I walked away from this confrontation just relieved to be alive. The, not so veiled threat that Truth and Justice had just directed at me was distressing. They obviously were letting me know the lengths they were willing to go, to have things their way. I no longer felt safe in Fostoria. I walked then ran in the direction of Lumpenproleteria. As I ran, I sensed someone following me. I stopped and ducked behind a tree. Faintly I thought I could hear nearby branches rustling. I waited with an ominous feeling hanging over me. “Did I really hear that?” I thought. “Or was it just my fancy?” After I was satisfied that the danger had passed I got up and continued my flight. Finally I reached Lumpenproleteria. I searched for the spot where Hector had been laying but he was gone. Someone must have moved him. Aimlessly I walked for hours. Eventually the feeling that I was being followed returned to me. I glanced behind me and spotted a black cat and a white cat seated about one hundred yards away watching me. Alarmed, I plunged into the shadows of a large hollowed out log and began weeping profusely. I gripped my head and grinded my teeth. I began developing an ever-increasing feeling that none of this could be real. My entire life suddenly seemed like a nightmare that I would be awakening from at any moment. I resolved to stay where I was, venting until my tears ran dry. I think secretly I was also hoping that I was correct in the new idea that this was all just a dream that I would soon be awakening from. After a considerable period of time I was satisfied that I was not dreaming after all. Therefore I decided to continue on my way. When I emerged from my hiding place I noticed that the spies who were following me had moved on. I walked confusedly throughout Lumpenproleteria. The grim appearance of the place had returned. The sunrise glow was gone and the air was stagnant. In a trance I was shuffling along in no particular direction when all of a sudden I looked up in alarm. The two cats that were following me earlier were now stationed ahead of me at some distance. I turned to run but ran smack dab into someone and fell onto my back. Leaping onto my paws I stood erect. Frantically I turned to see that the two cats were now gone. I was genuinely spooked but remembering that I had collided with someone I quickly turned to make sure they were all right. When I reached over to assist the elderly dog I had just toppled I suddenly realized who it was. It was the old St. Bernard that I had spoken to upon leaving the conference. “Am I glad to see you!” I exclaimed. And before I realized what I was doing I was embracing the old Lumpen. After all I’d recently been through, it was nice to finally see a friendly face. Surprisingly the old dog just hugged me back as if I was his long lost grandson and we were being reunited for the first time. “I’m sorry I knocked you down,” I said. He replied, “That’s ok. No harm no foul. Were you running from those two cats that were just ahead?” Excitedly I asked, “You saw them too?” It was reassuring to know that someone else had seen them. For a moment I doubted whether they were real or if I was just cracking up. “Yes I saw them. Who are they?” asked the dog. “They’re spies,” I resolutely replied. I was convinced of it. But I just wasn’t sure whom they were working for. It could be either Zarathustra or Socrates and really it didn’t matter because I had begun to develop a distrust of them both. The old St. Bernard smiled. “Now why would someone send spies after a nice young cat like you?” I tried hard to hold back the tears but my emotions got the better of me. “What’s wrong?” asked the old dog with a look of concern on his face. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I began to open up my heart and confess what was plaguing me. “I just don’t understand why life has to be so complicated,” I sobbed. “For as long as I can remember I have believed that all animals are equal and should be treated equally. That’s why I joined the animalists. But the more I get acquainted with the common animal the more I realize how little I really know about him. I’m also finding out how little I know about myself.” I briefly paused but the old dog didn’t respond. He just listened closely with an attentive expression and compassionate eyes. I went on, “I guess what I’m afraid to find out is that I was wrong all along. Maybe all animals are not equals. Maybe I’m not equal.” Again I paused briefly and in the back of my mind I thought, “Should I be confessing these things to him? Earlier he said there was something about me that attracts curiosity. So far everyone who has approached me offering friendship has wanted something from me in return. I wonder what he wants?” Surprisingly, the dog made no attempt to force his way into the conversation. He just compassionately listened until he was sure I was finished venting. I declared, “What has me so befuddled is this speech I heard from Field Marshal Hannibal. I don’t believe all of the evidence he presented but I have to admit I was surprised by the amount of research he used to defend his argument. It wasn’t just a blind, ignorant, hatred filled mind that was at work. I perceived sincerity in him. I’m convinced that his ideas were the product of a great mental struggle.” I paused. I had grown accustomed to having my expressions interrupted by other’s opinions. To be able to express myself for an extended period of time without interruption was a welcome change. I interjected, “Don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of hatred in his mind. Especially for the Lumpen. What could make one animal hate a breed so passionately?” Not waiting for an answer I continued, “Something else has been weighing heavily on my mind. I think I’m in love. But love isn’t how I imagined it would be. I’m probably not even making sense right now but I don’t know how else to explain it.” The old dog slightly lifted his brow but said nothing. He just continued listening. “Finally,” I said after taking a deep breath. “My friends are missing. They have disappeared and I suspect the animalists have something to do with it. If this is true than it means that the organization that I believed was rooted in equality is a sham. If that is true does it mean that their philosophy is also a lie? Is equality a lie? That…” I concluded with out stretched paws, “is what’s wrong.” “Well,” said the old dog after a brief reflection. “I don’t know much about philosophy or politics but I have learned a few lessons in life. You see. I’ve been around a long time. I’m willing to share the little bit of knowledge I have. Who knows? You might be able to use something.” He began to rub his rough paws together while he silently reflected. Finally he said, “The area currently known as Lumpenproleteria did not always go by this name. No one remembers what the original name was but it is remembered that domesticated settlers gave it the current name. As far as what Field Marshal Hannibal had to say about Lumpens? I don’t know about that. But what I do know, I’ll tell you. The inhabitants of what is now called Lumpenproleteria have been categorized into a breed first by speciest scientists and now by the rest of the world. However these scientists have made unusual exceptions with regard to the standards of how animals are classified. For this reason, only in Lumpenproleteria can you find dogs, cats, rabbits, and birds all classified as one breed. The argument made is that though outwardly they appear different, they all have identical brains. Since no one can remove their brain and have a look at it there is no way to disprove this theory. Even if it could be proved that Lumpens are identical on the inside to many it seems suspicious to that whenever any animal is seen as an enemy of the state they are all at once discovered to have Lumpen blood.” In amazement I asked, “So there is no real Lumpen breed? Its all an invention?” The old dog meditated then said, “Well, according to legend, there was once a breed of animals called Lumpen. They were merchants because this is the only vocation they were allowed to engage in. They were resourceful and thrived despite not being allowed to possess land. Lumpenproleteria’s current inhabitants and the Cuyamongans actually share the same likelihood of having blood ties with this original breed. Over generations there’s been so much cross-breeding and migration that it’s impossible to claim any pure blood line.” I found this history very interesting. I asked, “What was this original breed like? Is there any truth to what Hannibal said about them?” The old st. Bernard smiled and patiently replied, “I’ve told you all I know about the past and about what I’ve been told. I can tell you much more about the so-called Lumpen o
f today. Since I’ve lived in this land something that has always interested me is the large amount of animals churned in and out of Lumpenproleteria between Cuyamonga and the Union of Animals. These animals, after suddenly becoming sub-animals are exiled to Lumpenproleteria. They are then rehabilitated back into society but don’t ever seem to form a firm grasp of their respective philosophy. I say this because many times an animal finds himself churned into the opposite camp and they live there for long periods of time. One would expect them to have a hard time adjusting to a new way of thinking that is supposed to be the polar opposite of their former way of thinking. However, this rarely happens. They live on without there being, a significant contradiction of purpose in their lives.” Unexpectedly I caught a snippet of conversation from some passing Lumpens that momentarily distracted me from listening to the old dog. “So then they said we was all like evolved from the same animal and that. I don’t remember what else but… We was forcibly like homogenized or something.” Another voice added, “That’s right! So the revolution is gonna like, free us.” The first voice put in, “Im’ll be ready for that!” “Me too!” responded his friend. Bringing my attention back to the wise old dog and forgetting that he was a Lumpen, I asked, “What’s the matter with them? Why is the Lumpen mind so ignorant?” I didn’t realize until much later after reflecting on the conversation that this question must have been seen as offensive. I certainly meant know offense by it. I was just so comfortable in speaking with the St. Bernard that I wasn’t watching my words. Apparently taking no offense the old dog responded, “Well, that’s a… broad subject. I believe the answer has less to do with the Lumpen mind and more to do with the mind in general.” The St Bernard gazed at me with intensity. “Like I said earlier, I’m no scientist. But from observations made over the course of many years I have reached some interesting conclusions about the mind. I started out by observing the differences in the actions of various animals. Actions that seemed deplorable to some animals were acceptable to others but at the same time these latter animals found other actions deplorable that the former animals found acceptable. I asked myself why is there such a difference in the morals of these animals if they are of the same species? I finally concluded that every mind has a standard set for what it considers acceptable behavior. If an animal’s actions go against these standards the animal is then severely tortured by his own mind. This mental torture is not a quality of life that can be adapted to. A change must take place in order for the mind and body to continue to survive together. The animal must either lower his standards to meet his actions or he must work to make his actions conform to his standards. In either case the results are the same. You get animals with differing behavior but with the same level of acceptability.” I listened to all of this with great interest. It still didn’t dawn on me that I was being instructed by a Lumpen. Making an inquiring gesture with his paw he then asked me, “What do you think would happen if the animals were no longer allowed to change their behavior?” In confusion I asked, “What do you mean? I thought you said that it wasn’t possible to adapt to the mental punishment of the mind? The animal must change his actions in order to survive.” The old Lumpen suddenly appeared sad. He sighed heavily while gazing at the ground. “Yes,” he said, “And survival is the mind’s first priority.” All at once he looked at me with inquiring eyes. “Consider this scenario,” he said. “What if animals were put in a closed environment and put under a great deal of stress to go against the standards set by their own mind. Let’s say they were then prevented by force from making changes in their behavior. What do you think would happen to these poor animals?” After only a brief hesitation I responded, “I suppose they would have to lower their standards.” “Ok,” continued the old Lumpen. “Now lets say it is reasoned by the researchers who are conducting this experiment, that since the animals were able to adjust to the change in environment, they can now handle more pressure. Imagine some researchers speculating on just how far these subjects can be pushed. So they increase the outside pressure. Every time the subjects adjust to their new environment more pressure is added. My question to you is, eventually what type of behavior do you think we will see from these test subjects?” I brooded over this strange hypothetical scenario for some time before finally responding, “I really don’t know. I don’t think it would be possible to stay sane in conditions like that.” Right away the dog responded, “Remember we are not talking about sanity. That’s an even trickier subject. Right now we’re just considering the behavior or what others see.” I said, “Well I suppose we’d see some very strange behavior from these animals.” The old dog smiled. “I suppose you’re right.” Then he lifted his paw and motioned for me to look around me. He said, “What you see is the result of such an experiment.” As he was talking a group of young Lumpens walked past us in a group. My attention was drawn to one of them in particular. He was a grayish brown mongrel with floppy ears. Something about his appearance made him stand out as if he didn’t quite belong in this group. All in the group talked with one another crudely but in a manner that signaled they respected one another. However when the mongrel that had caught my attention spoke it seemed to cause irritation in the group. They appeared to merely tolerate his presence. All of these impressions were gathered in an instant as the group walked by us. My lecturer continued, “I imagine the threshold guardian must have given you a tour of Lumpenproleteria? Well if you have the time, I can show you some features that you will not see on the normal tour route.” Hungry for answers and anxious to take my mind off of my current situation, I jumped at the opportunity. He led me to a small clearing where I noticed various animals of all types huddled around a scruffy dog. The dog was distributing what appeared to be food to them and they in turn devoured the food greedily. “Have you heard of nip?” my guide asked. “Yes,” I replied. “The threshold guardian told me all about it.” Surprised, my guide inquired, “Really? Did he tell you that it contains varying amounts of poison that eventually kills the animal? And that there is an additive that keeps the animal in a permanent state of heat?” Astonished, I exclaimed, “No. He didn’t mention that.” I then glanced at my guide suspiciously, “If you know all of this why don’t you warn them?” I asked. To my surprise he answered, “They already know. Before they are allowed to accept the nip they first must endure the humiliation of acknowledging that they know exactly what the nip contains and how it will affect their bodies. In this way they are robbed of the ability to tell themselves that they were tricked. Their minds are left with the full realization that they chose the nip of their own free will.” I silently agonized over the cruelty of this situation. I thought, “It is true that they are the ones making the decisions. On the other hand, if they refuse the nip how could they endure these living conditions?” The whole situation left me with a bad taste in my mouth and I felt thankful that I was not in a similar situation. As we ventured away from this area a passing scene caught my attention. The group of young Lumpens I had seen earlier was again walking in a group but this time the grayish brown mongrel with the floppy ears was walking a few paces ahead of the group. They were calling out, “You’re a punk!” and they glared at him with hatred in their eyes. Every now and again a member of the group would yell, “Punk!” and give him a shove. He would turn to defend himself but the entire group bore their teeth and growled until he turned back around in humiliation. This act of degradation would cause all in the group to laugh with great pleasure. This exercise was repeated a few times more before they passed from my sight. I walked on with my guide until we reached the coliseum. “You are familiar with the entertainment provided for the Lumpen?” asked the old dog. “Yes,” I replied, turning my head away from the place in revulsion. “I know all I need to know about that.” I had determined within myself never to enter the structure again. Off to the side of the coliseum a crowd had begun to assemble. My guide then asked, “And do you know who it is that we Lumpens have to thank for our various forms of entertainment?” Withou
t hesitation I responded, “The speciests. Who knows? Probably even the Union of Animals.” Once again astounding me the old St Bernard shook his head and said, “No. It’s a Lumpen.” I followed his eyes over to the crowd that was gathering and I saw the cause of the commotion. The lean boxer I had seen on the posters the first time I was given a tour of Lumpenproleteria was standing in their midst. The crowds gathered around the celebrity as if it were an opportunity not to be missed. My guide explained, “Leo is seen as a role model by the entire Lumpen community. The Lumpen hero is the biggest manufacturer of nip and other forms of entertainment in the area.” Suddenly as if alerted to our presence the boxer looked beyond his adoring fans and stared directly at us. The boxer and the old St Bernard ominously locked eyes. Placing his paw on my shoulder my guide then said, “We’d better be off.” No sooner did we continue our trek than I once again saw the group of young Lumpens walking together. The grayish brown mongrel was happily trotting along side the group as if the earlier scene had never taken place. He would fall behind every now and again but he always caught up with the group and was begrudgingly allowed re-admittance. “What strange behavior,” I thought to myself. As we walked away from the coliseum my guide heard something off in the distance and he motioned for silence. He then directed me to follow him and we hid behind some brush. No sooner were we hidden than a couple of Cuyamongan guards marched passed with a Lumpen prisoner in custody. The prisoner foamed at the mouth and ejaculated a seemingly endless stream of expletives. Eventually the noisy procession passed on and all was quiet once again. I looked over at my guide in desperation. He asked, “Remember what we said would happen if an animal’s mind is pushed too far? The forms of entertainment fed to the masses give them a certain worldview. Their behavior becomes predictable which in turn makes them easy to control. The long-term effects of this experiment is yet to be seen but already you can find many animals in Lumpenproleteria that are confused about their identities. Their minds have been pushed to such extremes that in order to survive it creates its own reality.” I didn’t want to believe what the old St Bernard was telling me but from what I had already seen I knew it was the truth. Flustered I declared, “If this is the price of domestication, I want nothing to do with it.” My guide gazed at me sympathetically. “Don’t despair,” he said. “Its not a hopeless situation.” Now, two things struck me about this reassurance. The obvious fact is that it seemed contradictory. If ever there was a hopeless situation I was convinced that this was it. Secondly I was amazed at the level of selflessness this old Lumpen showed. Here it was that he was living in these abominable conditions yet he wasn’t bitter. His biggest concern at the moment was that I not be overwhelmed with what he was showing me. I exclaimed, “Not hopeless?” He grinned. “Come on Christopher. I want to show you one thing more.” As we walked to the final destination on my behind the scenes tour, my guide explained more about his observations on the mind. “You see many of the things in life that we view as necessary rights, actually only serve as distractions. If the average animal added up the amount of time and energy spent worrying about not being defrauded he would most likely find, the activity took up the greater part of his life. If this distraction were removed what effect do you think it would have on the mind?” I had never thought about life in that way before. It took me a while to wrap my brain around this new concept. While I was pondering a Lumpen raccoon shuffled speedily past us muttering, “In the end you die alone. No one can help you and you can’t do nuthin to help nobody. All you worked for vanishes into nuthin.” I was put off by this distraction. Nevertheless my guide brought my mind back down to earth by repeating his question. “How do you think the mind would be affected by suddenly removing these shackles?” I responded, “I guess the mind would be clearer but I almost can’t picture this ever happening.” The old dog laughed. “It happens all the time. Placed under extreme stress and miserable circumstances animals often have moments of clarity where they can fully understand the true nature of life better than those whose minds are still full of distractions.” The old St Bernard’s face suddenly drooped. “The only problem is that under such conditions no one listens to them.” Finally we arrived at our destination. From the smell of petroleum in the air I could tell we were somewhere near the tar pits. There were a few large trees and a gigantic boulder embedded into the ground. Leaning against the boulder was a mixed breed dog who appeared even older than my guide. Despite his age the dog appeared to be very alert as he sensed our arrival a long way off. At first glance, the most conspicuous trait in this old dog was the fact that he only had three legs. He stood upright leaning against the rock supported only by his one hind leg. His front legs were crossed on his chest and though he was looking in our direction it seemed to be his sense of smell that was guiding him. His nose twitched steadily as we made our approach. When I looked at his eyes I realized that my first impression was correct. His eyes were glazed over with a white cloudy membrane leaving him blind. “Whose there?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Its me,” replied my guide. “And you’ve brought someone with you? Speak up. I wont bite you without a good reason. What’s your name?” My guide nudged me so I said, “My name is Christopher.” “Is that so?” replied the three legged dog. “I once knew a Christopher who used to spit on the ground every time his name was mentioned. It is hoped that the habit was particular to my friend and not a trait inherited with the name. Please warn me in advance if it is, so I’ll know what to expect the surrounding ground to be like. In my condition I can’t afford having slip hazards placed in my way.” My guide chuckled then gently nudged me. “No sir,” I said. The three of us stood silent for a while. I appeared to be the only one who felt awkward. I certainly wasn’t going to be the first one to break the silence. Despite the titles and achievements I had recently gained I felt a certain sense of inferiority. Regardless of their social status I knew that they both knew more about life than I did. Fortunately my guide was the first to speak. “Christopher and I were discussing the nature of the mind,” he said. The older dog responded, “That just happens to be my favorite subject. You see I have come to the conclusion that I am my mind and my mind is me.” I knitted my brow in anticipation of some sort of cryptic meaning in these words. The three legged philosopher continued, “This may seem like an obvious conclusion to some but believe you me it took a great deal of sacrifice on my part to be sure. Many animals may say they believe that they are their own mind but until they’ve made a personal sacrifice they can never truly be sure.” At this point I began to think that maybe the old dog’s hard life had taken such a toll on his brain that his reasoning had long since left him. However out of respect I continued to listen. “My first sacrifice was my leg. When I lost it I wasn’t searching for any higher truth. My mind had been distracted for so long by the monotony of life that truth be told I really wasn’t made aware that I even had the leg until it was gone. I tried to get back to the comfortable mental state I was in before but I was unable to do so. Every awkward limp reminded me of my loss. It was as if the leg was haunting me as punishment for taking it for granted. Then I began to ask myself ‘Am I still a dog? A part of me is gone forever but does that mean that I am no longer a complete dog?’ This thought obsessed me. It drove me to the bigger question of ‘what is animal?’ I tried to remember how I was before the accident. Did I still like the same foods? Did I have the same desires and maintain the same routines? The answer was yes. Nothing changed except now instead of four legs I have three. Having settled this question I hoped I would now be able to move on with the rest of my life. But unfortunately this was not the case. My mind was not satisfied. I began to wonder ‘if I could withstand the loss of one of my members and still remain an animal, how much could be sacrificed and this remain true? If I am not my leg, what am I?’ After many imaginary amputations I finally arrived in the vicinity of where I believed the answer to reside.” The old dog tapped his head with a withered paw. “Without a head I felt I could definitively state that
I am no longer an animal. I must be my brain. For years this answer satisfied me until something happened that disrupted my peace. A part of my head began to deteriorate. Gradually my eyes stopped working. You’re probably thinking ‘why would this upset you? You already concluded that you are your brain, not your eyes?’ Well that’s true. Nevertheless my mind began to obsess once again over the accuracy of my conclusions. I began to think of the many animals in Lumpenproleteria that I knew personally whose brains had been damaged to the point of no longer working properly. Were they still animals? They had brains but their condition was the same as if they had none. I decided that I needed to amend my findings. It wasn’t just the possession of a brain that constitutes a being as a living animal. It is the mind, which resides somewhere inside the brain. Once my mind is gone…don’t ask me where it goes because I have no idea. But once my mind is gone I firmly believe that I cease to be an animal. Therefore, I am my mind and my mind is me. Do you disagree with my findings? I’m always open to new ideas.” My guide replied, “No. I’m satisfied with your findings.” He then gave me a gentle nudge. I replied, “Yes…I mean no. I don’t disagree with your findings either.” The truth be told the old three-legged philosopher had succeeded in losing me in his abstract labyrinth. As we took our leave of the sage Lumpen I was now left with a definitive impression that the answer to my problems lay somewhere in Lumpenproleteria. After walking a number of paces with my new mentor I became impatient to find out the answers that I was sure he must know. He seemed to know everything. I reached over and gently gripped his old rough paw and pleaded, “Tell me what to do.” He smiled warmly and apologetically said, “I’m sorry Christopher. It doesn’t work that way. Only you can make the right decision. No one can make it for you.” I have to admit I was disappointed but something told me that the old St Bernard was right about this. He was always right. I said, “Well I hope I make the right decision. I’ve already made so many wrong decisions I think I’m about due for the right one.” My new mentor laughed. “For what its worth I have complete confidence in you. Now about the matter concerning your missing friends, you might try looking over by the Lumpenproleterian Valley near the area they call Surface Zero. New faces always seem to be appearing in that area.” Surprised I responded, “Thanks! I’ll do that.” I was overjoyed. In reality I had all but given up hope of ever seeing my friends again, especially after witnessing Hector’s fate.
Breed The Secret Design To Maintain Racial Inequality Among The Despised Classes Page 21
