The Pisstown Chaos

by David Ohle

  "You certainly look dressed for it."

  "When I said I would do it, I was in another mood. I'm like a werewolf. Have you noticed? I think it was last night's moon. Some magnetic effect beyond my control."

  "I'll do it myself, then. It wouldn't be the first time. You just calm down."

  "No, I insist. Let's get started."

  Red filled the bag with warm, soapy water, and oiled the nozzle. He flexed his fingers and slid on a pair of dirty workgloves. "All right, Miss, climb into the tub and bend over."

  Ophelia stepped high and into the cold porcelain tub and braced herself against slippage. Red inserted the nozzle without looking directly at her anus. He merely pushed on it until it found home. Ophelia stifled an outcry by biting her lip.

  "Sorry again, Miss. I've always been something of a klutz. My past is full of holes. I may have been born in Lund, near the Alps. But what did I do when I wandered away from the Q-ped factory one day? I've always wondered that."

  Ophelia's impactment broke loose and a few dark, granular turds dropped into the tub. "Thank you, Red. That's a relief."

  "Let me clean up now. Go wipe yourself."

  Ophelia stepped out of the tub, planting her toes first on the mat, then the rest of her foot. She sat on the commode to wipe, using a little unguent afterward to soothe her bottom.

  "Will you help me douche, now?"

  "Oh, yes, Miss, I d be glad to. As soon as I'm finished cleaning up."

  When the bathroom sparkled again, and the douching was done, Red said he was going downstairs to begin browning the swan in fat.

  "Thank you for helping me."

  "It's a pleasure, Miss."

  "You were gentle but patient and thorough."

  "For the douche, I diluted the vinegar with rosewater. Wasn't that a nice touch?"

  "It was. Thank you again."

  Ophelia lay in her bed for an hour or two, reading the City Moon, until the rich cooking fumes that drifted up the stairwell, along with the sizzle and pop of hot fat, lulled her to sleep. During the nap she dreamed she was in a pedal tram station dressed in a gray and blue military uniform and lugging a fully packed duffel bag. Another soldier stopped her and asked, "Which train to the Chaos?" For a moment, in the dream, Ophclia was perplexed. She thought all trains went there.

  She awoke famished. With cleaned-out bowels yearning for food, she went to the banister outside her room and called down, "What time is supper? I'm starved."

  "In an hour or two, I imagine. This bird is tougher than I thought."

  Two hours later Ophelia called down again. "Good God, Red. If it's much longer I'm going to eat my pillow."

  There was no answer.

  "Red? Isn't that swan done yet?"

  Still, no answer.

  "Red Cane? In another minute I'm coming down there."

  Silence. Ophelia slipped into her robe and went down. The dining table was set for two as usual. The baked swan cooled on a platter in the kitchen. But Red was nowhere to be seen. She went into the kitchen and through a pantry window saw a lantern in the potting shed. Red had probably gone to get fresh herbs to garnish the bird or add to the stuffing. Slipping on a pair of galoshes, she lit a candle. The new moon had gone suddenly dark and it was black as pitch outside.

  She walked carefully from slippery stone to slippery stone until she got to the potting shed, then blew out the candle. She tried the door and found it locked. Wiping the dirty door-glass, she looked in at Peters, lying on the peat pile with his pants pulled down, fanning his rear with a handful of straw. Red, sitting beside him in Mildred Balls's underwear, combed Peters's coarse hair with a tortoise-shell comb. Peters's cheeks were flushed, his eyes half-closed. When Ophelia entered, the scene seemed all the more lurid for the dim lantern and its flicker.

  "I hope you don't take any offense," Red said, "but I've just mated with Peters here."

  Peters sat up. "I was quietly potting geraniums when that idiot stepped out of a dark corner and made advances, clumsy, lewd advances, with his big willy sticking out. I tried, but I couldn't resist him."

  "Is that true, Red, that he put up resistance?"

  "He lies like a rug. He clearly indicated he wanted me to sex him good and sex him hard."

  Ophelia saw the pointlessness of going any further with the inquiry. "All is forgiven. Let's move past this."

  "I'll serve the swan," Red said.

  "Listen to me, Red," Ophelia replied. "Wash yourself carefully before you touch any food."

  Peters pulled up his underdrawers, then his mud-caked trousers. "What about me? Don't I get any bird? Who chopped its head oft? It was me."

  "Don't invite him, Miss."

  "You hunk of dirt," Peters shouted, making steps toward a digging fork that leaned against a wall. "I'll gig you like a frog."

  "See what I mean, Miss? Coarse and dangerous."

  "Come on, Peters," Ophelia said, gesturing toward the house. "I'll be leaving tomorrow. Let's eat together and try to make peace. This is exactly what I feared would happen. This is what Mildred warned me about. Now, both of you, take a bath before dinner."

  "Water's being rationed, Miss. I neglected to tell you."

  "I already cut back on watering things," Peters added.

  Red failed to disguise his delight. "So, I suppose Peters and I will have to be bathing in the same tub, in the same water.

  "I suppose so," Ophelia said, lifting her dress for the slippery walk back to the house. "But I'm hoping dinner will be served before ten."

  "Oh, it will, Miss."

  When the time came to eat, Ophelia could only stomach a few bites of the swan's tough, oily breast. She washed them down with gulps of Jake. "Thanks for the effort, you two. My digestion isn't what it used to be."

  "That's infuriating," Red snapped. "After all that work. I'd like to cut your throat with a dull knife."

  "Calm down, Red Cane."

  "See what I mean," Peters said, "He's just plain crazy."

  Red puffed out his cheeks, wept weakly, and spat. "I'm so sorry, so ashamed of these uncontrollable urges. I'm going to hang myself."

  "There's a good rope in the shed," Peters said. "I'll get it in the morning."

  Ophelia had had enough. "This isn't the time for that kind of whining, or that kind of bickering. Now, you'll try to get along and look after things when I'm gone. Grandmother will be back sooner or later. So will I, probably, and Roe too."

  "I love Peters," Red said, "despite all. We kissed a hundred times and mated again in the tub."

  "For all I care, you can mate at will and forever. I'm going to bed."

  Before sunup the next morning Ophelia's Q-ped rolled toward the estate's arched, brick entrance and was about to turn toward Pisstown proper, when she nearly collided with the postman, who said with a wolfish grin, "Whoa, slow down Ophelia girl. I've got brand new shifting orders for you. Ha, ha, ha!"

  With her foot heavy on the brake, she read the orders:

  SUBJECT: Order to Relocate

  Dear Ms. Balls,

  The Reverend requests your presence in the city of Bum Bay by 30-Nov. Report to the Templex there no later than six a.m. on that day. There you will serve in the capacity of an acolyte. Duties include but are not limited to attending to the needs of the Abbot. Additional instructions will be conveyed to you upon your arrival.

  Your faithful servant,

  Reverend Herman Hooker

  The Abbot referred to was Dimitri Machnov, the Russian giant. Once the main attraction of many a road show and carnival, the giant had become a true believer in Hooker's teachings and had been appointed Abbot of the Reverend's Bum Bay Templex, the largest, grandest, most influential in the region.

  Ophelia first set eyes on Machnov in the Temple's bath house as he floated from one side of the stagnant pool to the other in a loose-fitting pair of rubber nappies. One of his attendants stepped forward to greet Ophelia. "My name is unimportant and I'm to be your Guide. Isn't he a sight to behold? He weighs nine-o-six,
his waist measures ninetythree inches and he stands eight-ten. We fear his death will be caused by a fatty degeneration of the heart, probably very soon. This is why we have resorted to bleeding him."

  Another attendant waded into the pool with a bucket of leeches. "These little medical miracles come all the way from the Fertile Crescent." The attendant took leeches from the bucket and placed them at intervals over Machnov's massive body, even tucking a few beneath the nappies. The giant submitted to this with a contented smile.

  Ophelia's Guide said, "What I must see are your shifting papers.

  She surrendered the relocation order long enough for the Guide to gloss over it. "Welcome to the Templex. You'll have no name to weigh you down here. We're on a strict no-name basis. And, as a new acolyte, you're under a vow of silence. As a Guide, I'm allowed to speak, out of necessity. Say, haven't I heard of Mildred Balls?"

  "My grandmother."

  "And Jacob, the brewing magnate? The maker of Jake? Your grandfather?"

  "Yes, but he squandered most of his inheritance on a dubious scheme to feed the starving millions in the Fertile Crescent. I have scarcely enough to keep the estate from falling down around me. If I'm away too long, it will collapse."

  "Your order says nothing about length of stay. I can only presume it will be five years. There are quarters upstairs for acolytes. You'll be an acolyte until you're elevated to attendant, and then to Guide."

  "And my duties will include?"

  "Arrangements have been made for children to see Machnov tomorrow. At a reception in the refectory he will shake hands with any children who desire to meet him and fill their sacks with roasted nuts and nonpareils. He then will lead the children on a march to Hooker Park. Your duty on this occasion will be to periodically empty Master Machnov's reduction belt, which drains fatty and other secretions through a tube into a bag. You will walk behind him and carry the bag. When it is about three-fourths full, it will be disconnected and emptied into the gutter."

  The Guide escorted Ophelia to her quarters, a four-byeight cubicle in a row of twelve others. A cot, a slop bucket, and a wooden stool were the only furnishings. A gel can and a box of matches sat on a small shelf affixed to the waferboard wall.

  "It goes without saying that if you are heard addressing another attendant or acolyte, you will be punished with the basrinado."

  "May I ask what that is, the bastinado?"

  "We club your feet with cudgels until the bones are thoroughly broken and the inner tissue reduced to jelly. It means life on crutches. Around here idle talk is nothing to be trifled with. Another thing, when you are not actively assisting Machnov, you are expected to immerse yourself heart and mind in Hookerite studies. You'll find the library just off the Abbot's bathing pool, three doors into the east wing corridor. Expect, on a monthly basis, to be tested on your knowledge. Failure there means you'll be chauffeured Do you have any questions or concerns?"

  "If I'm chauffeured, where will I be taken?"

  "Nowhere. The word comes from the French, chauffeur, to warm.' You are made to lie on a pandiculating appliance, barefoot, while a small fire is lit under your feet and fed fuel until the flesh is burned away."

  Ophelia was numb, sleepy, not fully attentive. The twoday pedal tram trip had left her exhausted, her muscles sore. "When is bedtime?"

  "We shut our eyes at eight, we open them at four. First, slop jars are emptied and ablutions performed, then we breakfast at five. When morning duties are completed, a noon lunch is served in the refectory. As Machnov usually naps every afternoon, we suggest that time be spent in the library. Supper is at six, postprandial meditations until seven, nightly ablutions, then bed."

  "The problem is, I'm not a Hookerite. Some mistake has been made."

  "Everyone is a Hookerite, Miss Balls, in spirit if not practice." Ophelia was given a copy of the Field Guide. "I suggest you begin by boning up on Hooker's Sayings and be able to write them down in the morning."

  "All one hundred and one?"

  "Yes. Anything further need explaining before you fall silent for the duration of your stay here?"

  "No, nothing more."

  Ophelia lay in her cot half the night, reading the Sayings over and over by the dim glow of her gel can, hoping at least a few would stick in her mind. After silently repeating them dozens of times, drowsiness overtook her and she fell asleep. Neither the odor of urine salts lofting from her thin mattress, nor the ringing of the Templex bell every hour, disturbed her rest, as it would have under normal circumstances. Many a night she had lain awake at the estate, personifying sleep, angry at it, sometimes cursing it for its failure to overtake her. She imagined Sleep itself sleeping, snoring thunderously, unaware of her pleadings. After these nights, a fog rolled in and out of her mind all day, and she was constipated. Taken together, the two conditions made her peckish and withdrawn.

  When the bell sounded at four, Ophelia awoke groggy and listless to a thin cloud of wood smoke drifting near the ceiling. She could hear the movement of other acolytes in the dormitory, coughing, spitting, nose-blowing and defecating into slop jars. One of them called out, "They're building a fire out there. I'm glad I know my Sayings."

  Ophelia lit her gel can and, as its shadows played across the ceiling, struggled to remember the Sayings. Even after pulling her hair and rapping herself on the head with her knuckles, she could recall only two: "The meek shall not inherit the Earth" and "Nothing is good that ends well." Nor had she any recall of the numbers that went with them.

  Already feeling the flames at her feet, she anxiously took her place at a long table in the refectory. A lively chatter had erupted among the acolytes in general defiance of the no-talk rule. One of them tugged at Ophelia's sleeve. "No need to be so glum. Machnov is dead of heart failure. Don't you smell the smoke? They're burning him now. The Templex is closing and we're all being shifted soon, perhaps today. From this strange place, most anything would be an up-shift."

  Ophelia's shifting papers, a packet that included a voucher for a low-priced room at the Gons Hotel, were in her hands before sunset, assigning her to duty as an investigator for the Bum Bay Home Guard. She would inherit certain troublesome cases from a soon-to-be-shifted investigator, a Dutchman by the name of van Vliet.

  She was on the late-morning pedal tram and on the other side of Bum Bay before noon to occupy van Vliet's office, though he showed no great haste in emptying his desk and leaving. Every item was carefully studied, thought about, and either tossed into the rubbish bin or wrapped in handkerchiefs and carefully packed in an impskin valise.

  The Dutchman had a curious bump just above and between his eyebrows, which moved up and down as he talked. "One doesn't want to clean out one's desk in a feverish hurry. You never know what may lie in one of the hidden places behind the drawers."

  "Where are they sending you this time?" Ophelia asked.

  "To the Purple Isle. I've got a bad case of parasites. If I hold my hand over a candle, you can see them."

  "My grandmother is there, in isolation, even with a light load of the little beasts."

  "I'm sure they'll isolate me. My load is heavy. They make me fly into rages without warning. I salivate excessively. Sometimes you'll see me with one end of a twisted hankie sitting in my mouth. It wicks down into a sponge I keep in my top pocket. If I'm walking down the street I'll step into an alley periodically and wring it out."

  "I wish you the best of luck."

  "The, same to you, and if I were you, I'd avoid the night watchman. He reports at 9:10. Comes in the back door. He's a goon without a drop of sense and carries an ice pick. You see this lump on my head?"

  "I've wondered about it."

  "He stuck me with the pick. It put a dent in my skull. A cyst formed." The Dutchman began to salivate. He twisted an already damp handkerchief, tied a knot at one end and tucked it into his cheek. "Needless to say, my sponge is fairly soaked, and badly needs squeezing. This onrush of spittle can be oafish and offensive at social gatherings, on the b
uses, anywhere."

  "My sympathies." Ophelia glanced at the clock that hung inside a steel-mesh cage on the wall. "Doesn't the pedal tram depart at 9:03?"

  "Yes, but I'm on the 9:04 express, the one that's always half empty and the pedaling is brutal. Your best bet is the 8:07, the one that goes to Pisstown. It's got a new gear box and a well-oiled drive chain. You can pedal and sleep at the same time. And you rarely see a stinker on that route. You know how shameless they are about refusing to pedal. I don't know why the Reverend lets them get away with it. There should be a law."

  "I'm rather anxious to take a look at these cases," Ophelia whispered.

  "All right, then. I'm off to the Purple Isle."

  "Before you leave, one question. This seems to be the only occupied office on this floor. I haven't seen anyone else. I've walked up and down the hallways. There are hundreds of office spaces, all empty. Except one. There was a bed in 144. A cot, actually."

  "That's where the watchman sleeps."

  "He isn't much of a watchman, then, if he's asleep."

  "It struck me odd as well, but I never questioned him ... there's a working toilet in 141. The water is turned on for an hour in the morning and an hour at night."

  "Thank you so much for all that information."

  "You're probably anxious to pursue these cases, but I'll warn you, you'll have little or no capacity to do it at anything but a snail's pace. If you want to interview a subject, it is up to you to make your way to their whereabouts by pedal bus, foot, Q-ped or other means, and at your own expense. You have the authority to compel subjects to travel to your office for interrogation, but you have no way to know their whereabouts either, or to notify them by mail. That, too, will be impossible. There is no stationery, writing instrument or stamps. And who would deliver it anyway? Postal service ended after the Chaos."

  "Thank you again. I am curious about the cases. I'll do what I can under the restrictions."