The Pisstown Chaos

by David Ohle

  By random selection, Roe ended up one of the udder carriers. To the soldier next to him, he said, "Please, act quickly, don't let one bite me." As soon as the line moved into the high grass, adders began winding up leg after leg, including Roe's. "Get it! Get it!" he screeched.

  The soldier reached for the adder as quickly as humanly possible, yet it was too late. Roe was bitten on one of his testicles. Though the bite caused swelling to the point that he was anchored to his cot for five days, feet propped up, applying cold packs, very little venom had been injected and physicians said he would recover without permanent damage.

  Four.

  An imp herder working one of the Reverend's meadows is fit to be tied. He found his most productive female dead in her pen yesterday. The belly was scissored open, the teats cut, the heart carried off. The herder wants to blame stinkers for this latest raid on his stock. The incident is doubly sorrowful, coming so soon after the same herder discovered the wings of his favorite banty imp nailed to the stump of an oak. Neighbors testify that he now spends his time stalking the reaches of the Reverend's property, pistol drawn, so anxious to shoot a stinker that he has accidentally killed three of his best stud imps.

  A stinker using a bow and arrow bagged a wild imp today in front of the Radiola Theater in full view of horrified patrons, who watched him dress it with surgical precision, cube and salt the meat, wrap it in burlap, and run north, leaving behind a mound of gristle and bone.

  Because the Reverend believes that music is the fourth material want of the stinker, he has put in effect ordinances requiring them to whistle while they work and to toot kazoos during breaks. Knee-slapping, spoon-rattling, drumming, trumpeting and blowing the short horn are also mandated. As a result, Bum Bay has become a noisy circus of tone-deaf stinkers trying to comply with the ordinance.

  A metal pontoon of some kind was being drawn by pedal cart down the main streets of Pisstown. It measured six foot by six. A hole in its outer plating admitted a tangle of colored wires and leaked a pinescented, pleasant smelling gas, one which, if inhaled even at a distance of a city block, brought on a lingering giddiness, a stagger, and a closure of the throat. The cylinder had apparently been at the bottom of the National Canal for some time, judging by the crust of slime and barnacles.

  Out of the crowd that formed to watch the strange looking object pass, one valorous soul went up and stroked it kindly, as though it were a living thing. He did this despite warnings from the Home Guards escorting the cylinder at a safe distance and lived only a few moments after the thoughtless act. In autopsy it was discovered that his lungs and trachea were coated with a thick layer of parasites, presumably carried in with the leaking gas, which thusfar has defied chemical analysis.

  One of the Reverend's closest held secrets was revealed today by the City Moon after an American businesswoman said she saw a bright globe rise aloft and traverse portions of the sky above a factory which produces chloride of lime, and continue until it paused high above the Bum Bay Straits. She offered to swear an affidavit in substantiation of what she saw. It hovered blue and bulbous, she said, and a sterilizing light seemed to be cast from its underparts.

  "I guess the word is out, " the Reverend told the paper. The woman saw a prototype of a small moon that heals, a medicinal moon. My scientists and I have been hard at work on this project for many years. The moon is intended to cleanse the atmosphere of parasite spores. I see these globes someday stationed over every city town and waiting camp in the land. "

  Stinkers are said to dote on a mixture of urpflanz pulp and sweetened urpmilk. To that end they have learned to connect a crank with a dasher in a churn and set the container in a pan of Canal ice and salt, to produce a delicious concoction they call ice butter, which they vend from three-wheeled carts at a half-buck a cup, under gaily colored umbrellas.

  These peddlers, citizens have been cautioned are rich sources of parasite infestation, dysentery diphtheria and sundry bacterial infections, as most of the ice butter is manufactured in unsanitary homes, with unclean hands.

  While most of the household workers had departed when Mildred Balls left for Permanganate Island, two remained: Red Cane, an unreliable and moody man who performed the services of both a butler and a cook, and Reuben Peters, the yard man.

  One morning Red prepared lunch in the kitchen downstairs, then brought it up to Ophelia. "I've stuffed a few pastry shells with mushrooms and urpmilk and baked them for you, an old recipe of your grandmother's I found under the cooking stove."

  "Thank you so much," Ophelia said, dragging her chair to a window to take advantage of the warm sunlight as she ate. "Look at that. The postman is emptying his bowels again. There's his Q-ped in the driveway. I see him by the pond."

  The postman squatted in a thicket of wild urpflanz, whistling as he wiped himself with pages torn from the City Moon.

  "Hey, you!" Ophelia barked. "This place may look a shambles, but it's not abandoned. I could go out for a walk and step in that."

  The postman hiked up his pants. "There's a letter from your grandmother." He waved it in the air. "You're lucky I didn't wipe with it."

  "Give it to Red. And if you do that again, I'll take it up with one of Hooker's legal wigs. I'll file a peace bond. This is just too much."

  "It's from Permanganate Island. She infested?"

  "That's none of your business!" Ophelia shouted.

  "And if I catch you leaving those smelly brown parcels on this property again," Red warned from the servant's entrance, "I'll strangle you. The smell catches the night breeze and blows in the windows. It brings flies. You've probably contaminated the pond, too, you lout!"

  The postman climbed into the Q-ped and strapped himself in. "Here's what I think of you kind of people." He poked a finger into his mouth and pretended to vomit as he pedaled down the lane.

  Red brought Ophelia the letter from Mildred. "There's your mail. Now it's time for my nap in the sunroom. Please don't disturb me until supper time." He closed the door softly and tiptoed down the creaky stairs.

  Ophelia read the letter, then responded:

  Dear Grandmother,

  I am in receipt of your letter to Roe and me, though I have to tell you, Roe got his shifting orders. I came to tears when I watched from an upper window as he left home. He carried his saw and bow in a canvas bag over one shoulder, a duffel bag that I had packed for him over the other, and a little impskin satchel for medicine and personal items, including a bottle of homemade cough syrup. Don't worry, I followed your recipe exactly: one measure of honey, one ounce hydrate of turpentine, persimmon juice and a generous spoon of Jake powder.

  So sorry to hear they've confined you that way without your creature comforts. Even though it is springtime here, I haven't been singing much. The hydrangea did bloom, but sparingly. The soil, I think, has been tainted by seepage from Peters's latrine. Incidentally, you'll want to know, he burned himself when he tried your method of getting rid of the wasps in the potting shed. The flaming rag fell right in his face and set his hair on fire, then the wool of his sweater. He was flaming head to shoulders when he plunged into the pond. Other than burnedoff eyebrows and hair, he isn't terribly disfigured. In fact, Red thinks he looks better. Yes, the swan is still alive, barely. The neck droops, it falls often. It doesn't have long.

  As to me, I just pass the time waiting for my shifting orders. When I'm gone, we'll have only Red and the yard man to care for the place. Of course, they could be shifted, too, then what?

  Love,

  Ophelia

  Red rushed upstairs one morning just after dawn and bit Ophelia on the wrists and face, vicious bites that left welts and little scabbings for weeks. "Next time," he said, "I'll cut your head half-off with a bread knife."

  Sitting up in bed, Ophelia asked, "What have I done? I've done nothing."

  "There was a muddy print on the Oriental carpet in the foyer. It was yours. That rug was your grandmother's favorite. I spent half the night cleaning it."

 
; "If Peters would fix the walkway it wouldn't be such a bog."

  Red's body sagged as if a current had been suddenly cut off. "It was an impulse. An urge I could not rein in. I'm so, so sorry. I can be as unpredictable as the weather, a sudden storm on a sunny day. The fury often comes after a period of serene, languid calm. Whatever the mood, it typically lasts from one sunrise to another."

  "Is that a reason to bite me? What if I'm infested now?"

  "I'm parasite-free. Don't be alarmed."

  Red dressed Ophelia's wounds, first applying tincture of Mercurochrome, then a layer of French clay. "These things are beyond understanding or explanation. You won't tell your grandmother, will you?"

  "Do anything like that again and I will."

  Backing from the room, Red said, "I'll get your breakfast now."

  That night Ophelia sat upright in bed, nursing her wounds, chewing on a plug of imp meat and drinking a bottle of Jake. A half-moon, prominent in a close corner of the sky, looked low enough to bounce off hilltops and threw a milky light into the room. It was as perfect as nights ever got for thinking things over.

  What would happen to the estate if her shifting orders came? It would be left in the care of the butler and the yard man and that would be the death-knell. It would be overtaken by roving stinkers and displaced shiftees before the persimmon trees turned brown. When the thought of persimmons crossed her mind, she made a mental note to write a real note to the yard man, asking him to pick a bucket of them and bring it to Red, who would bake some of them in a pie and make jam of the rest.

  She then gave thought to avoiding the shift by going to the Balls summer home on Square Island. She could lay low there awhile. She could claim, truthfully, that she was away when her papers came and never saw them.

  Red burst in suddenly, without knocking, unlinking Ophelia's chain of thought, and sat cross-legged on the floor. "I haven't been well," he said.

  "Neither have I." Ophelia displayed her now-inflamed bites. "Look what you did to me."

  "I've already extended apologies. What more do you expect?"

  "What did you come in here for? I'm busy thinking things over.

  "I have a case of the heebie-jeebies." He went to the window. "Look, there's the all-night pedal tram to Bum Bay. If they shift me somewhere, I guess I'll be on it one of these days."

  "I hope you aren't shifted any time soon, Red, because I'm thinking of going to the Island for a few weeks and you'll be left in charge, you and Peters. If my shifting papers come, which I expect they will very soon, leave them in the box."

  "Yes, Miss. We'll keep the stinks away, too."

  "Good. If you let the first one get a foothold here, it's ants on a sticky bun."

  "That's right, Miss."

  "You can go now. I'm getting sleepy. And tell Peters to pick a bucket of persimmons tomorrow."

  "G'night, Miss. I'll go out and tell him right now. He and I are developing a close friendship."

  When the sun reached mid-heaven the next morning, Red brought Ophelia her breakfast. "Here's your starch bar and urpflanz tea. Anything else? I'm off to the potting shed again. Last night I saw some tasty-looking mushrooms sprouting from the peat. I'll be back with some to cook for dinner."

  "Yes, fine."

  In an hour, after Ophelia had napped and gone downstairs for a little sit in the sunroom, Red returned with a sack of mushrooms, knocking the mud from his boots with a dandelion fork. "Look what I've got for dinner." White and puffy, they smelled like starch, and fat little beetles were feeding on them.

  "Yes, that's nice. Now, Red, for your information, I'll be leaving for Square Island in a few days. Please oil the pedal chains and grease the bearings in my Q-ped. It's been put up so long it must be rusting by now."

  "Very well, Miss. Count on me to keep an eye on things while you're gone. Supper at seven. We're having eel stew tonight just the way your grandmother cooks it. Peters caught them this morning in the Canal. They're very fresh."

  "Mmmmmm."

  Carrying the thought of a nice eel stew upstairs with her, Ophelia lay down in her tub to bathe. When she turned on the spigot, little green clumps of duckweed and a few minnows came out with the water. When the tub was full, she felt like she was sitting in an aquarium. She added scented oil to the water to mask its earthy scent. She tried to shave her legs, but what was left of the bar of soap wouldn't make decent suds. With the first stroke of the razor, one that once belonged to her grandfather, she cut her ankle and bled.

  When the bath was over and she had dried off with a freshly laundered towel, a rusty film covered her body. Her face and hands appeared gray. When she went down for dinner, feeling poorly, she found the dining room lit by candles and the table set with her grandmother's china and silverware. A pitcher of Jake and a mushroom pie had been carefully positioned between two crystal vases that sprouted fresh geraniums. All the chairs but two, placed side by side, had been taken away.

  In the kitchen, Red stood hunched at the sink, scrubbing pots and pans. His cheeks were either rosier than usual or the rest of his face more pale. "I'll be there in a moment. I have to get this pan scrubbed. The whole process is making me very anxious."

  "Stay calm, Red." Ophelia drank a glass of Jake, hoping it would settle her stomach. "I do appreciate all you've done towards this meal, all the trouble you've gone to, but I'm out of sorts tonight. The bathwater was awful. It made me sick."

  "Miss, if I've told Peters once, I've told him a thousand times, to clean out that standpipe by the pond. That's what's getting into the plumbing, it's that pond water. I've told him, I've said, `There's snakes in that pond. How would you like one in your bathtub with you?' That's what I told him."

  "All right. I'll see if I can keep some stew down, but not the pie, thank you."

  "Oh, no. You must have some pie. I demand it." Red waltzed in with a steaming bowl and ladle and sat shoulder to shoulder with Ophelia, then sliced the pie. A creamy sauce poured out while the mushroom chunks remained beneath the burned crust. Little or no attempt had been made to cull for beetles. Their parts floated freely in the sauce along with flecks and strands of peat.

  "I don't mean to be suspicious, Red, but what sort of mushrooms are those? Are they safe to eat?"

  "Oh, yes. Peters cultivates them. In a week, here we are, a whole pie full. Eat the bugs, too. They feed on the mushrooms. That's where the flavor is."

  "Just a small piece, please."

  Red served Ophelia a much larger piece than she wanted. "Eat all of it, and fast. That's the best way. Really, the only way. You might as well throw it out to the imps as eat just a little, or too slowly."

  Rather than risk an outburst of anger on Red's part, Ophelia ate a forkful of the pie, which was refreshingly flavorless, except for the beetles, which crunched with a tiny release of peppery fluid. She ate another, larger forkful, and then was able to finish the slice as Red stood behind her saying, again and again, "Hurry now. Hurry up and get it down. Hurry up and get it down. Hurry now.

  "It wasn't as bad as I thought," Ophelia said, wiping a beetle from the corner of her lip.

  Red asked, "Mind if I make a confession to you before you leave?"

  "Of course not, Red."

  "Did you notice the smear of rouge on my sunken cheeks?"

  "No, I hadn't."

  "I'm wearing some of your grandmother's underthings, too.

  "Just don't soil them, that's all."

  "I'll be so-so careful not to. That's a promise." He ladled a bowl of the eel stew. "Is that enough, Miss?"

  "Plenty."

  "When you leave I'll pack the rest in jars. You can take them along in a basket."

  "That would be ducky."

  By morning, after a long, deep sleep, Ophelia felt fit, light and energetic. She went to the window after hearing nervous laughter from below and looked down toward the potting shed. Peters knelt at a stump, stretching the swan's neck over it, and Red raised an axe and lopped off its head. Peters then nailed its feet to t
he side of the potting shed to let it bleed.

  Red looked toward the house. "Good morning, Miss! I'm going to bake this old bird for your going-away supper."

  "That was Grandmother's pet."

  "I know, Miss, but you can see it's on its last legs. Isn't it best to make some use of it, before it goes off somewhere to die?" Peters said.

  "Grandmother won't agree, but I don't have time to worry about this. I need my colonic. Will you give it to me, Red?"

  "I'd be honored. Let me do this plucking and we'll get right to it."

  Ophelia searched through her grandmother's toiletries for an enema bag and a bar of floating soap, which she had little trouble locating. She took them into the bathroom, placed them in the sink, sat on the stool and read an insert in a copy of the City Moon. The piece was written by Hooker himself, using the nom de plume Dr. Christopher Nyrop, on the subject of kissing: "It is well-known that kissing is the main culprit when it comes to spreading parasites. Therefore I feel it appropriate to explore the subject more closely. The first requisite of a kiss is a mouth. A sucking movement of the lip muscles, accompanied by an audible sound that varies in length and intensity. But, this alone does not constitute a kiss. You may also hear the same sound when an imp driver calls his imps. No, it is a kiss only when it is used to convey a feeling of affection and when the lips come in brief or sustained contact with a living creature or object."

  When Red came in, he was wearing rubber boots and an apron from the potting shed, and was holding a shower cap in his hand. Though his mood had become sour, the swan feather clinging to his nose gave him a clownish look. "I'm not in the mood for this," he said.