the law to live in a tent,” concluded Clint Flintlock, attorney-at-large for The Bildersberger & Gunpowder Law Firm.

“And somebody gotta supply the wood,” continued The, oblivious to the teasing. They were ever a hard group to bring around, favoring the obvious in their judgments.

“They git their wood from Waco,” said another of the gang.

“But we got our own forest right to hand.”

“Chalk Mountain Forest?”

“And we can operate the Brazos River Basin Logging and Builders Association. Exclusive suppliers to the metropolis of Chokepointe Piste.”

Everyone was quiet for awhile. This was a good idea and needed some ruminating.

“How do we stiff the competition? Waco Board gonna throw a hissy fit,” said Clint.

“Import tax,” said The Mayor, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

“How we gonna collect?” asked Captain Bill.

“Well. . .that gimp’s got himself a toll booth out there. We pass a law he’s gotta collect and we give him ten percent for services rendered. He’s gotta be good for somethin’ besides hoppin’ ’round after that damn Hellecchino character.”

“Five percent.”

“Three percent.”

“Okay. Three percent. He’s only got one and a half legs to feed,” quipped Clint.

Everyone laughed. It was always good to laugh at others’ misfortunes.

“We build the lumber yard just outside of town right on the river. Right there at the narrows so’s we can trap the logs as they come floatin’ downriver.”

“Damn! Ain’tchu the thinker,” said Medusi, slapping his thigh and twisting his head from side to side.

“I’ll go draw up the papers,” said Clint.

“And git me an import tax law for an emergency session of the City Council tomorrow,” said The Mayor. “Bill. . .you take some boys out there and scout out a location for the mill. I’ll run down to Andy Warthole’s an’ git him workin’ on a signboard.”

They all got up and went their separate ways. The waiter boy waited five minutes, to make sure they’d all dispersed, before he asked for leave til the noon rush hour. As the lounge and coffee bar were empty, this was allowed, though his pay would be docked for the time off, and off he went to tell Buck of the doing’s around town.

That evening, another of The Mayor’s business ventures was in full swing–both arms. The enterprise was a very successful operation. The Mayor ran a rather exclusive prostitution ring. The main house, which catered especially to sado-masochistic proclivities within the male populace, was located outside the city limits, just north of the Chalk Mountain Forest that was to be harvested. Only Mr. Mayor had figured that logging would also increase his sex trade as, via the logging road, access to the house of ill repute would be more direct, relieving the burden of time some of his clientele suffered under. This was listed, at the Chamber of Commerce, as a private gentlemen’s club, name: The Bait and Switch. Mr. Mayor never ceased to wonder at the many fishing aficionados there were in town. A special offer was available for business associations: delivery service.

The second piece of this clandestine concern was gathering resources, which had become much more difficult with the disappearance of the disappearing machine; however, low tech solutions to the problem had worked before the advent of high tech and, though rather painstaking, would be adequate again. That is, girls had to be procured. Kidnapping was effective but costly, for there were laws and some laws could not be broken with impunity. Getting caught in the act–or even ex poste haste –was a dangerous business risk. So, a more effective and efficient method was adopted: buying the goods. There were always people who were hard up, who had too many mouths to feed or were simply–as with The Mayor and his business associates –greedy. Money talks. Indeed, money talks so loudly that it trumps humanity. As people continued to be fruitful and multiply–who wants to take the fun out of life?–there was an unending supply. Generally speaking, this ingredient of the business was acquired under cover of darkness, as much due to its nefarious nature as to its inherent furtive excitement. However, it must be admitted that there were contract workers, brought in, of course, from outside: unsatisfied housewives and bored socialites. The thrill of taboo breaking had immense drawing power.

Of course, there were further enhancements to pleasure and thus there was a brisk trade in pharmaceuticals. The Mayor steered clear of this. Captain Bill–Roaring Bill MacDonald–took care of this end of the food chain. Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste, helped by making appropriate raids and confiscating the evidence, to be distributed elsewhere for a 100% profit.

As is the way of the world, everything went along smoothly for some time, including the new logging and building adventure. Indeed, so efficient were they at clearing the forest that the partners found themselves with a surplus of wood. They took up the slack by building a surplus of houses. Planned communities. This investing in the future occurred at all levels of society, from shanties to dream houses, all constructed according to code and in the appropriate location.

Nevertheless, this super-efficiency and over-exuberant zeal had an unforeseen downside. Log jam. This log jam on the river created another problem. A shortage of water. Water for farming, water for washing, water for cooking, water for drinking. That is, when the supply diminished, it was discovered just how important to life water was. You’d expect that the business conglomerate would see their way to making more money from this debacle but such was not the case. Before The was able to see how he could profit from the misery of others yet again, the people’s complaints reached Hellecchino’s ears.  Of course, most of the people so adversely affected were from the other side of the wall and their lot was already a hard one. Their frustration boiled over easily. Like all good heroes, Hellecchino had good hearing. And he was a good listener. Like a true hero, too, he reassured the restless citizens, for he had a plan. When asked what it was, all Hellecchino said was, “Greed is a kind of hubris and hubris is a kind of blindness.”

Everybody thought that was pretty profound and returned to their dry homes ooohing and ahhing.

Hellecchino however heighed himself into town to buy a kazoo.

“Hold down the fort, Buck. I’m going into town to buy a kazoo and then I’m going out into the woods to practice.”

And that’s just what he did.

As Hellecchino expected, it wasn’t too very long before he was discovered out in the woods. He was caught gathering faggots for firewood. In these woods, this had become against the law with the result that people were reduced to eating cold gruel, cold soup, cold stew, cold etc. So it was he was caught red-handed picking up sticks.

What brought about Hellecchino’s discovery was that every time he strained, he kazood. Sometimes, this sounded like a sick bird, kind of like a duck with indigestion. And the perimeter guard heard this. And he went in search of the sound. And he found a man all in brown bent over grappling with the vines and bushes and pulling together sticks and branches–and kazooing as he did so.

“Who the hell are you?” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.

Hellecchino was in disguise.

Hellecchino did not answer.

“What the hell are yew doin’!” shouted the cowboy perimeter guard.

Hellecchino continued scratching at the underbrush for good kindling.

“I said goddamnit who the hell are you!”

There was the ominous click of a gun being cocked.

Hellecchino did not stop what he was doing but he did bend over a little more, making his butt stick out from beneath his brown cloth over-blouse.

“I’m man-who-breaks-wind.”

“Yer shittin’ me.”

Just then, Medusi Minkowski IV rode by on his way to supervising the new business development. They were now harvesting green pine. He was going to see if they could sell them as “you don’t have to paint your house” lumber. Always fresh as the day you bought it.

“What seems to be the trouble, cowboy?”

“I got this here guy says he’s man-who-breaks-wind.”

“And you were going to shoot him to see the escaped wind?”

“No, sir. He just wasn’t answerin’ to my query.”

“God damn! You know I don’t cotton to homosectshuals! You’re fired!”

Before the cowboy perimeter guard had a chance to explain himself, Medusi Minkowski IV began beating him with his reins and kicking him with his pointy-toed boots. This not only caused the cowboy to run off but the horse to buck and skitter about and carry on til the Sheriff fell off.

Hellecchino never once turned around.

Sheriff Minkowski IV gained his feet and wiped himself off. He polished his badge and twisted his head from side to side. He gathered up the reins of his horse.

“You the man-who-breaks-wind?” he asked the swaying ass before him.

“Yeah. Dat’s me. Man-who-breaks-wind.”

“Let me see ya prove it or I’m takin’ you in. You know who I am?”

“Nope.”

“I’m Medusi Minkowski IV, Sheriff of Chokepointe Piste.”

“Yew don’t say. . .”

“I do. And if you don’t prove you’re who you say you are, I’ll arresting you for impersonating an old fart.”

“Okay. Glad to oblige.”

Now, Hellecchino never did anything half-assed. And, true to form, he did not this time either. He not only kazood as he strained, he kazood bird calls and at least one verse of a popular hymn.

Well! Medusi Minkowski IV was truly amazed. He laughed and laughed and asked for an encore. Hellecchino very nearly shit himself obliging the Sheriff.

“This is great. I just gotta tell the boys ’bout this.”

So, up he got up and spurred his mount into a near gallop back toward town.

Hellecchino, once the hoof beats had paled, stood up, gathered his firewood in a bundle, strapped it to his back and walked off. He knew Buck would be pleased as punch to get some warm food for dinner.

When Medusi Minkowski IV returned with The Mayor, Clint Flintlock, Clyde Moyen Bucket (“bouquet”), Gyorgy Yabu and the Yabu Yeoman editor, Edward Garcon, Hellecchino was long gone. As fate would have it, though, a big brown bear had wandered into the Chalk Mountain Forest foraging for food and escaping the Indians on his trail. The town fathers hunted around and, hearing the snorting and pawing, followed the sound to the bear. They were on foot as getting the horses to pass through the undergrowth and trees was a mite too difficult. They were laughing and carrying on and not paying one bit of attention to what they were doing.

“Hey! I’m back. Go on and do your ass singin’ again,” shouted the Sheriff.

The bear did not respond.

Medusi Minkowski IV walked up to the big brown mass and kicked it in the ass.

The bear responded. He spun around and stood on his hind legs and roared his indignation. Great paws gnashed at the air. Spit flew from his jaws. And the town fathers took to their heels. The bear, of course, took off after them, though his hunger for satisfaction and human meat was never satisfied. The humans jumped on their horses and high-tailed it back to town.

Next day the Yabu Yeoman blared a panic-stricken headline: Bear Found Shitting In The Woods!!

That pretty much put an end to both the logging business and the whoring business. It also brought about the rediscovery of some of the missing peoples because, without their pharmaceutical fix, they wandered off in search of something to make themselves feel better. Addiction is not a pleasant sight. Nevertheless, when these denizens of ill-got means were discovered, their families were ecstatic and thankful all to heaven. There would have been a scandal but most of the damaged goods belonged on the other side of the wall and so the Yabu Yeoman carried no story. It was as if nothing had happened. And, of course, the good side of town was happy in its ignorance, ignorant of the fact that it was ignorant.

But the other side of town benefited in another way, too, for now they safely foraged for wood for fires and once again were able to drink hot coffee, hot chocolate and hot toddies.  This was so because of two reasons: 1) the Indians caught up to the bear and took him down; and 2) everyone else was afraid to go into the woods, bears being known for their mindless frenzy.

No one did anything about the log jam, following Hellecchino’s suggestion, for he realized that eventually the water would overflow the river’s banks and work its way around the dead wood and continue its way downstream, thus opening up water to the populace. Eventually, too, the lumber would flood downstream and be harvested by any interested bystander and used for fuel, thus getting rid of the need to raid the Chalk Mountain Forest, which really was a long walk, especially on the way back.

“Sometimes,” explained Hellecchino to Buck one evening from atop the toll booth blockhouse, “sometimes you just have to let the problem overwhelm itself.”

Jim Hatfield Undercover

One fine morning, Jim Hatfield presented himself at the Hacienda loco plátano under the guise of Janus Beauregarde, assistant to Dr. Chicane Milchrot. Nothing could be done about Jim’s height but his grey eyes were somewhat shielded behind large, black-framed spectacles and his eyebrows had been plucked and peaked. His nose had been reshaped into a moderate hatchet-shape, to mimic of Gyorgy Yabu’s. One tooth was missing from the front right. Jim had grown long fingernails, though not quite so long as those sported by the ancient Chinese. And he walked with short, mincing steps, as if hampered by skirts. He carried with him especially elaborate stationary with Chicane Milchrot’s heading and writing in order to introduce himself in his boss’s absence. Anything impressive was guaranteed to work with Gyorgy Yabu. He liked show.

“So,” said Gyorgy by way of a conversation opener, “you’re Dr. Milchrot’s assistant. How come you wasn’t here before?”

“I was left behind,” Jim said in his smooth, slightly East European accent, “to carry out further experiments, of course.”

“Ah. Good. Good,” said Yabu for lack of anything else to say.

“May I see the machine, please, yes?” And Jim-Janus bowed slightly from the waist.

“Well, yes. Of course! Raght this way, mah man.”

On the way down to the basement, Yabu was conniving how to get information from this Janus Beauregarde guy. He figured it would not be too difficult as second raters or second seaters were ever ready to show off their stuff in the absence of their overlords. All he had to do was ask, really. And so, when they stood before the machine, he did.

“Ah!” shouted Janus, throwing up his hands in glee. “The Chicane Disintegrator! How wonderful it is, no?”

“How th’hell does this dang thang work?”

Janus-Jim took a deep breath.

“Simple,” he silvered. “Let me give you an example. When certain crystals are placed in water, they dissolve and disappear. You would not know that they had ever been there.”

“What are crystals? You don’t mean the ones that’re worth money, do ya?”

“I am talking about salt or sugar.” Yabu nodded, mouth open in comprehension. “If, by evaporation or by some other fashion, you lessen the amount of water–et voilá!–there you have crystals again, visible and the same as before. It is by this evaporation process that you, an organic being made up of the same crystals, can be dissolved into the cosmos. Then, by a subtle reversal of fortune, your bits and pieces are reassembled elsewhere.”

Jim-Janus rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hoping this mishmash made sense, for, truly, the body was not made up of crystals, though it was of the same substance as the rest of the cosmos. Yabu, however, thought Janus was looking to heaven for insight and thanks for a job well done, something that he himself did often enough.

Nevertheless, “This is stupid,” he cried. “It is a monstrous assertion that we could be dispersed by some disruptin’ power.”

“The objection is an obvious one. But it is working, no? This is how Dr. Milchrot’s Chicane Disintegrator works, I assure you. He has carefully instructed me in all its various phases and conundrums and I can assure you there is a visible framework that requires that every crystal flies back into its true place,” lied Jim, Janus-faced. “You may smile, Mr. Yabu, sir, but your incredulity and your smile may soon be replaced by quite another emotion. After all, we have disappeared many, no?”

“Where did they go?”

“Ah! It would not be a secret if I told you, would it?”

“Yes. I see your point. You know,” and Yabu kind of giggled, indicating the kitchen above with his head, “sometimes I’d like to disappear–but only fer awhile, y’ understand.”

“I could arrange it.”

“Could you?” Yabu bit his lip, shifted his eyes round a bit. “Does it hurt?”

“No one has ever complained,” replied Janus in a reassuring but no less conspiratorial voice.

Yabu shrugged his shoulders. “I’m ready, then. Perhaps I c’n relieve some o’ th’ stress ‘n strain o’ home life. If ya know what I mean.”

“Yes. There is something I would impress upon you, Mr. Yabu, which may help you to grasp the idea. You have heard in Oriental magic and Western occultism of the phenomenon of the ‘apport’ of objects, when suddenly brought from a distance to appear in a new place, yes?”

“I don’t understand this term ‘apport,’” said Yabu shaking his head. “I’m not good at scientific stuff. As long as it works is good enough for me.”

“It is the loosening of molecules, their conveyance upon an etheric wave and their reassembling, each exactly in its place drawn together by the irresistible laws of physics and philosophy.”

“I do not believe in apports, Mr. Beauregarde, since I do not understand them. Since I do not believe in them, they do not exist. My time is valuable and if we are t’ have any sorta demonstration, I wanna proceed right this minute, without farther ado.” Gyorgy Yabu’s haughtiness hid an inner trepidation, as could be seen by the constant shifting of his feet and the little cough he occasioned throughout his demand.

“Yes,” said Janus, approaching the machine and placing a hand against its smooth, shiny surface. “This is the machine that is destined to be famous, altering the balance of power in the country. Who holds this, rules the world.” Jim tried to hold back the rising sourness from his stomach. Sometimes, playing a part was not so tasteful. “Now, Mr. Yabu, will you dare to sit upon the chair and allow me to demonstrate upon your own body the capabilities of this new force?”

But Gyorgy Yabu had not the courage of a lion and anything in the nature of defiance or threat, real or otherwise, roused him to an instant frenzy and he spluttered and gaggled as if speaking in tongues. Then, “I shall go.”

“Perhaps you’re life is too valuable–”

“It is monstrous, this contraption,” said Yabu in awe-struck wonder. “The nearest approach to this thing I’ve ever seen is the ‘lectric chair at Sing Sing. This ain’t gonna fry my ass, is it?”

“I guarantee its safety,” said Janus, bowing. “I would be held for manslaughter if anything befell you, no?”

“That would be poor consolation t’ me, leavin’ the work unfinished. Let you, at least, go first, an’ then I c’n follow.”

“And who would work the machine then?”

“Ah! Good point.” Yabu stamped his foot.

Personal danger had never assailed Gyorgy Yabu before and the idea that this scientific work might leave him unfinished hit him hard. He hesitated. Before he could make up his mind, Janus pushed him forward and into the chair. Janus put his hand to the handle. It clicked. Then, for a moment, there was a sensation of confusion and a mist before his eyes. When this cleared, Mr. Yabu, with an odious smile, was standing beside Janus, his usually apple-red cheeks drained of blood and color, staring over his shoulder.

“Well, get on with it!” he said.

Janus pulled himself up. “It is all over. You responded admirably.”

Although he himself was amazed, Jim had never seen a man so utterly upset. His nerve, for a moment completely failed him and he grasped Yabu’s arm with a shaking hand.

“My, God, Mr. Beauregard, it is true! I vanished from there and now I’m here. There’s no doubt about it. There was an instant of vacancy as I’ve never felt before and. . .how long was I away?”

“Two or three minutes. I clicked this lever, if it is a lever, into a new slot and there you were, standing where you now stand, looking a little bewildered but otherwise the same as ever.” Janus mopped his brow with a gig red handkerchief. He was horrified–even at the perfect coolness of his operation. But he managed a cool, “It is an interesting process, is it not? When you consider the tremendous inocuity of the Professor, it is strange to think that he is at present a molecular cloud suspended somewhere. He is now, of course, entirely busy on a mission of mercy. If we choose to leave him in suspension, there is nothing on god’s earth to prevent us.” Janus smiled broadly, revealing long yellow teeth. “Do you know. . .I have discovered that the hair of the body, being at an entirely different vibration to other living organic tissues, can be included or excluded at will. It would interest me to see the bear without his bristles. Behold him!” And Jim-Janus, without the slightest idea what he was doing, flicked a small lever and Yabu stood before him, bald as a jaybird. He could hardly keep from roaring with laughter at the joke he played.

Perhaps at the wide-eyed laughter of Janus Beauregarde and, perhaps, the evil glint in his eyes tipped Yabu off, for his hand shot up to his head and he became conscious of his condition. His huge head was as bald as a baby’s ass and as smooth as a girl’s lily white breast. The next instant, he sprang forward and seized Janus by the throat, hurling him to the ground.

“For God’s sake be careful!” shouted Janus. “If you kill me, you can never get matters right again.”

“Really?” snarled Yabu from betwixt his clenched teeth. Then he began babbling again, as he ever did when excited and out of sorts. “This violence is quite unnecessary. It is not a harmless joke–”

“It was my wish to demonstrate the power of the machine. I imagined that you wanted a full demonstration. No offense, I assure you, Mr. Yabu. None in the world.”

“You will fix me. Do not take any liberties.”

Janus was let go and rose on shaky legs. He approached The Lagniappe. For all of his bravado, could Jim bring this off? Damn him for getting a big head! Now he understood the problem of the actor who loses himself in his role–no control. He took a deep breath.  He pulled the same lever in the opposite direction and, in an instant, there was Gyorgy Yabu with his tangled mane once more. Gyorgy stroked his head affectionately with his hands, passing them over his cranium to be sure that the hair restoration was complete. Then he turned an angry visage on Janus Beauregarde.

“You done taken a liberty, Mr. Beauregarde, that woulda had very serious consequences to yoreself. However. . .I am content to accept yore explanation that you only did it fer purposes of demonstration. Now, if I may ask you a few direct questions upon this remarkable power which you claim to have discovered for me. . .”

“I am ready to answer anything save what the source of power is. That is my secret–and that of the great Chicane Milchrot, my inestimable teacher.”

“Do you seriously inform us that no one in the world knows of this except yoreself and Milchrot?”

“No one has the least inkling.” Finally, Jim Hatfield spoke the truth. Nevertheless, he broke out in a tingly, cold sweat.

“How does it work?”

“Well,” Jim collected himself for another salvo from neverneverland, “it acts vertically. Certain currents are above you and certain others are below you and they set up vibrations. But the process could be lateral. If it were so conducted, it would have the same effect and cover a space in proportion to the strength of the current.”

“And you have sold this secret as a monopoly to only me, yes?” Gyorgy rubbed his hands together.

“Yes, sir. When the money is paid over, you shall have such power as no man ever yet has had. You don’t even now the extent of the possibilities if placed in capable hands, hands which did not fear to wield the weapon which they held. They are. . .immeasurable.” A gloating, evil smile passed over Janus’ face. “Conceive a quarter of Bexar gone in the flick of a switch. Poof! The people we’ve been doing so far are peanuts. Imagine the effect of such a current. . .”

“Why,” Yabu burst into laugher, “I could imagine the whole Pecos Valley being swept clean, and not one man, woman or child left of all those teeming millions to disturb my peace. No Injuns. No immigrants. No darkies. Nobody to stand in my way.”

These words filled Jim with horror–the air of exultation with which they were pronounced. But, then, to hide his disgust, Janus himself broke into a genial, yellow-toothed smile and held out his well-manicured hand.

“Well, Mr. Beauregarde, I must congratulate you and Dr. Chicane Milchrot. There is no doubt that you have come upon a remarkable property of naytcha which you have succeeded in harnessin’ for my use. That this use should also have a destructive power is no doubt very deplorable but science knows no distinctions of the sort, following knowledge where it may lead, no? Apart from the principle involved, you have, I suppose, no objection to my examinin’ the construction of the miraculous Lagniappe?”

“None in the least. The machine is merely the body. It is the soul of it, the animating principle, which you can never hope to capture. It is so scientifically etheric.”

“Exactly. . .but the mere mechanism. . .”

For some time, Gyorgy Yabu walked around The Lagniappe and fingered its several parts and levers. Then he hoisted himself into the insulated chair.

“Ah. Would you care for another excursion into the cosmos?” asked Janus.

“Later, perhaps, later. But meanwhile. . .is there not some leakage of. . .electricity? I can distinctly feel a weak current passing through me.”

“Impossible! It is quite insulated.”

“But I assure ya, Ah do feel it.” He got down from the chair and indicated that Janus take his place.

Janus sat down. “I can feel nothing.”

“There is not a tingling down your spine?”

Janus closed his eyes and considered. “No, sir. I do not observe it.”

There was a sharp click and Janus disappeared.

“Good heavens,” said Yabu, smiling benignly. “Dear me. I may have inadvertently touched the handle. One is very liable to have awkward incidents with a rough model of this kind. This never should certainly be guarded. Hmm. . .it is in the number three slot. That must be th’ slot that causes disinteegration. Yes. I c’n operate this. Yes. Quite adequately indeed.” And he moved the lever again. A white, slightly shaken Janus Beauregarde reappeared. “Enjoy yore trip? I was so excited I guess I didn’t watch what I was doin’. Didja notice it?”

“I may have noticed it, yes, Mr. Yabu. But I do not burden my mind with such small details.

“There are many slots and I do not know their purpose. I might make the matter worse if I experiment with the unknown, don’tcha think? Perhaps it is best to leave matters as they are, in yore hands. For the moment.”

“And you would–”

“Exactly. It is better so. With your interesting personality distributed throughout the cosmos, this machine is worthless and certain people. . .if you get my drift. . .”

“The first duty of a loyal citizen is to prevent murder,’ said Janus.

“Enough! Enough!” said Yabu, holding up his hand. “The theme will not bear discussion. It has already disengaged my thoughts too long from matters of more importance.”

And Yabu stalked out of the basement, leaving Janus, aka Jim Hatfield, alone, still with the problem of finding and re-rendering the disappeared. He looked again at the machine. . .so many levers. . .was there perhaps a storage bin? He looked around for Milchrot’s plans.

The old “I’ve got nothing to hide” excuse

I really try to stay away from talking about my family but this item is the height of selective blindness. It is this: my family finds absolutely nothing wrong with the fact that the government is reading their mail, listening to their phone calls, following them on the Internet or has the ability to break into their house and arrest them, take them to jail, not let them have access to an attorney and, basically, disappear. This is cool. It’s part of the two Patriot Acts and the Military Commissions Act. Those are laws of the land. Nothing wrong with that. Why is it okay with my family? Because, “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I think this is ignorant. Worse, they are ignorant of their ignorance. I guess they’re waiting for Eve to bite into the apple, which is both the fruit of the tree of life and the fruit of love. Interesting pairing, that.
But let’s put aside my prejudice and look at their excuse: I’ve got nothing to hide.
It is selfish. It is only concerned with them, themselves. As if to say, to hell with anyone else. This is, of course, the ultimate in individualism, as it has been re-interpreted since Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalists brought it up. For Emerson and the Transcendentalists, no individual is separate from the community; the community helps define the individual. That is, to be totally, 100% an individual is antithetical to social stability. It is anarchy; that is, everyone doing what they want regardless of the effects it may have on anyone else. Some might say it guts the social contract. It is, indeed, a denial of social responsibility. It is a denial of involvement. It is irresponsible behavior. It is utter chaos. Of course, if you’re part of society, you are part of what society does and the repercussions of those actions. As Karl Jaspers noted in A Question of German Guilt, everyone is guilty. Everyone. He does not exclude himself, even though he ran from the fascist regime.
So, to claim total independence from society via one’s claiming individual choice is irresponsible.
My family, too, believes it is making its own choice, without bias or forethought. They read the conservative Washington Times and The Wall Street Journal and then, I’m told, make up their own minds what to believe. To someone of little brain like myself or Winnie the Pooh, this sounds a little like they’ve made up their minds before they begin. That is, they’ve chosen ahead of time which information outlet to pay attention to, ignoring all the rest, before they “make up their own minds.” Another word for this is “prejudice,” I think. As my family are self-proclaiming Christians, I can see where they get this kind of logic.
But, here, with their professed Christianity, there is another conundrum–dare I say contradiction? Paradox? Christianity is supposed to be a religion of love and respect for your fellow man, even your enemy. Yet, in the “I’ve got nothing to hide” syndrome, there is no love nor no respect or consideration for their fellow men. As long as they are home free, everything’s hunky-dory. It is saying, as God’s chosen are wont to say, I’m good but y’all are sinners. I’m better than you are, na-na-na-na-nah! Wilhelm Reich has pointed out this is fascist thinking, maintaining all religions are this way: my way is right, so yours is wrong. [The Mass Psychology of Fascism] This means, of course, that you, the wrong one, can die because, being wrong, you can’t be saved, you’re not one of us, you’re expendable. Ergo, “I’ve got nothing to hide” means I’m right, you’re wrong and so you deserve what you get.
There is an inherent superiority in this, a kind of hubris. I think the cliché, coming from ancient Greek, is “pride cometh before the fall.” Such a tragedy.
But. . .do they have nothing to hide? Are they sure they have nothing to hide?
To maintain “I’ve got nothing to hide” means that they know, for sure, what the government is looking for. That is, they can read the government’s mind. Like some women can read the minds of all men via “that look in their eyes” and Christians know God’s plan even though God’s ken is way beyond a human’s ability to comprehend. Truly, how sure are they?
In fact, it doesn’t matter whether they’ve got nothing to hide or not. If someone else is nailed and they have a connection with a member of my family, my family is implicated and disappeared. If the other person bears a grudge, of the sort found with Montressor for Fortunato [Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amantillado], then my family’s name will fall off that other person’s lips like drool from a toothing baby’s mouth. Also, their being picked up puts me in dire straits and I’m not even in America. Their “I’ve got nothing to hide” that got them into trouble by someone else’s say-so–commonly called hearsay evidence–screws me. That they feel no guilt over this possibility is frightening, though not out of line with prior behavior: when the ICU wanted my next-of-kin and I sent a friend to contact my family, my family did not respond. How unfortunate for my family that I survived.
But let’s assume, just for kicks, that the person disappeared is someone they do like, someone close to them that they respect. When he’s disappeared, do you think they’ll look into the matter, call up to find out where he is? Run on down to his house to see where he’s gotten to? He’s not been seen for so long. Do you think they’ll stand up for the disappeared and maintain his innocence? Do ya, huh? I don’t. I think they know better than to step out of line and be honest and upright and, as they will be more than likely to say, stick their nose into business that isn’t theirs. After all, who’s important?! This is fear. This is the fear their government wishes to instill in its subjects–er, citizens. This is the fear they’ve snapped up like that fly the frog ate for dinner. This is the fear that makes them forget they’re human and they’ve got friends.
If you can’t trust no one, who can you trust?
So. . .they are inconsiderate, inhumane, innocent, irresponsible and ignorant yet. . . they have nothing to hide. And they have an ethics problem. Stephen Pepper would consider them psychologically diseased, seeing some people as expendable and themselves not. [World Hypotheses]
I may be over-reacting here but I’m frightened of these people. They know not what they do. And. . .they know not what they say. And they don’t give a damn, just as long as they’re left alone. I’m innocent! I’m innocent! I ain’t done nothin’!
Let me see if I can make my family clearer for you. . .”I didn’t know why they were cramming all them Jews into them box cars at machine gun point.” And, “I ain’t never heard o’ no concentration camps. Ain’t that whar ya larn how to thank real hard?”
My family’s about as clever as Br’er Bear:
Well, Brer Fox, he was plenty mad that he’d worked so hard on those peas only to have them eaten by someone else. He suspected that Brer Rabbit was to blame for this, but the rascally rabbit had covered his tracks so well that Brer Fox couldn’t catch him. So Brer Fox came up with a plan. He found a smooth spot in his fence where a cunning rabbit could sneak in, and he set a trap for Brer Rabbit at that spot. He tied a rope to a nearby hickory sapling and bent it nearly double. Then he took the other end of the rope and made a loop knot that he fastened with a trigger right around the hole in the fence. If anybody came through the crack to steal his peas, the knot would tighten around their body, the sapling would spring upright, and they would be left hanging from the tree for everyone to see.
The next morning, Brer Rabbit came a-slipping through the hole in the fence. At once, the trigger sprung, the knot tightened on his forelegs, and the hickory tree snapped upright, quick as you please. Brer Rabbit found himself swung aloft betwixt the heaven and the earth, swinging from the hickory sapling. He couldn’t go up and he couldn’t go down. He just went back and forth.
Brer Rabbit was in a fix, no mistake. He was trying to come up with some glib explanation for Brer Fox when he heard someone a-rumbling and a-bumbling down the road. It was Brer Bear, looking for a bee-tree so he could get him some honey. As soon as Brer Rabbit saw Brer Bear, he came up with a plan to get himself free.
“Howdy, Brer Bear,” he called cheerfully. Brer Bear squinted around here and there, wondering where the voice had come from. Then he looked up and saw Brer Rabbit swinging from the sapling.
“Howdy Brer Rabbit,” he rumbled. “How are you this morning?”
“Middling, Brer Bear,” Rabbit replied. “Just middling.”
Brer Bear was wondering why Brer Rabbit was up in the tree, so he asked him about it. Brer Rabbit grinned and said that he was earning a dollar-a-minute from Brer Fox.
“A dollar-a-minute!” Brer Bear exclaimed. “What for?”
“I’m keeping the crows away from his goober patch,” Brer Rabbit explained, and went on to say that Brer Fox was paying a dollar-a-minute to whomever would act as a scarecrow for him.
Well, Brer Bear liked the sound of that. He had a big family to feed, and he could use the money. When Brer Rabbit asked him if he would like to have the job, Brer Bear agreed. Brer Rabbit showed him how to bend the sapling down and remove the knot from his forepaws. When Brer Rabbit was free, Brer Bear climbed into the knot and soon he was hanging aloft betwixt heaven and earth, swing to and from the sapling and growling at the birds to keep them away from the goober patch. [Bre'r Rabbit Earns A Dollar A Day, Joel Chandler Harris]

Or, maybe, they’re suffering from George Warren’s little canary, Chippie, syndrome:
Once there was a parakeet named Chippie. Chippie loved to sing because he didn’t have a care in the world! Chippie had a wonderful life in his birdcage until one day something happened to bring all of that to an end. It was the day his owner decided to clean the cage floor with her canister vacuum cleaner. She put the nozzle in the cage and started vacuuming the floor of the cage, and at that moment her telephone rang. She turned around to pick it up, and inadvertently pointed the nozzle up into the air–right at Chippie! She sucked poor Chippie into the vacuum cleaner, head first! Well, she panicked and threw down the phone, turned off the vacuum cleaner and quickly opened up the bag. And sure enough, there was Chippie on the inside–dazed and stunned and covered with dust. She quickly grabbed him and raced off to the bathroom and washed all the dust off, but then the tiny bird began shivering, soaking wet. And so, she did what every compassionate bird owner would do. She reached for her hot air drier and turned it on and blasted poor old Chippie with hot air! Well, a few days later, the friend on the phone called to see how Chippie was doing, and I love the woman’s reply. She said, Well, I’m not sure. He doesn’t sing anymore. He just sits here and stares! [When Your World Is Falling Apart, Look Up]

The old “I’ve got nothing to hide” excuse

I really try to stay away from talking about my family but this item is the height of selective blindness. It is this: my family finds absolutely nothing wrong with the fact that the government is reading their mail, listening to their phone calls, following them on the Internet or has the ability to break into their house and arrest them, take them to jail, not let them have access to an attorney and, basically, disappear. This is cool. It’s part of the two Patriot Acts and the Military Commissions Act. Those are laws of the land. Nothing wrong with that. Why is it okay with my family? Because, “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
I think this is ignorant. Worse, they are ignorant of their ignorance. I guess they’re waiting for Eve to bite into the apple, which is both the fruit of the tree of life and the fruit of love. Interesting pairing, that.
But let’s put aside my prejudice and look at their excuse: I’ve got nothing to hide.
It is selfish. It is only concerned with them, themselves. As if to say, to hell with anyone else. This is, of course, the ultimate in individualism, as it has been re-interpreted since Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalists brought it up. For Emerson and the Transcendentalists, no individual is separate from the community; the community helps define the individual. That is, to be totally, 100% an individual is antithetical to social stability. It is anarchy; that is, everyone doing what they want regardless of the effects it may have on anyone else. Some might say it guts the social contract. It is, indeed, a denial of social responsibility. It is a denial of involvement. It is irresponsible behavior. It is utter chaos. Of course, if you’re part of society, you are part of what society does and the repercussions of those actions. As Karl Jaspers noted in A Question of German Guilt, everyone is guilty. Everyone. He does not exclude himself, even though he ran from the fascist regime.
So, to claim total independence from society via one’s claiming individual choice is irresponsible.
My family, too, believes it is making its own choice, without bias or forethought. They read the conservative Washington Times and The Wall Street Journal and then, I’m told, make up their own minds what to believe. To someone of little brain like myself or Winnie the Pooh, this sounds a little like they’ve made up their minds before they begin. That is, they’ve chosen ahead of time which information outlet to pay attention to, ignoring all the rest, before they “make up their own minds.” Another word for this is “prejudice,” I think. As my family are self-proclaiming Christians, I can see where they get this kind of logic.
But, here, with their professed Christianity, there is another conundrum–dare I say contradiction? Paradox? Christianity is supposed to be a religion of love and respect for your fellow man, even your enemy. Yet, in the “I’ve got nothing to hide” syndrome, there is no love nor no respect or consideration for their fellow men. As long as they are home free, everything’s hunky-dory. It is saying, as God’s chosen are wont to say, I’m good but y’all are sinners. I’m better than you are, na-na-na-na-nah! Wilhelm Reich has pointed out this is fascist thinking, maintaining all religions are this way: my way is right, so yours is wrong. [The Mass Psychology of Fascism] This means, of course, that you, the wrong one, can die because, being wrong, you can’t be saved, you’re not one of us, you’re expendable. Ergo, “I’ve got nothing to hide” means I’m right, you’re wrong and so you deserve what you get.
There is an inherent superiority in this, a kind of hubris. I think the cliché, coming from ancient Greek, is “pride cometh before the fall.” Such a tragedy.
But. . .do they have nothing to hide? Are they sure they have nothing to hide?
To maintain “I’ve got nothing to hide” means that they know, for sure, what the government is looking for. That is, they can read the government’s mind. Like some women can read the minds of all men via “that look in their eyes” and Christians know God’s plan even though God’s ken is way beyond a human’s ability to comprehend. Truly, how sure are they?
In fact, it doesn’t matter whether they’ve got nothing to hide or not. If someone else is nailed and they have a connection with a member of my family, my family is implicated and disappeared. If the other person bears a grudge, of the sort found with Montressor for Fortunato [Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amantillado], then my family’s name will fall off that other person’s lips like drool from a toothing baby’s mouth. Also, their being picked up puts me in dire straits and I’m not even in America. Their “I’ve got nothing to hide” that got them into trouble by someone else’s say-so–commonly called hearsay evidence–screws me. That they feel no guilt over this possibility is frightening, though not out of line with prior behavior: when the ICU wanted my next-of-kin and I sent a friend to contact my family, my family did not respond. How unfortunate for my family that I survived.
But let’s assume, just for kicks, that the person disappeared is someone they do like, someone close to them that they respect. When he’s disappeared, do you think they’ll look into the matter, call up to find out where he is? Run on down to his house to see where he’s gotten to? He’s not been seen for so long. Do you think they’ll stand up for the disappeared and maintain his innocence? Do ya, huh? I don’t. I think they know better than to step out of line and be honest and upright and, as they will be more than likely to say, stick their nose into business that isn’t theirs. After all, who’s important?! This is fear. This is the fear their government wishes to instill in its subjects–er, citizens. This is the fear they’ve snapped up like that fly the frog ate for dinner. This is the fear that makes them forget they’re human and they’ve got friends.
If you can’t trust no one, who can you trust?
So. . .they are inconsiderate, inhumane, innocent, irresponsible and ignorant yet. . . they have nothing to hide. And they have an ethics problem. Stephen Pepper would consider them psychologically diseased, seeing some people as expendable and themselves not. [World Hypotheses]
I may be over-reacting here but I’m frightened of these people. They know not what they do. And. . .they know not what they say. And they don’t give a damn, just as long as they’re left alone. I’m innocent! I’m innocent! I ain’t done nothin’!
Let me see if I can make my family clearer for you. . .”I didn’t know why they were cramming all them Jews into them box cars at machine gun point.” And, “I ain’t never heard o’ no concentration camps. Ain’t that whar ya larn how to thank real hard?”
My family’s about as clever as Br’er Bear:
Well, Brer Fox, he was plenty mad that he’d worked so hard on those peas only to have them eaten by someone else. He suspected that Brer Rabbit was to blame for this, but the rascally rabbit had covered his tracks so well that Brer Fox couldn’t catch him. So Brer Fox came up with a plan. He found a smooth spot in his fence where a cunning rabbit could sneak in, and he set a trap for Brer Rabbit at that spot. He tied a rope to a nearby hickory sapling and bent it nearly double. Then he took the other end of the rope and made a loop knot that he fastened with a trigger right around the hole in the fence. If anybody came through the crack to steal his peas, the knot would tighten around their body, the sapling would spring upright, and they would be left hanging from the tree for everyone to see.
The next morning, Brer Rabbit came a-slipping through the hole in the fence. At once, the trigger sprung, the knot tightened on his forelegs, and the hickory tree snapped upright, quick as you please. Brer Rabbit found himself swung aloft betwixt the heaven and the earth, swinging from the hickory sapling. He couldn’t go up and he couldn’t go down. He just went back and forth.
Brer Rabbit was in a fix, no mistake. He was trying to come up with some glib explanation for Brer Fox when he heard someone a-rumbling and a-bumbling down the road. It was Brer Bear, looking for a bee-tree so he could get him some honey. As soon as Brer Rabbit saw Brer Bear, he came up with a plan to get himself free.
“Howdy, Brer Bear,” he called cheerfully. Brer Bear squinted around here and there, wondering where the voice had come from. Then he looked up and saw Brer Rabbit swinging from the sapling.
“Howdy Brer Rabbit,” he rumbled. “How are you this morning?”
“Middling, Brer Bear,” Rabbit replied. “Just middling.”
Brer Bear was wondering why Brer Rabbit was up in the tree, so he asked him about it. Brer Rabbit grinned and said that he was earning a dollar-a-minute from Brer Fox.
“A dollar-a-minute!” Brer Bear exclaimed. “What for?”
“I’m keeping the crows away from his goober patch,” Brer Rabbit explained, and went on to say that Brer Fox was paying a dollar-a-minute to whomever would act as a scarecrow for him.
Well, Brer Bear liked the sound of that. He had a big family to feed, and he could use the money. When Brer Rabbit asked him if he would like to have the job, Brer Bear agreed. Brer Rabbit showed him how to bend the sapling down and remove the knot from his forepaws. When Brer Rabbit was free, Brer Bear climbed into the knot and soon he was hanging aloft betwixt heaven and earth, swing to and from the sapling and growling at the birds to keep them away from the goober patch. [Bre'r Rabbit Earns A Dollar A Day, Joel Chandler Harris]

Or, maybe, they’re suffering from George Warren’s little canary, Chippie, syndrome:
Once there was a parakeet named Chippie. Chippie loved to sing because he didn’t have a care in the world! Chippie had a wonderful life in his birdcage until one day something happened to bring all of that to an end. It was the day his owner decided to clean the cage floor with her canister vacuum cleaner. She put the nozzle in the cage and started vacuuming the floor of the cage, and at that moment her telephone rang. She turned around to pick it up, and inadvertently pointed the nozzle up into the air–right at Chippie! She sucked poor Chippie into the vacuum cleaner, head first! Well, she panicked and threw down the phone, turned off the vacuum cleaner and quickly opened up the bag. And sure enough, there was Chippie on the inside–dazed and stunned and covered with dust. She quickly grabbed him and raced off to the bathroom and washed all the dust off, but then the tiny bird began shivering, soaking wet. And so, she did what every compassionate bird owner would do. She reached for her hot air drier and turned it on and blasted poor old Chippie with hot air! Well, a few days later, the friend on the phone called to see how Chippie was doing, and I love the woman’s reply. She said, Well, I’m not sure. He doesn’t sing anymore. He just sits here and stares! [When Your World Is Falling Apart, Look Up]