This writer is a lefty. Yet this person is out of touch with reality, believing that there is no police state in America. And this person is totally unable to see what is happening here, totally unable to fathom the rightwing nuts’ rantings. The rightwing pundits, led by Glenn Beck, are creating a smoke screen. Shouting about a signed and sealed police state and how un-American this is while having already supported the stationing of the military on US soil, that is, the making of a police state–along with the two Patriot Acts. They are conflating the issue and confusing the issue in order to rationalize their very souls. They will be using this Executive Order when their boys are once again heading the dictatorship to control the unrest of an unruly (un-American) populace. They will be glad they’ve got it and be glad to use it. They put it in place to begin with. All of the hooplah over Executive Order 12425 is to hide the fact that the very police state they are bitching about and supposedly fear is, in fact, already in place–and at their behest. They will be hoping that the people will forget, as they most assuredly will, the American people’s historical sense being only a few years old, certainly no more than four.

This might be a kind of disinformation the rightwing are engaging in. I prefer to think of it as misdirection, a favorite activity of magicians who get you to look over there when here is where the bait and switch is going on. That an ill-informed public is buying this is one thing; that the purported left is buying it hook, line and sinker is another. It is pitiful. It is a sign of mental necrosis.

Out of all the stories that filled my life, the story of the giant remains. Bear with me as I recreate this long lost world that is, mysteriously, the going concern of the day, today. If you don’t know where you came from, if you don’t know what it is made you. . .who are you? Who are you, really?

How pedantic, you say. It is true, too, that I am. . .different from those others around me. I’m an odd ball. I live alone in an old house that takes up space and, truly, gives me more than the modern man possesses. It is my very own little yamen. I have nature about me and after-thought modernity to keep me up to date–though I must admit my solar water heater occasionally belies its name. . .I’m to suffer through cold showers. And, unlike every other home I’ve been in, my walls are books. Floor to ceiling. Some ask me if they might fall in on me. Some ask me if I’ve actually read all those books and, if yes, why I keep them around.

Well! It is at such times this story of the giant comes to mind and I tell it.

You know, sometimes the children in the neighborhood tease me, the oldest man in the world, to tell them a story. They laugh, of course, but their cynicism, their teasing turns into cheers and applause by the time I’ve finished by recitation. I wonder sometimes. . .does anyone talk, talk to these kids? Sometimes they ask for the giant story. Some of them over and over again. Well! In case it be lost with my passing, here it is; for I am interested in staying alive even after I’m gone. Though, in truth, it is the old, itinerant storyteller I am memorializing.

Disappearing tales
Like magicians’ sleight hands
Are here and then not
And we are left wondering
What has happened to the truth.

In a cave in the mountain there lived a giant. He was a big giant. He was so big that if you tried to look p to the top of him, you’d fall over–ad still never see the top of his head, only the clouds that gathered about. Oh, yeah! He was a real giant. There isn’t anyone left alive who’s as big as this giant. Why. . .he had hand so big he could hold three bags of rice and still close his fingers. He was slim waisted but, still, it would take 10 people stretched arm to arm to go round him. His shoulders were so wide it took an eagle a week to sail around him. And his legs were like oak trees–maybe even two or three oak trees lining the downtown street around. Oh, yeah–he was big! Each foot was as great as Xihu.
Oh, yeah. He was one big mother!

It was no wonder, then, that eh was proud of himself. Proud of being the biggest, tallest, strongest, most powerful thing around. However, no one came to worship or even wonder at his bigness and power and so he figured, in his pride and self-worship, that perhaps no one knew of him. Strange as that may seem, people being kind of drawn to great thing. Yet–there it was. But, you know, he lived way up a high mountain in a cave, so high a mountain that the atmosphere was too rarified for people and so no one came to visit and wonder at his greatness; though he could not understand why no one had herd of him. After all, a herd of mountain goats was but an afternoon snack for him. . .and stories, he knew, had a way of spreading wider than the greatest of lakes in their attempt to contain all of life. Indeed, stories had a way of growing the farther they travelled and the more tongues they tripped over. People ad a way with words, so much a way that if they bothered to measure their depth, this particular giant would be no more than a dwarf wandering in a field of weeds.

So, he figured it would be a good idea to go down the mountain and let people see him so they’d know how great he was. Otherwise, no one would continue to pay him no attention. And he was right. If there’s no one else around, if there’s no one to compare yourself to, who re you? What kind of identity do you have? Existence without others is no existence at all. It is no more than free falling. . .and wondering when the bottom’s going to come up to say hello in a kind of finale. No encore. Indeed, who are we without the other? No one, least of all a giant among men, can live alone, without relation to. That is, how did the giant know he was a giant among men if there were no men to acknowledge his giantness? Other people are a confirmation of self. Thus, it was necessary for him to descend from the heights to the earth below. So, of course, he did so. He was not, after all, stupid, despite his size.

So. . .

On the day he left for his journey amongst mankind, the giant looked in his mirror. His hair was pomaded. Is clothes were in order. This was a great full-length mirror, so it was no wonder that he said, upon beholding himself, “What a big man I am! I am the greatest! Look at how handsome I am! Ha-ha! Everyone will love me.”
Oh, yes! He was full of himself. Sop full of himself that no one else mattered. How could they possibly measure up to him? It didn’t matter that his experience of the world was limited, that the only thing he knew was himself and his cave-world, his mountain world. All he knew was his own praises, his own applause for himself. Just like Liu Ye who so loved himself he married himself.

Well, this egoism, this Narcissism–for he was in love with himself and, therefore, all he saw was himself–was a kind of short-sightedness, a short-sighted view of the world, to say the least. When you see the world centred upon yourself and the world in comparison to your great self as wanting, there is not much in the way of option: either other s are less than you, the giant, are for you will make them so. For there can be noting or no one greater than the giant that you are. In order to be the greatest, everyone else must be the least. It is a law of nature. And the giant believed it fervently, though he had no supporting evidence: the greatest survive.

And so it was in this posture that the giant, thick as a brick, strode down the mountainside to seek proof that he was great as he thought he was, proof he was sure he would find. Alas–because he was in love with himself, he was, despite his great size, short-s0ghted. That is, he couldn’t really see very well. But not being aware of his short-comings, he did not know better. No indeed. He couldn’t see beyond the tip of his nose and his nose was not exactly long or high. And it is true that the giant occasionally bumped into things. . .tables, chairs, walls, boulders. It was, of course, always their fault that they got in his way. Greatness being beyond compare.

Well, this fact, the giant’s short-sightedness, was to be particularly troublesome for humans who were, it must be admitted, difficult to see, being so small. Indeed, to the giant they were no more than dots, tiny little dots down around his ten league boots. And he was a high strider, so he really missed, like a harried taxi driver, the life around him. And so it is little wonder that he didn’t pay attention to much of what was around him once he was down off his mountain. The bright sunlight didn’t help his vision either, so used to cave life had he become.
As he strode down the mountain he heavy step loosened rocks and boulders that went careening down the mountainside, crashing and pounding and smashing the trees and bashing the houses of the horrified villages at the foot of the mountain. They wondered, as the common folk will do, what it was they did to so anger the mountain that their homes and livestock and fields would be flattened, as well as members of their families. Streets and lanes and alleys were filled with rubble, trouble and death. As the boulders came flying down upon them from the sky, some wondered if the sky were not indeed falling and set up a wailing and caterwauling to waken the dead. The giant, though, did not see this or hear this. He could not see his own feet and his ears were not so acutely tuned to such high frequencies as human voices.

When he got to the flatland, he paused and looked around him. Greens and browns everywhere mixed with stilted patches of blue and red. He smiled. This was more color than up on his mountain and it pleased him. His passing, however, did not please the people. His huge, heavy feet rumbled through the earth and opened up gaping chasms and defiles into which people and animals and homes fell precipitously. People ran around frenziedly shouting, “Earthquake! Earthquake!” What’s more, people and animals and houses were mercilessly crushed beneath the giant’s boots. They were so small and insignificant that he did not feel his destructiveness. Fences and walls crashed to the ground or were ground down under his boot heels. The roads were filled up with rubble, people and his massive footwear. Indeed, in the lowlands, his footprints created inland lakes so quickly and, as it were, out of thin air, that many people drowned, homes were flooded. Wells filled with rubble as they collapsed in on themselves or were trodden under foot. Fields of plenty became flattened, barren, empty deserts. Forests were crushed like toothpicks. But the giant knew none of this.

No. The giant was having a good time walking about in the open air, basking in the sunshine, breathing in the clean air. It was so good to be free! So liberating! He smiled and shouted his glee–only to cause further destruction as the wind from his lungs rushed through the countryside knocking over buildings and trees, blowing away fences and walls and carrying people away in great swirls to be haphazardly cast to the earth in crumpled heaps. And the giant, unaware of his own passing, continued on his merry way, leaving death and destruction in his wake. What a wonderful time he was having!

He came to a wide river, easy enough for him to step over but he was dry and dusty so he stepped into its channel and sloshed downstream. Great waves rose up and flooded the land either side and picked up and flung boats and fishermen before him on down to the mouth of the river, if they made it that far. Most people were drowned and then, as the giant passed by, their bodies smushed into the mud. To assuage his thirst, the giant bent down and scooped up a handful of water. Water and fish and fishermen all went down his throat. He smacked his lips at the fresh taste. He liked this new water so much, he took
another drink. And another.

At the mouth of the river, a wide, marshy delta, the giant’s boots created crater lakes and spread the floodplain much, much farther afield, again drowning all life in its path. And then he was into the sea. His bulk caused the water level to rise and, once again, his passing flooded the land, creating a new coastline. There wasn’t much anyone could do. Not even the air force, for their flying machines were no more than irritating mosquitoes that the giant cleanly swatted away.

When he had has his fill of bathing and floating in the sea, the giant returned the way he had come. Of course, he saw nothing of what he’d caused to happen, so short-sighted was he, so high off the ground and so tiny were the victims of his passing. And he climbed back up the mountain to sit and reminisce about the wonders of the world he’d seen and his joy at being out in the open. His only regret was not finding any of his own kind. Well, you couldn’t have everything and, of course, he was sure there was nobody as wonderful as he, so it didn’t matter. Not really. And he thought that perhaps he would do this another day, going in a different direction, so full of his own passion was he. Maybe, one day, he would walk to the ends of the earth.
Being a giant, he knew it was well within his ability.

Samson rode a Brahma bull named Golu Devata mounted with a wrought silver Mexican saddle. He stood 6’4″ tall and weighed in at 285 lbs; nevertheless, he was very fast, on his feet, with his fists and with a gun–a specially crafted Colt .45 with an extra large Colt python real Sambar stag grips to fit his meaty fist, fluted and worked cylinder and a long Thomson Center contender barrel, the site a tiny svelte mermaid. Mostly for show, of course, as Samson was so strong that he rarely needed to indulge himself in pistoling. But, of course, he was a hero and truly into fixing things, though he did, it must be admitted, have a heavy hand. He was known to carry a 10′ club, a shillelagh that he used to knock bad guys down to the ground and make mince-meat of them. Which, of course, he was real good at doing. Samson O’Merdé had a reputation to out-rival the pistol whipping of Wyatt Earp.

His hair, a kind of dusted dishwater blond, stuck out in spikes from around his sweat stained headband, purportedly taken off of Cochise and, in honor of the Indian rebel, never washed in order to keep the originality in place. His face was dirt grimed from his ride across the semi-arid regions of Arizona, New Mexico and West Coahuila, which made the whites of his eyes and his great mouthful of white teeth gleam in the noonday sun and, to tell the truth, in the dark of night, which was enough to frighten off the most inveterate of spiritualists and ghost hunters, including James Randi, who, of course, admitted such things did not exist but ran anyway. He was a realist, after all, and the proof of the pudding was in the direct observation; he was known to say that he never saw a thing, though he saw alot of things he didn’t believe in.

Massive Schwartzenegger arms thrust out of the arm holes of his grimy leather vest; he wore no shirt in order to more advantageously advertise his masculine flat tummy with well-defined abs and his fine pectorals. He liked to shrug his massive shoulders and flex his deltoids and, while stroking his stubbled chin, his biceps. Levi Strauss had made him a pair of extra large, extra durable jeans that, over the years had become dirt-encrusted and frayed at the cuffs so they did not reach to his ankles, giving him the appearance of an overgrown Huckleberry Finn. His boots were simple brown leather. Although Samson O’Merdé wore a red polka dot bandana loosely tied around his neck, he did not carry one in his right rear pocket, the consequence of which is that he blew his nose by pressing on one nostril and breathing heavy out of the other. He also spit, great growling gutsy hawkings. He was an easy man to follow for any tracker.

Samson O’Merdé was a sight to behold indeed.

He also slurped his coffee and soup and ate with his mouth open. He burped upon consumption, smiling and noting, “That was good!” His mother did not raise him well. He said, “Amen” when he farted, usually by lifting his right cheek and bearing down hard.
His job was to save people from all sorts of discomfort and dysfunction, including Hellecchino, who was described to him as a little devil. In fact, Samson was there to save Yabu’s holdings and rid the Brazos River Basin of the people’s hero, that trickster Hellecchino whatever-his-name-is. But Samson was not told this part of the job. He was kind of single-minded; the less information there was, the more probable it was he wouldn’t become confused. In that everyone knew Samson had arrived, it is safe to assume Hellecchino knew, too. But this information, carried in glaring, glowing headlines in the Yabu Yeoman, did not change Hellecchino’s day-to-day goings-on. Or those of Buck.
“Did you see the headlines, Hellecchino?”

“Nope. Never read the paper.”

“A hero’s come to town. One Samson O’Merdé.”

“Yup. I know.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothin’.”

“I guess me neither.”

“Good guess.”

But, of course, such whimsy could not go on forever. Especially as Samson O’Merdé was also a big talker. Amongst the Caramboleros he would show his prowess at dodging that he got by way of his mother heaving things at him as he sat around the fire minding his own business. He was truly amazing. Bologna and Cologna Shrievalty set about learning his moves. Everything and anything of such ilk would come in handy in the line of duty. But the fun and games could not go on forever. So it was that Gyorgy Yabu called upon Samson to do his bidding, though it happened on a day that Samson was going to market. Not so much as to buy anything, though he did need a few things, but because he had heard that this Hellecchino character he’d been brought in to contain liked to frequent the weekend farmer’s market.

Gyorgy Yabu stood on his porch waving a yellow envelope before his face as Samson waltzed through the yard and up the stairs to the veranda.

“Where’s Golu Devata?” he asked.

“I left him tethered to the old oak tree. I’m walkin’ into town today.”

“Going to market I hear.”

“Yup. That’s right. Just like this little piggie.”

“Well,” said Yabu waving the envelope more threateningly, “I have a letter for you to deliver to George Meseems.”

“But I have planned my business at the market.”

“Be that as it may, you must. And if I say you must, you must. You are, after all, my hero.”

“Well, if you say I must, I must.”

Yabu handed over the envelope.

“Don’t wait for an answer. Just deliver it and get on with your business.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Hurry on up about it, now!”

“Right you are.”

Yabu gave a great sigh as Samson sauntered out the Hacienda loco plátano gateway.

“There’s an aura about that man,” he said to Clyde.

“Yes, sir. I’d say there is. Good thing, too.”

Well, on his way into town, Samson met up with an old woman sitting on the side of the road. She waived at Samson, calling him to her side.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“My name’s Sally. Sally Godown.”

“How do you do. My name’s Samson O’Merdé, Hero Extraordinaray.”

“Yes. So I’ve been told.”

“You’ve heard of me, then?”

“Of course I have. Who hasn’t?”

“Yup! That’s me.”

“Well, I want you to take me into town to buy nine pounds of butter.”

“I can’t do that. I’m on an errand for the boss. Mr. Yabu.”

“I need you to do this. You don’t know who I am.”

“You told me. You’re Sally Godown.”

“That’s right. And I don’t walk nowhere. I ain’t walked anywhere in 30 years.”

“My, my.”

“So you must carry me into town to buy my nine pounds of butter.”
“I have an errand to carry out.”

“I say you just and you must. You are a hero.”

“Well, if you say I must, I must. Hop on my back and let’s get a move on.”

Sally hopped rather more sprightly than might be imagined onto big old Samson’s back and off they loped into town to buy nine pounds of butter. Which they duly did. And Samson brought Sally back and dumped her on her roadside stone.

“I sure hope that butter don’t melt, Sally Godown,” Samson said by way of departure.

As he continued on his way, he met a foxy kind of character. Mr. Sossel Cheeseparings. A man with a pointy nose and a smooth voice and a long lapping tongue that he kept swiping around his chops as if he couldn’t get all of the sweet stickiness from off his thin lips. He was not very tall and kind of built like a svelte pear.
“I say there, big foot,” he hailed Samson. “What is that you’re carrying, eh?”

“It’s a letter. From Gyorgy Yabu to George Meseems.”

“Is it now. Well. . .I say.”

“What do you say?”

“I say. . .do you know what’s in it?”

“No. It ain’t my position to know. I’m just the messenger.”

“Ahh. . .messenger. Can’t be shooting the messenger now, can we, eh?”

“No.”

“How do you know that letter isn’t telling Mr. George Meseems to kill you, hm?”

“Why would he?”

“Because if Gyorgy Yabu says he must, he must.”

“Is George Meseems a hero, too?”

“I dare say not. Why “too”?”

“Because I’m a hero and if I must do a thing, I must do it.”

“Is that right now?”

“Yes. It is.”

“I suppose it must be a good idea to know what it is you’re carrying around with you.”

“I know that! I carry my pistole and my shillelagh.”

“Yes. I see that’s a great club. How about the envelope?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s in it?”

“I can’t be opening it.”

“I can. And I can read.” And Sossel Cheeseparings took an extra long lick of his lips.

“Can you?”

“I suppose I must.”

“Well, then, if you must, you must.”

“That’s right. We’re both heroes.”

Samson handed over the envelope and the foxy gentleman licked it open and began reading it.

“Oh, my. Oh, my oh my.”

“What’s it say?”

“You’ll have to catch me to find out.”

Sossel Cheeseparings lit out of there faster than an otter sliding down a mud bank. Samson O’Merdé lit out after him. He had a job to do and he was not one to shirk his duty. Sossel Cheeseparings ran on and ran on and ran on and ran on and Samson ran on and ran on and ran on and ran on after him. They ran on across the mesquite and the dusty plains and across piss-ant creeks until, finally, Sossel Cheeseparings tripped over a gopher and dropped the envelope. Samson O’Merdé picked up the envelope, apologized to the gopher and continued on his way to George Meseems to deliver Yabu’s message.

George Meseems didn’t even bother with an acknowledgement. He just took the yellow envelope and shut the door in the messenger’s face. Didn’t matter to him that Samson O’Merdé was a hero.

Well, Samson was late getting to the farmer’s market and he missed catching up to Hellecchino and so he lumbered on over to the Baron’s Roadside Inn tent and sat down to rest and recoup. It was there, with a beer and a side of beef before him that Hellecchino caught up with him. He watched Samson wading into his beef like a sounder of boar for a moment. Then he sat down opposite him and to one end of the table to escape the juice and saliva, necessary appurtenances to tearing into BBQ beef ribs. Lots of newspaper on the table beneath the plates and a damp dish rag for Samson to wipe his hands and mouth occasionally. He was persnickety about the cleanliness of his glass when he drank. A dirty, mouthed-up rim bothered him no end.

“Say,” said Hellecchino. “I hear you’re a hero.”

Samson did not bother to finish his mouthful, answering back around his cud.

“Yup.”

“I’m interested in heroes. I never met one.”

“Well, now you have.”

“Samson O’Merdé. Peculiar, Missouri and Total Wreck, Arizona. Have Gun, Will Travel.”

“Yup.”

Samson swallowed, wiped his greasy hands and mouth and sucked down a half a mug of beer.

“How many of them you put away?”

“More’n a dead Quaker.”

“He drank a gallon in an hour.”

“Yup.”

“You eat alot of dead cow, too.”

“Yup.”

“Vegetables?”

“That’s woos-ass food. I’m a man.”

“Ooh. I can see that. You a big ‘un.”

“Yup.”

“Tell me, then. What kinds of heroic things you done?”

“How many days you got?”

“Oh. . .I’m not busy. But just pick the salient ones.”

“That would involve the giants from up north.”

“Like Paul Bunyan?”

“Who’s he? Never met him.”

“He was a big ‘un, too. Had a blue ox.”

“Nope. He weren’t one of the baddies I did in.”

“So, tell me ’bout ‘em–if you don’t mind.”

“Nope. I don’t mind.”

“Good. Oh, Baron? Would you mind refilling Mr. O’Merdé’s glass and bringing me some lemonade?”

“We ain’t got no lemonade.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“Beer and whiskey and milk.”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t do milk. Carries tuberculin virus and other crudities.” Hellecchino sighed deeply. “I suppose it’ll have to be whiskey. Bring the bottle.”

“Are you sure you kin handle it?”

“Why, of course. It’s 50% water, ain’t it? You don’t mind I drink whiskey while you guzzle beer, do you, Mr. O’Merdé?”

“Nope. Whatever yer poison is.”

And so, they got down to it.

“The first giant had one head–”

“Don’t they usually?”

“Nope. The second one had three.”

“Oh, my!”

“Yup. Anyway. This giant had been raisin’ hell up around the lumberjackin’ camps and they called me in ’cause they was losin’ not only lumber but lumberjacks and flapjacks. An’ you just can’t have that. So they called me in and I went up there and I brandished my shillelagh, knocked the giant to the ground and made mince-meat out of him. And then I put my food on his neck and I bawled at him, ‘What’ll you give me not to kill you?’ Well, that giant began slobberin’ and droolin’ and begged me not to kill him. ‘Oh, please, oh please. . .don’t kill me, Samson. I got this here magic flute. You blow on it and it’ll make whoever dance more’n the girl with red shoes and you ain’t gotta be so violent no more.’ ‘But I like violence.’ “Okay. Then you can dance ‘em to death.’ ‘Sounds good to me.’ So he give me this here magic flute.”
Samson pulled out an ocarina. A wooden sweet potato looking thing on a string round his neck.

“Let me see that a minute,” said Hellecchino kind of bouncing around on his bench as if he was looking at an archeologist’s dream.

Samson unslung it and handed it to him.

“You be careful with that. It’s magic.”

“Wow! So, go on with your giant taming.”

“Well, the second giant was up in the hills stealing sheep and shepherds. This giant had three heads.”

“Three heads!”

“Yup. And I went up there and I brandished my shillelagh, knocked the giant to the ground and made mince-meat out of him. And then I put my food on his necks and I shouted at them, ‘What’ll you give me not to kill you?’ You shoulda seen those three heads cryin’ out in three part harmony, justa beggin’ for mercy. ‘Oh-ooooh! Spare me and me and me. Don’t kill me at all at all at all. I’ll give you my jar of iocshlainte. Me too. Me too. It’s magic. It will cure whatever injury you get. All wounds. . .mortal, immortal, civil, financial and military.’ I got that here in my pocket.”

“You ever have to use it?”

“Nope. But you never know. Always be prepared.”

“Well. You’re some hero. I’ve never heard of a hero like you before. I suppose the bad guys, if they hear you coming, just get up off their asses and take to the hills.”

“You got that right.”

“It’s a good thing I got your tootler thing here.”

“Why’s that? You’ll be givin’ it back,” Samson held out his great big paw, BBQ sauce dripping off of it.

“You don’t want to go blowing your own horn. Better wipe your hands off.”

And as Samson was doing what he was told, Hellecchino began blowing a jig on the ocarina. Lo and behold, as he was looking directly at Samson, Samson began to dance. Hellecchino got up from his bench and moved out into the road and Samson danced along with him, stirring up dust devils with the worn down heels of his boots. Hellecchino backed down the road and out into the mesquite-ridden plains, drawing the dancing O’Merdé giant after him, twirling and jumping and waving his arms like a deranged ballerina. Hellecchino led him on a merry march all the way to [the entrance to hell] where he had him do a merry two-step and a Charleston and then danced him right down into the bowels of the earth.

After the noise of Samson’s twisting descent faded away, Hellecchino went back to his chair atop the cinderblock house.

“You didn’t take his magic iocshlainte?” asked Buck incredulously.
“Nope. I figure he’ll be needing it to assuage his pride.”

“He’s bound to come looking for you, Hellecchino.”

“Yup. Heroes are like that. Just don’t know when they’ve had enough.”

In the centre of the table was a lavish sterling silver candelabrum with five never- before-burned white candles in their cups. And they would never be burned, melting wax being so outré. The only drippings in this house were in the kitchen, reserved for the servants. The lace table cloth was smooth and without a hitch or wrinkle. As should be the case. At each place was a setting. A China plate, somewhat large, with blue dragon design, a dessert fork, a dinner fork a soup spoon, a dessert spoon and a knife. A glass, a wine glass–white for this evening–and a tea cup, of matching China, of course. The water glasses and the wine glasses were crystal. Listen to them “ting” when you flick them with your finger or ring when you rub their rims with a wet finger. Be sure to wipe off after, please. At the head of each place was a crisply folded mountain-shaped linen napkin, stark white.
The balcony windows were appropriately curtained by diaphanous white silk, the doors closed. The wallpaper was of huge, white, intertwined cymbidia, red pistils poking out like tongues. Glossy finish white wainscoting and door frames, ceiling frames. The ceiling was textured stucco-like and in its centre hung an elaborate crystal chandelier of 13 little lights with dangling crystal “drops.” Light was shattered everywhere.

There was one door into the dining room, opposite the balcony doors, of course. And one door into the back rooms, the kitchen etc., behind the mistress’s chair. She it was who would pass judgment on the looks of the incoming repast. At her place was a crystal bell that tinkled every so delightfully, indicating to the kitchen staff the appropriate time to begin serving dinner. Of course, the mistress awaited the master’s nod. And there was no conversation until the food had been brought, everyone being careful not to talk with food in their mouths. How gauche that would be. Even today.

The archeologists who stumbled upon this early 21st century tableau were careful to point out the exacting nature of dining etiquette of the time, as evidenced by the several apparently popular books on such behavior unearthed in ancient libraries and bookstores. Archaic as these may seem to the present day, they were de rigueur during the 21st and preceding centuries when print culture was held in high esteem. A very slow time indeed compared to our own, to be sure. And costly. The amount of money spent on creating books, as they were called, and in buying them is unimaginable. We must be careful, historian Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky has advised, that we do not condemn such as being wasteful, as this was the going concern for much of the time. Although, he was careful to point out, by the 21st century reading had become somewhat passé. It was the beginning of the ethereal intellectual culture we are so familiar with today. Books and reading were everyday.

So it is, by engaging in archaic activities such as reading, that we know anything at all about our sometimes oddly funny predecessors. And that this found tableau in the House of Yabu or Yahoo, depending on whom you apperceive, has been understood.

These people, it seems, have been waiting for dinner for eons. You would expect, from the furnishings and whatnot, that they would be more than affluent enough to warrant house servants, those persons we now consider slaves, albeit indentured slaves who could, at the termination of their contract seek freedom and self-respect. Nevertheless, it appears that they never appeared on this particular scene. How the table was set and the lights put on we are unable to ascertain but, from further excavation of the Yabu remains there is no evidence of other skeletons. There was no one else in the house. No servants at all. No one else at all except for the dinner guests.

This baffled scientists until eminent socio-psycho-historian Dr. Stefan Prinkah- Schtinkah, Chair Emeritus at Haavaad, uncovered documents–written, of course, as befits the times–that shed light on the matter.

It has been difficult to transcribe and translate the texts, much diminished by time and worms, into the modern idiom, at least until the key was found via a letter known as ‘e.’ This was the most used letter in the language and once we had unearthed this moment, we were able to gain ground quickly. Languages change, evolve, so quickly and without apparent direction that this was a good stumble-upon discovery. It has thus led to discovering the going intellectual concerns of the day.

What has been discovered, much as it might amaze my readers, is that there was a concerted effort by the elite of the age to decrease the number of lesser sorts, as they were considered, so that they would not be “over-run,” as they termed it. Apparently, as far back as the late 20th century, these people were frightened of being displaced from the top, from being the majority, the dominant race, as it were. The people of this time were entranced by race and racism, being one of the more racist of times, it appears, according to Dr. Prinkah-Schtinkah. “Racist and classist,” he says. “The common man, as he was called, placed himself in constant enmity against the rich and those of other races. It was, to them, only common sense. Both were seen as attempting to undermine the system.”

This elimination by the “upper” of the “lower” was managed through education, employment and medical care and led to a near extinction of the species. As is evidenced by this recently unearthed Yabu tableau. So successful had the decadent upper classes been in their bid to rid the world of the “lesser sort” that there was no one left to do for them. No one to clean. No one to cook. No one to even drive for them.

Education was coapted by turning over general resources to private corporations that were only interested, it seems, in profit from increased test scoring. So that teachers were awarded increases in both monetary recompense and status via the number of students who scored high in their recitations of approved statistics and approved knowledge and the number of students who assessed them as likable and “good.” Higher education was so extremely expensive that only the monied, dominant elite were capable of affording it. Thus, there was a kind of incestuous situation.

Employment was attended to by removing all industrial endeavors to out-of- country situations. No compensation was offered to replace this dislocation. And, thus, people went without homes as well as jobs and died off in droves. So much so that cemeteries became over used. Costs of burial were so out of order, according to Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky, that many people could not afford to bury their dead. This, apparently, is the reason for the recently discovered mass grave sites around the country. The people’s bodies were simply dumped in multiple shallow graves and, after awhile, covered over.

Medically, coverage and care was simply denied. Either people were able to buy into one plan or another, either being less than advantageous to health and welfare, or they suffered and, of course, died. Millions died. This has since become known as The Last Solution.

This Last Solution was legislated by the government of the times, it has been recently discovered. The governing bodies were made up of the elite and privileged, the self-same people who were afraid of being displaced. Delusion strikes deep and seems to have carried the day, not only in governing but in creating wars hither and yon. The 21st century has become known as The Last of the Wasting War Years. Even the more ancient Trojan Wars were not so devastating to both sides. Unlike the Trojan Wars of so very many, many centuries ago, no uplifting or heroic literature was produced. A decidedly noteworthy point.

There was apparently consideration at one point, according to recently unearthed government documents, of building what were then called “space ships” and filling them with volunteers to seed colonies on distant planets. The hope was that they would die off on the long and treacherous journey or when they got there. If not, they would be indentured to make money for their betters back on Earth. Nothing came of this, fortunately. It paralleled, Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky says, the populating of the Americas by the tendentious and unwanted Protestant Christians, the Puritans, who were allowed to ship off to the “New World,” as much in hopes of their discovering great wealth for their betters as of their dying in the attempt. History repeats itself no end and we should take note of this.

In attempting, then, to maintain their status at the top, these people effectively brought themselves down, for they were incapable of doing anything themselves. They did not even know where they got their water! And, Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky says, if they’d known where to find it, they’d not have known how to retrieve it, so distanced were they to the realities of living.

It is truly amazing that the lack of imagination of our forebears did not doom us all to extinction.

The Yabu Dining Room can be seen at the Yabu Estates any time between 8 and 10. Admission is limited as digging is still going on. It will take two swipes of your ID. Brochures are, of course, free of charge.

Destiny Bathos’ friends were of a particular sort. Highly unusual. Destiny became fixated on them. To the point of distraction. Like wandering through the closed stacks of a massive library eyes agog not knowing which book to pick up and read until you suddenly realize you don’t know where you are. Or really what it is you’ve been doing. Tunnelled. A world of deadened sound. White noise. Musty dusty smell that dries your nostrils. Makes you lick your lips. So overwhelmed it’s almost hard to breathe.
That’s the kind of friends Destiny had. She could still have them. No one knows. Destiny has disappeared. It’s embarrassing to realize she’s gone. Slipped through the cracks. But then Destiny was a strange girl. And yet. . .and yet she was my friend. I cannot but tell her story as nearly as she left it to me to do, for it has been 10 years since her disappearance.

Destiny was not sure exactly when it was that she first met these friends. Exactness though is only needed by an anxious mind that cannot swim through the waters of ambiguity, concreteness being a means of gaining identity. The fearful need an anchor in order to feel they are in control of both themselves and the outside world. And so it is that in the cramped writing of the first 10 pages of her journal. So hastily thrust into my hands. She expends great energy in attempting to nail down the time and place of her first encounter. That in the end she could not is perhaps telling. What I have been able to discern is that the sky was cloudy. A lowering cloudiness. And that she was walking away from the train station. She was on her way home. Although she had gotten used to the gentle incline of the road and enjoyed the feeling in her thighs as she traversed its grey tarmac, for some reason or other half way up the hill she became tired. Her legs became leaden. Reminding her of her teenage years when she would suffer the same sudden contagion while running track. She was trapped in the La Brea tar pits. Her breathing became labored. Had she forgotten to take her medication? It was near time for the evening dose. Destiny reached into her coat pocket for her inhaler. It was not there. Well. She thought. I’ve been in worse situations. She could wait until she got home. It wasn’t far.

Destiny looked back at the man on the bicycle. He had passed her shortly before. He looked back at her. Had she seen him before?

The second time Destiny met her friends was a week or two later. She was lumbering up the stairs between the houses. On her way home from the local store. She craned her neck to see her apartment above her. A mist enclosed her face and was as suddenly gone. She looked around. Something had been sprayed in her face. Once again she felt her legs grow heavy and her breath short. She was getting a headache. The more strenuous half of her journey was ahead of her too. Could she make it? Her asthma medication was up there. Though why she should consider taking it was beyond her–it hadn’t helped the last time.
Destiny’s home was a little apartment halfway up a steep hill. The store was in the valley along the main roadway. From her balcony she could look out over the southern portion of the town, perched as it was on the mountainside. She often sat there listening to music and reading or just watching the neighborhood life. Over there. About 2/3 of the way up the mountain. A new house was being built. The entire second story wall facing her was a sheet of glass. It was too far away for her to see what was inside the room. At least, she had the impression it was one big room. A big eye looking out over the neighborhood. The owner must be rich to enable this. Especially since the first massive pane had fallen. Shattering on the steep street.

For weeks. Beginning about the time the glass house was being raised. She had been hearing tiny little feet scurrying about in the attic space above her. She spoke to her next door neighbor about this. But he heard nothing. All was quiet on his side of the wall. Later though these scamperings became heavier. Sometimes stopping midway along the centre beam. What were they listening for? These were really big rats. Destiny did not like rats. Rats as big as little people. Mice were okay. Rats were another thing. They carried diseases and rabies. She remembered her time in Baltimore where she had to rattle the fence to scare away the rats before she could ascend to her apartment. Perhaps she would speak to the landlord.

And the new people downstairs. They had been terribly noisy in their moving in. All their possessions packed into and piled on top of a car. They and their people carried on well into the night. The next morning when Destiny looked down from her balcony the car was still there. There were still boxes and packages atop the car. Shortly thereafter they began again their cacophonous moving in but when Destiny returned at the end of the day the car was gone and the new neighbors were firmly ensconced inside their drawn curtains. A couple. All evidence of them was contained in the white shirts hanging on the balcony. Every evening, those white shirts could be seen hanging there on the balcony. They could have been different white shirts. People usually had more than one shirt. But Destiny was sure they were the same white shirts. Always there. Like a signal flag. They were there now as she slogged up the steep steps carrying her beer.

The apartment was horribly quiet when she staggered in. She sat down on the carpet. She set the bag with the beer bottles in it next to her and took a sip of the Coke she’d left that morning. It tasted odd but she was so thirsty she drank it all. She pulled the inhaler to her. Fingering it. Trying to find comfort in its plastic container. Why should she take it? It really hadn’t helped the last time. She put it down. She took a deep breath. She passed out.
Destiny didn’t want to pass out. She fought it. A failing Greek protagonist at the end of her life. But some things cannot be overcome. Losing consciousness is one of them.

When she regained a semblance of consciousness, her friends were there. She was being supported. A latter day Pieta. A woman’s voice soothed her in alto tones. “We’re here to help you.” Destiny’s eyelids were rubbed with something. She blinked. Over and over. Her upper lip was lubricated with something. She sniffed. Over and over. “Don’t worry,” came the velvety tones. “We’ve got you now. We’re here to help you.”

Then Destiny was able to sit up. However. She was not able to raise her head. No. It was not heavy. She simply could not raise it. So the only thing she saw was the woman’s legs kneeling before her. And the woman’s hands folded in her lap. As they should be. They gesticulated. Destiny looked to the carpet. “You should rest now. That’s the secret. Here is your pillow. This will help.”

Destiny lay down and her friends left her there. Destiny must have hit her head for the world looked different. It felt thickish. It smelled sweetish and brackish. She sniffed. But her head did not hurt so she couldn’t have hit it. Except on the carpet. She felt it. There were ridges like the swells of the ocean. She’d not felt them before. She was used to washing her hair and running her fingers through her hair. That’s what it felt like. The carpet. Wet hair wavy ridges.

As her eyes could not focus well, she lay down as she was bid. Perhaps she’d feel better later. All of this was so unreal.
When Destiny woke the friends were outside the little window over her desk. They were peering in at her. When Destiny woke they began telling her what she should do. How she should handle herself. Because of the accident of course. You can’t be too careful. You know. If she wasn’t careful there would be friends standing by to take care of her. Though. To tell her what she should do to insure her well-being. What are friends for if not to help you when you need it, eh?

That night, Destiny had dreams. Vivid dreams. In the morning. She wasn’t sure if they’d been dreams or real happenings.
She was being taunted by the couple downstairs. Her new neighbors. They had a radio and would turn the dials and make a screeching noise in her head. She shouted at them to stop but they refused. Running away laughing like roguish mischievous children. They disappeared off the end of the veranda. They disappeared off the end of the balcony. They were not at home when Destiny knocked on their door. She was a little timid about it for fear of a close-up encounter with the magic radio. The noise hurt. She left them a note. A furious note of self-preservation. Of course, it was not on the door the next morning when she passed by their door on the way to work. Despite the harrowing night she felt rested.

On the way to work there seemed to be more traffic than usual. Vehicular and pedestrian. At times it seemed to be following Destiny. But that could not be. Still. . .hadn’t she seen those cars and motorcycles more than once? And were there people she’d never before seen on the train? She’d been riding that train for the past year. Same car. Same people. But now there were new faces. They were staring at her. She would look up from her book and see them. Their eyes securely focused on her. Some of them got off at the stop before hers. One of them got off at the same stop as Destiny did. The others must have gotten off later. No one ever stayed on the train forever. Riding up and down the railway line aimlessly. Though it must be said this is exactly what she and her friends had done one day on the city buses in Edinburgh when she was young.

One day. These new people were not on the train. But. Then. A couple days later. They were there again. Staring at her. Getting off at the same places. After awhile they wouldn’t be there again. And again they’d be there. Just when she relaxed a little. It was unnerving. Without wanting to she kept looking for them when they weren’t there.

Her friends were always with her at night. In her apartment. They would be looking out their windows at her as she moved around. As she sat at her typewriter. As she sat at her table eating and drinking and doing her school work. She began stopping off at the store and buying more beer. Every night. Four or five bottles a night. More often than not. She’ d drink it all. But she wouldn’t sleep. Her friends’ voices were there too. In her dreams. Talking to her. Telling her things. Accusing her of “knowing what you’ve done.” Those voices were there every evening. Sometimes she’d talk back to them. There would be a conversation. Telepathy. And Destiny learned how to hide her thoughts while thinking or saying something else. Something told her not to give them certain things. Certain feelings. Certain beliefs. There were. After all. Some things that not even friends were privy to. And. Of course. They told her they were just there to help. What else are friends for?

Destiny would stand at her balcony window and stare at the windowed house on the hill. The glass house. There was someone staring back at her. But they’d rush away when they saw her. The same thing at her kitchen window while she was washing dishes. But there she could get away with watching them watch her. Once. She fell to the kitchen floor sobbing. Breathless. Aroused. Aroused. For no reason at all. She heard them tut-tutting her. “Bad girl. There’s no reason to be doing that. We’re only here to help you.”

She went into the bathroom to take a bath. To wash herself clean. She stood beneath the warm water as it cascaded onto her shoulders and ran over her breasts. She turned the water hotter. It coursed over her abdomen and between her legs. Down her thighs. She turned around. The water beat on her back and ran down her buttocks. Destiny stood in the water increasing the pressure. Letting it plaster her hair to her head. Run down her shoulders. Breasts. Belly. Cunt. She put her hand to her mons and massaged. She found her clitoris. And. Crying silently. Brought herself to orgasm. Despite ragged breathing Destiny made no sound. But she was crying. She raised her face and the water crashed against her eyelids. Her lips. And when she turned around there were shadows looking through the window at her. Destiny sank to the floor and cried only rousing herself when the water turned tepid.

Destiny found. Too. That her friends were with her when she wasn’t there. That is. She would find evidence that they had been in her apartment while she was away. Books would be moved. Ever so slightly. Just enough out of whack as to cause her to wonder. . .wonder if she had done it. If she weren’t imagining things. She was terribly meticulous when it came to her books. She kept them neatly spined and in alphabetical order within specialty. She knew them by name and color and therefore placement. The notes on her desk would be not in the way she had left them. Perhaps just one paper turned the wrong way. Destiny’s writing tablet was kept at a 45 degree angle to the desk edge. Always she left it this way. Ready to be written in again. But it would be found. At night. Straightened up. The bottom of the pad parallel to the desk edge. At first these little manifestations only troubled Destiny. But then she began to use them in order to prove to herself that she was not imagining these incursions into her private life. So she began setting things up. In the most natural way. Nothing untoward. If the arrangement was disturbed someone had been there. Sometimes. She would not push the book back in to be even with the other spines. Later it would be pushed back in. But not by her. She’d been away. She would find it that way upon returning. Still. It was Destiny’s word that these things were happening. That friends were invading her precincts. So she began taking pictures. Before and after shots. But she would hide what she was doing by taking pictures out of doors too. Scenery. People’s faces. Rolls and rolls. Even of insignificant things like the old Coke cans lined up along her street and on the stairs leading up between the houses to the high street. Neatly done so. They were only there one day. So it’s good she got the picture.
One night she took out the roll of film and set it on her table. She would develop it later. When she got home. The store was not open when she went to work. When she got home there were two rolls of film on the table. Destiny did not know which was which. She tried to remember how far from the edge she’d placed her roll. Then she took the other and threw it away. When she developed the pictures there was nothing. The roll of film had nothing on it. Never exposed. Destiny knew then that her name was Cassandra. That there was no help for her.

Destiny’s head and apartment were so full of noise there was no space for her to think. No space for her to relax. So she began walking for she found that when she was outside there were no friends sounding off. They were all around her. Cars and motorcycles following her. Leading her. Around and around they went. The same cars and motorcycles. The same people in and on them. They made lots of noise. Their mufflers had been removed. Even at two in the morning. They were surrounding her. Destiny became like the eye of a tornado. The eye of a hurricane. All around her raged the storm but she was alone by herself in the middle. When they were not surrounding her she felt unattended. As if something were wrong with the world. Except when she went to the temple. She found that they were not with her when she sat before the doors to the main hall. She pounded the floorboards and cried out, “Why me? Why me? Why is this visited upon me? What have I done!” And of course there was no answer. So she sat in silence. Night after night. She did want to talk to someone. Someone not a friend. Someone who wasn’t there to help. No one ever invited her to do so. She took to meditating at home for these were times her friends could not impinge upon her.

It is odd how friends who are not inimical or hostile can be the enemies of affection. It is odd how protestations of help can turn into manifestations of distress and destruction. There are friends. Though. One can do without.

One night. After coming home and drinking her leftover Coke–she had stopped tasting things at this point–and imbibing her four bottles of beer she laid down somewhat earlier than normal. Destiny felt inordinately tired. But she did not sleep. Not really. Or maybe she dreamed she was not really sleeping. At any rate. It was this particular night that her friends got into her head. “I remember,” she wrote in her journal.

hands turned my head to the right and something entered my left ear. I felt it wriggling into the canal and then my hearing became impaired, as if I were flying in an airplane. Then they turned my head to the left and I felt the same thing in my right ear. After that, my thoughts were not my own. My head was filled with clickings and high pitched tones that would vary in intensity. When there was no sound there was white noise, as if I were a radio between stations.

Her thoughts. Her actions. Now controlled by others. By her friends. Who were only there to help. Her. Destiny would fight this manipulation but she could not overcome the influence of her friends. She knew what her thoughts felt like and these were not hers. But they had her. Their wishes were her commands. She realized the extent of this one day when she headed for the station after work. She put her finger to her ear to stop the buzzing that had become a constant companion and was told not to go to the station. Destiny recalled a similar dream life as a child. She would put her finger in her left ear and would hear voices. Conversations. Then they were not telling her anything. Then they were not trying to help. Now. There was nothing she could do. Her friends always caught her off guard. So she did not. She wandered around the streets until very late. The followers were with her. Friends roaring through the streets just to let her know they were there for her. She met people in the strangest places. A man who spoke into his watch. Repeating what she had said. “She’s going down by the river.” The police suddenly gathering along the water’s edge as she sat by the river writing beneath a lamp in a dingy dusty parking lot. Were they sent by her friends? They were not dredging the river for anybody. They were waiting. The restaurant owner staring at her as he made a phone call. Nodding in her direction. She left before her friends could rescue her. On the way home on the train. A man sat across from her staring at her. He got off and another man took his place. There was no one else in the car. She had chosen that car because it would be the farthest from the gate when she got off. And there would be nobody on it. Another man followed her from the station to her house. Friends do not try to hide themselves. “You know who we are, don’t you? We’re here to help.” She did not buy any beer that evening. She could have. There were vending machines outside the local store. It wasn’t 11 o’clock yet.

Destiny sat up all night. She had no classes the next day. This time she could afford no sleep.

It was shortly after this that Destiny disappeared. I don’t know why she came to me with her journals. We were not intimate friends. And I had not seen her for at least a year. She had become reclusive. Receiving no visitors. Talking to no one. Only smiling politely if spoken to. But suddenly she was at my door. “Here. Take these. Remember me. Here are the keys to my house. Go there. There is proof there. There are notes. Please. . .believe me. Read the story of my life. I’m sorry.” And then Destiny disappeared through the garden into the soft night. Into the quietness of the snow-filled streets. The flakes fell on her. Big wet teardrops. I did not try to stop her. I saw no friends. But then it was dark there being no street lamps on my street.
I went to Destiny’s home a couple of evenings later. No glasses or bottles lying around. No papers or books scattered on the table and desk. Even her thesaurus was appropriately shelved. Destiny’s typewriter was empty. Awaiting a new sheet of paper from the neat stack to the right. There were no dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. No trash in the garbage can. Destiny’s house was in immaculate condition. Why had I come here? Was I supposed to be here? I felt out of time. Destiny had been a lousy housekeeper. She did not live in a museum. I sat on the floor right where she used to sit. Before her squared away writing tablet. For a long time I looked about the room. I dared not open the curtains. I’d seen the glass-eyed house on my way up. There was no one downstairs. No lights. No shirts. No noise. In her journal, she noted they moved out using the same car. Piling the car in the same way it had been when they moved in. As if nothing had really been moved. She never saw the car the entire time the people were down there below her. Putting out their shirts. Not putting out their shirts. Never any women’s things.
Eventually I found the answer. I spoke to my friend John about Destiny. He said, “People don’t do such things.” I told my friend Larry about Destiny. He said, “People don’t do such things.” Now I am telling you. People do do such things.

No one ever found an unidentified body. So Destiny is probably roaming around lost in the streets. Looking for herself. I do not know if her friends are still with her. Her helpers. These friends. These good friends. Destiny’s Apollo with a curse. And that curse will be mine. For no one will believe this story. No one. For that is how they hide themselves. Surely there are no friends of this ilk. Surely not. So I must be making them up, right?

But then. Destiny met them. And though I have her writings they are no more than the rantings of a mad woman. Friends will see to that. Unless you have your own thoughts.

In the centre of the table was a lavish sterling silver candelabrum with five never- before-burned white candles in their cups. And they would never be burned, melting wax being so outré. The only drippings in this house were in the kitchen, reserved for the servants. The lace table cloth was smooth and without a hitch or wrinkle. As should be the case. At each place was a setting. A China plate, somewhat large, with blue dragon design, a dessert fork, a dinner fork a soup spoon, a dessert spoon and a knife. A glass, a wine glass–white for this evening–and a tea cup, of matching China, of course. The water glasses and the wine glasses were crystal. Listen to them “ting” when you flick them with your finger or ring when you rub their rims with a wet finger. Be sure to wipe off after, please. At the head of each place was a crisply folded mountain-shaped linen napkin, stark white.
The balcony windows were appropriately curtained by diaphanous white silk, the doors closed. The wallpaper was of huge, white, intertwined cymbidia, red pistils poking out like tongues. Glossy finish white wainscoting and door frames, ceiling frames. The ceiling was textured stucco-like and in its centre hung an elaborate crystal chandelier of 13 little lights with dangling crystal “drops.” Light was shattered everywhere.

There was one door into the dining room, opposite the balcony doors, of course. And one door into the back rooms, the kitchen etc., behind the mistress’s chair. She it was who would pass judgment on the looks of the incoming repast. At her place was a crystal bell that tinkled every so delightfully, indicating to the kitchen staff the appropriate time to begin serving dinner. Of course, the mistress awaited the master’s nod. And there was no conversation until the food had been brought, everyone being careful not to talk with food in their mouths. How gauche that would be. Even today.

The archeologists who stumbled upon this early 21st century tableau were careful to point out the exacting nature of dining etiquette of the time, as evidenced by the several apparently popular books on such behavior unearthed in ancient libraries and bookstores. Archaic as these may seem to the present day, they were de rigueur during the 21st and preceding centuries when print culture was held in high esteem. A very slow time indeed compared to our own, to be sure. And costly. The amount of money spent on creating books, as they were called, and in buying them is unimaginable. We must be careful, historian Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky has advised, that we do not condemn such as being wasteful, as this was the going concern for much of the time. Although, he was careful to point out, by the 21st century reading had become somewhat passé. It was the beginning of the ethereal intellectual culture we are so familiar with today. Books and reading were everyday.

So it is, by engaging in archaic activities such as reading, that we know anything at all about our sometimes oddly funny predecessors. And that this found tableau in the House of Yabu or Yahoo, depending on whom you apperceive, has been understood.

These people, it seems, have been waiting for dinner for eons. You would expect, from the furnishings and whatnot, that they would be more than affluent enough to warrant house servants, those persons we now consider slaves, albeit indentured slaves who could, at the termination of their contract seek freedom and self-respect. Nevertheless, it appears that they never appeared on this particular scene. How the table was set and the lights put on we are unable to ascertain but, from further excavation of the Yabu remains there is no evidence of other skeletons. There was no one else in the house. No servants at all. No one else at all except for the dinner guests.

This baffled scientists until eminent socio-psycho-historian Dr. Stefan Prinkah- Schtinkah, Chair Emeritus at Haavaad, uncovered documents–written, of course, as befits the times–that shed light on the matter.

It has been difficult to transcribe and translate the texts, much diminished by time and worms, into the modern idiom, at least until the key was found via a letter known as ‘e.’ This was the most used letter in the language and once we had unearthed this moment, we were able to gain ground quickly. Languages change, evolve, so quickly and without apparent direction that this was a good stumble-upon discovery. It has thus led to discovering the going intellectual concerns of the day.

What has been discovered, much as it might amaze my readers, is that there was a concerted effort by the elite of the age to decrease the number of lesser sorts, as they were considered, so that they would not be “over-run,” as they termed it. Apparently, as far back as the late 20th century, these people were frightened of being displaced from the top, from being the majority, the dominant race, as it were. The people of this time were entranced by race and racism, being one of the more racist of times, it appears, according to Dr. Prinkah-Schtinkah. “Racist and classist,” he says. “The common man, as he was called, placed himself in constant enmity against the rich and those of other races. It was, to them, only common sense. Both were seen as attempting to undermine the system.”

This elimination by the “upper” of the “lower” was managed through education, employment and medical care and led to a near extinction of the species. As is evidenced by this recently unearthed Yabu tableau. So successful had the decadent upper classes been in their bid to rid the world of the “lesser sort” that there was no one left to do for them. No one to clean. No one to cook. No one to even drive for them.

Education was coapted by turning over general resources to private corporations that were only interested, it seems, in profit from increased test scoring. So that teachers were awarded increases in both monetary recompense and status via the number of students who scored high in their recitations of approved statistics and approved knowledge and the number of students who assessed them as likable and “good.” Higher education was so extremely expensive that only the monied, dominant elite were capable of affording it. Thus, there was a kind of incestuous situation.

Employment was attended to by removing all industrial endeavors to out-of- country situations. No compensation was offered to replace this dislocation. And, thus, people went without homes as well as jobs and died off in droves. So much so that cemeteries became over used. Costs of burial were so out of order, according to Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky, that many people could not afford to bury their dead. This, apparently, is the reason for the recently discovered mass grave sites around the country. The people’s bodies were simply dumped in multiple shallow graves and, after awhile, covered over.

Medically, coverage and care was simply denied. Either people were able to buy into one plan or another, either being less than advantageous to health and welfare, or they suffered and, of course, died. Millions died. This has since become known as The Last Solution.

This Last Solution was legislated by the government of the times, it has been recently discovered. The governing bodies were made up of the elite and privileged, the self-same people who were afraid of being displaced. Delusion strikes deep and seems to have carried the day, not only in governing but in creating wars hither and yon. The 21st century has become known as The Last of the Wasting War Years. Even the more ancient Trojan Wars were not so devastating to both sides. Unlike the Trojan Wars of so very many, many centuries ago, no uplifting or heroic literature was produced. A decidedly noteworthy point.

There was apparently consideration at one point, according to recently unearthed government documents, of building what were then called “space ships” and filling them with volunteers to seed colonies on distant planets. The hope was that they would die off on the long and treacherous journey or when they got there. If not, they would be indentured to make money for their betters back on Earth. Nothing came of this, fortunately. It paralleled, Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov-Spasky says, the populating of the Americas by the tendentious and unwanted Protestant Christians, the Puritans, who were allowed to ship off to the “New World,” as much in hopes of their discovering great wealth for their betters as of their dying in the attempt. History repeats itself no end and we should take note of this.

In attempting, then, to maintain their status at the top, these people effectively brought themselves down, for they were incapable of doing anything themselves. They did not even know where they got their water! And, Dr. Arlen Grabitchikov- Spasky says, if they’d known where to find it, they’d not have known how to retrieve it, so distanced were they to the realities of living.

It is truly amazing that the lack of imagination of our forebears did not doom us all to extinction.

The Yabu Dining Room can be seen at the Yabu Estates any time between 8 and 10. Admission is limited as digging is still going on. It will take two swipes of your ID. Brochures are, of course, free of charge.