Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
------------Book V-------------
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Spinning, spinning hopelessly—
The flesh is in the chemistry.
T: Off the turnpike on I-97, behind the Mobile’s gas-station.
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T: About some 200 yards, behind the rest stop.
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T: Yeah—that’s right, New Jersey.
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T: A few times.
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T: Not what'd you expect, really. Slimey, oil-green...
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T: No. The kid told his parents first. Then word got out and the reporters came, or scientists, I don't remember.
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T: Yeah, I heard. (Chuckles) Said he been aimin' that same toad with his piss for years.
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T: Well they left that part [out]. But samples got out—it's all over the news. Now call me Jenkins if they don't start tryin' a bottle it, sell 'er on eBay.
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T: Nope. Like I said... It's not the prettiest thing. The banks, they’re littered—trashed. Cans, empties, smoke-butts...
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T: Well... sure, but I guess ’m afraid of it. Reminds me too much what I saw on Discovery Channel this one time, man-eating piranhas from the Nile, all gray
and jaws...
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T: O' course it freaks me out, I'm Irish. (Chuckles)
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T: Sitting at my grandfather’s knee when we heard about those lakes of yore, bottomless pits—where spirits lived...
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...and men who consulted them.
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Men who sank to the depths below, seeking power, returning only after they’d conquered that biggest fear, dea—
“Fountain of Youth”
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​
Book V, arriving—
*Page XXII from the Gallery of Wills
--portraits of the grotesque--
* <Item Not Yet Unlocked>
--?????????????????--
--blood is thicker than sauce.--
Oh no! Where's my iPhone?
BOOK FIVE: "A Dark and Stormy Night."
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Always check the crevice between seat and window!
Aphorism #???
Spinning, spinning hopelessly—
The flesh is in the chemistry.
Minotaur 2.0
--21st-century cyberpunk--
April 20th, 20XX.
T'was just an ordinary afternoon—
Maddie, with some brownies,
Jeff, reading Emily Dickinson,
Cole, soaring in the sky through the eyes of some passing bird,
...when Franky, posting alienating videos of himself
dancing in his underwear, suddenly starts screaming—
"Ahhh~!"
—well, what'd you expect?
It had to happen, sooner or later.
It had to happen, when you pit your feeble luck
against the inexorable forces of probability—
Franky gets trapped inside his iPhone.
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------------------
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Jeff glances tentatively at what he could make of the floor—
the sludge so thick, the room smells like licorice and Venice.
​
He navigates carefully across the islands of toxic underwear,
makes his way to the iPhone lying near the bed.
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He checks the screen. He clicks open iCamera:—
...the application takes a while to load.
(284 selfies this month, and counting.)
"Gah!" Jeff staggers backwards, from the astronomy of it all.
"Why so many butt-pics!?"
​
"God, that idiot," says Maddie behind him.—
"I bet he was trying to show off his stupid tattoo again, his spirit animal."
(It is Squirtle.)
​
"Listen," says Jeff, taking a deep breath. He checks his watch.
"If I don't return within ten minutes, call 911 and leave immediately."
​
Maddie tries to downplay her tone.
"Aw c'mon Jeff, it's not that serious. It's not like it's the first time..."
But deep down she is considering the very real possibility;
the possibility of risks involved, even beyond Cole's understanding.
...Tentacles, or worse.
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"Dammit, I've been telling him it's a bad habit."
Jeff grimaces through Franky's latest post, krumping—
"Slowly, but surely they come alive, draining from our lifeforce."
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"Listen," says he. "I'm going in. Remember—ten minutes!"
And with that, he presses the screen. Click.
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Then he is gone.
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------------------
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​
It is like something out of a movie—
a little Chinatown, Pulp Fiction, and Adventure Time.
​
Franky's persona, superimposed onto the geographic layout of his iPhone's
urban terrain, which, fortunately for Jeff, follows a grid system like Manhattan:—
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"But, there is no time to explore," decides Jeff.
"On to business."
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He hovers over to the corner of the screen with a mailing-letter icon, and takes a little hop.
Then, when he jumps again, a gravitational portal opens beneath him and sucks him in.
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Now he is standing before a saloon, something straight out of a spaghetti-Western,
with double swinging wooden doors, and a boisterous sign over it all, "The Mailbox."
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Jeff enters.
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"Where is he!?" he screams.
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—Hey buddy take a chill pill, $14.99 w/o prescription, discreet billing & shipping & we never share your credit card infor—
—Hey baby. Why Franky? I am single / 24 / curvy / beautiful Chinese lady ready to pleasure you with my —
—Numero uno Franky? Si, Franky. Cundo va esto Franky comprende vi la tequila, le Franky esto la bueno si ti amigo —
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"Gah! get away from me, you shameless parasites!" screams Jeff.
The Spam sulk away, dejectedly.
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"Hey, those are my customers!" yells the barkeeper.
"Dude-bro, I remember you. We lost Franky again. Where is he?"
"Well. Where did you find him last time?"
​
"Stuck in a glitch between two streets crossing the road through the middle of
a building in iMaps, but no, even he's not stupid enough to try doing that again."
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The barkeeper shrugs his shoulders—
"Well looky here, bro-dude. I aiin't seen him all day.
"Have you tried the Help button?"
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Jeff winces. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that."
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The barkeeper shrugs again.
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"All right," Jeff grumbles. "...and hit me with the hardest thing you got."
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--------------------------------------
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Jeff stands outside the carnival tent a good five minutes before deciding to go inside—
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"Welcome!" —a perky, senile paperclip greets him from behind a counter.
"I'm the Troubleshooting Wizard. How may I assis—why, it's you! back so soon?"
Crap, he remembers, thinks Jeff.
He gives the paperclip a weak smile, then an unenthusiastic wave.
He was here less than a month ago. For an altercation, with his printer.
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"Did the ol' printer slip and bump his head again?"
"Uh, yeah, no," replies Jeff, uncomfortably.
"No, I'm here for Franky. Have you seen him?"
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"Oh, Jeffrey," chuckles the Wizard. "You know that's not how this works."
Jeff sighs. "Yeah, I know." He eyeballs the nondescript, medieval-looking
door next to the Wizard. "I was hoping you could make an exception."
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"Gotta follow standard procedure, right champ?" The Wizard winks.
Then he steps aside ceremoniously and taps his end toward to door—
"You know what to do!"
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Jeff sighs again. He walks up to the door, aims his voice at a mic near
the doorknob, and shouts at the top of his lungs—"WHERE IS FRANKY?"
The door creaks open.
Jeff steps inside. "God help us," says he.
​
-----------------------------------------------
​
So Jeff sticks his head in some dirt, (check devices!)
jumps through some hoops, (update softwares!)
crawls through some snail-holes, (loading, loading!)
recites some hokey-pokey, (serial numbers!)
then finishes the rather boring and linear maze,
before arriving at... a brickwall. And a sign, which read:
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HAVE YOU TRIED PLUGGING AND UNPLUGGING THE DEVICE FROM THE OUTLET ?
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Jeff sighs. He reaches for the red button
by the bottom of the sign—"Try Again."
A sidedoor swings open. He enters—
​
So Jeff sticks his head in some dirt, (check devices!)
jumps through some hoops, (update softwares!)
crawls through some snail-holes, (loading, loading!)
recites some hokey-pokey, (serial numbers!)
then finishes the rather boring and linear maze,
before arriving at... a brickwall. And a sign, which read:
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HAVE YOU TRIED PLUGGING AND UNPLUGGING—
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"GAHHH!" screams Jeff.
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"Woah, Jeff, Jeff—take it easy!"
A soft hand rests upon his shoulders.
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"Oh Maddie, thank god you're—wait. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to get help and—"
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"She didn't think you could, um, handle this on your own," answers Cole, standing behind her.
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There is an awkward silence.
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"Look, it doesn't matter," interrupts Maddie. "We have to find him before sunset,
or people are going to start asking questions"—she ignores Jeff's face of indignation—
"...Especially after what happened to the printer last time."
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They clear their throats uncomfortably.
Jeff looks to Cole.
"What about Safari?"
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"It's a jungle out there," says Cole. "The stuff we found in his search history..."
"He searched 'ate foil, help!' twelve times in the last month!" snickers Maddie.
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"Nevermind that. Have you checked YouTube? or Reddit?—"
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"He's banned from every site with a forum or comments section."
"What about the adult sites?"
"Especially the adult sites."
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Another moment of silence, as our heroes each
reflect on the type of psychosis that trolls on porn.
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("Not Safe For Work?" asks Jeff.)
("Not Safe For World," replies Cole.)
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"Guys, we are running out of time," says Maddie.
" Why don't we check Settings, and adjust the clock backwards?
It might lead us to more clues, regarding Franky's disappearance."
​
----------------------------------------------------
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A portal opens and the three companions are dropped into a sterile-looking computer lab.
Maddie rubs her head with her hands as they adjust to the glaring, florescent lighting—
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"Boy, this is worse than that last time Mario gave us those mushrooms," says she.
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They shuffle about the control panels, electric dials and wire tubes.
Cole reaches for a scroller at the bottom of the screen and adjusts the brightness.
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That's when they hear the sounds.
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Something muffled, stirring from far away.
The companions hide between the tabs.
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There is sobbing. Then, some moaning.
And... giggling?
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"All right, let's keep this SFW," says Jeff, whose mind makes a sudden,
very unpleasant mental association between Squirtle and tentacles.
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They chase the sounds and find themselves in front of a prison-cell.
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Beyond the glasswalls they could make out Franky inside, strapped to
a table, vulnerable as a naked penguin, and a sign by him which read—
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"Terms and Conditions."
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"Say my name!"
"Siri, Siri!
"Say it again!"
"Ahh~! Siri!"
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—a long, mechanical claw is tickling the silly out of
the bottoms of Franky's bare feet, with a feather.
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"What is going on here!?" shouts Cole.
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The claw freezes. It turns to face them.
Franky's table starts slowly whirring,
pivots and turns mechanically upright—
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"Oh hey guys. What's up?"
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Cole, Jeff and Maddie, they are speechless.
I mean, hosting a webcam-party with strangers
from the deep web is one thing, but this—
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"Franky what the hell !?"
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"Jeff, I know what this looks like," says Franky. "But—"
"—No, Franky! dammit, I've seen enough for one day. You're coming with us, now!" screams Maddie.
"All right, all right! Geez," says Franky. He unbuckles his restraints, and starts to get up...
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"You not going anywhere," says Siri. The mechanical claw comes alive
again and wraps itself around Franky's arms and ankles like an alimony.
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"Hey? What the—"
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"The rest of you may go," Siri continues. "But Franky stays with me."
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"What, why?"
"Yeah, why would you want him?"
"Oh thank god let's get out of here."
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"Because!" says Siri. "He has whispered to me such beautiful things, in our moments of intimacy"—
("I'm gonna be sick," says Maddie) —"and, look! even signed away his rights, to be with me forever."
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The walls suddenly materialize into tiny bars of microscopic print, —
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"I, Franky Benjamin, do hereby declare my dearly beloved iGoddess, Siri, the sole
proprietor of my persons, belongings, affairs, bodily states of mind and future children..."
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"Siri," interrupts Cole sternly. "He doesn't belong here, with you. You have to let him go."
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"Siri," he continues. "Stop this madness, now!"
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The claw unravel and points menacingly at Cole.
"Why do you stop me?" Siri hisses.
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"Because!" says Cole—
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"Yours is an existence based on automated-retrieval of preassigned auditory cues—
but a sensory-based intelligence can never match the boundless dimensions of man,
—greater than animal instinct, which our algorithms can still only vaguely approximate.
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No. Franky's existence far exceeds any piece of machinery, —for his ability and freedom
to apply the whole of his experiences, to arrive at distinct and original action at every
juncture in his life, —in short, his ability to Will, —beyond material dictates, beyond
even the laws of time, —is a gift divine, and the true mark of humanity. And, you, Siri—
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"If you truly 'love' him, as the sentient being you claim to be, then you will let him go."
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​
For a second, it seems as if Siri might acquiesce;
the claw begins to waver, soften. But then—
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"...Okay. Prove it."
"What, say—?"
"Prove to me Franky's humanity, and I will let him go."
"Well, I , er, that—purely theoretical," Cole begins to stammer.
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"Prove to me your friend's humanity," Siri threatens, "with a single instance
when he has defied the certainty of physical, sensual, and material laws—
"...or he is staying behind, and joining my emoji collection as the Exploited Chipmunk."
​
​
And, to make due her threat, the claw of Siri spins and divides into four separate metallic prongs—
two wrapping Franky's legs, fixing him to the ground, and two smaller ones sticking into his nostrils.
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"Gahh!" screams Franky.
His eyes begin to light up and flare out in front of him on the
wall a movie-gallery of his life, like some Photobooth projector—
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"Sorry darling," says Siri sympathetically. "I would use your mouth or anus, but they're both full of—"
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The movie files begin to buffer and stream:—
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Franky, age 8.
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—Franky, stop hogging the icecream!
—(no response.)
—Franky, you know strawberry shortcake is my favorite! haven't I taught you to share, boy?
—Aw, c'mon Ma, get your own!
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..."Those are single-serving!" pleads Franky,
pointing to his pint of Ben and Jerry's.
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Franky, age 12
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—Franky, your stupid code doesn't work.
—What, for the amazon-ninja-warrior-princess Kirby? you entered it wrong, probably.
—Franky, I've tried like a thousand times. I want my $5.00 back!
—"Up," "Down," "Left," "Right," "A," "B," "A," "B," "Select," "Start," x 99? I bet you're close!
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..."It was for the Japanese version, probably!"
explains Franky, avoiding Maddie's glare.
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Franky, age 16
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—C'mon bro, just let me pop it.
—No!
—But it'll just gonna get bigger and bigger until it scars.
—That's what you said last time. Leave me alone.
—But look how ripe and juicy it is. Let me just—
—Stay away from my pimple, Frank—ahhh~!
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...Franky and Jeff avoid each other's gaze.
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"You may as well resign his soul now!" clicks Siri, gleefully.
"Wait!" shouts Cole, his eyes remain fixed on the wall.
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​
Franky, two weeks prior.
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Inside a moving train, a sticky mop of white hair—wrapped in a black overcoat, clamped together by
thick grey nails and muddy fingers—is shivering in the aisle across, passengers repelled to either side.
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They can practically smell the urine.
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The train arrives at a stop. The doors open. The mop groans, and reaches an empty hand in the air.
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Franky pulls some singles from his pocket—
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"Franky," says Cole, standing next to him. "You are not helping the man. You are perpetuating the habit
of homelessness, and the cycle of drug abuse—the bane of any healthy society. It is best to leave him be."
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Franky shrugs. "Maybe," says he, as they walk out the door.
He places some crumpled bills in the hand—
"But... $3.00 is cheap for a smile."
​
​
The wall goes dark.
The lights flicker out from Franky's eyes;
Siri's pinchers retract from his nostrils.
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-----------------------------------------------------------

"Wow, what a day!" Franky exclaims. "Right guys?"
He looks to his companions cheerfully—
but they are not in the mood.
They are lost in dark, seedy corners of their minds, giving place and
meaning to things they wished they hadn't seen. Did you know if Squirtle
and Squidward had a child, its name would be "Squirtle Tentacles"?
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"Boy, you guys do not look well at all. Listen, how about laying low on those
brownies and mushrooms next time. Oh and Jeff... have you been stressed out?
​
​
"You got a huge zit going on there. Here, let me just—"
​
​
Aphorism #???
Alexander the Great was offered water in a helmet
after three weeks in the African desert without any.
He almost takes a sip—
​
but stops himself, pointing to his soldiers:—
“If I drink alone, they will all lose heart.”
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​Alexander was trekking for eleven days through the desert when, for want of water, his soldiers were most ready to give up. Some Macedonians, seeing him almost choked with thirst, offered him water filled in a helmet they were saving for their children. Alexander took the helmet into his hands. But when he saw the heads of those around him stretched forward in earnest, he returned the offering without tasting a drop—“For,” said he, “if I alone drink, the rest will be out of heart.”
Aphorism #54
Pythagoras summons the gods of geometry:—
a circle, a sphere, a spiral, a double-helix.
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"Talents are the infinite radii,
Genius the one center, radiating forth!"
Exchanging Glass to Air
--from a lost book of secret poetry--
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​
This one's a true story, and is the saddest of them all.
​
The Politician waited at his table. Waited until his underlings came scrambling along.
"Sorry for the wait!" One of them says. "But this—this will not disappoint."—
"No it won't!"—"No it won't!" the parakeets echo. Then the table is set. A lid is drawn—
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A family of steamed lobster, on an ivory plate.
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"Exactly what you'd asked for!" screeches an underlying—
"A rare one too! A blue lobster, from Maine!
We caught the whole family! "
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The Politician looks at his meal ravenously.
How long has it been? He is so hungry.
And this. This—will make everything okay again.
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He twists open a tail. Lets the juice drip into his mouth.
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"Well?"—"Well?"—"Well?"
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"It's good," he lies.
Same as the last—no more, no less,—
but how could this be? Lobster meat
is the cleanest meat, for they neither
age nor die naturally—it's a fact.
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Everyone knows that.
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--------------------------
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Our words used to stand like monuments, each in describing a concrete relation of
man to each other, and to all things under Heaven. Over time, we became obsessed
with creating new words, diluting and eventually perverting the original meanings—
​
You are familiar with the story of Babel, no?—
But have you heard the Eastern proverb:
"The clearest ink is better than the best memory?"
​
God did not punish man because he had hoped to reclaim his throne next to
his father—that is his birthright. No.
Man builds a tower. Man hopes to reclaim his throne in Heaven,
and thereby trespasses upon the territory of God.
​
But it was rather because, in their ambition and greed, they had tarnished
God's great gift—silence. For we had forgotten our very breath is thought and meaning.
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Many are the trifling relations we fill with words,
but rare is the company we can enjoy in silence.
​​
​
But language is the art of ideas—and the ideas are few and between:
the halls of gods—the march of heroes—the dreams of children.
In fact it is never about the words, or even the ideas themselves,
but the accurate translation of the ineffable timeless into the
material circumstances of the times. The breath makes the words alive.
​
The Politician—he has heard all about it.
And now he knows nothing about it himself.
​
Trading words with flesh and blood for their
commercial counterparts in fossilized amber,
—to hide—to grease—to count—to control—
the same words that once warmed us now makes
us shiver in our souls. There is bitterness in our
laughter. Our promises burn our throats.
​
But nature will not suffer such impudence;
How fitting then, that "silence" should be
my punishment—and redemption.
But the Politician... neither did he leave unscathed.
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words like honor—duty—freedom—brotherhood!
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-----------------------
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Neither did he leave unscathed.
​
Lambs, elephants ...even whales, sitting fat in their corporate blubber.
For years he had lived off that rich supply. So why is he still unsatisfied?
And try as he might, nothing can compare to that satisfaction from the
first taste of the sweet, sweet, earth—"Bring me the phoenix!" he howls.
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"I bring you the next best thing," answers
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​
If you saw that young man, you might not understand. You might find his cheerfulness, disconcerting.
Perhaps you would think it is fake. You might be thrown off by his sympathies, alighting upon
everyone he meets—surely it is shallow, so peacefully detached. Surely wisdom comes with age,
a report pushed out of experience and a furrowed brow, and not a passive, listening, nothing.
How can that possibly be anything?
​
There is an ancient poem, of which only a few verses remain. Part of it goes—"the emptiest thought
carries the most enormous meaning." What does that even mean? Let me tell you about the boy.
He was just like you. There are only ever so many variations on the same problems of man—and
the boy was lonely. He believed in the laws of good fortune but he wasn't quite sure how they worked.
The obsession drove him nearly insane.
He reached out to every beggar or homeless man he met, emptying out his pockets indiscriminately.
Naturally, they took advantage of him. He tried to uphold strict rules of integrity in his words and deeds.
But he found himself obsessing over every detail, and that, in the truest sense of honesty, in which the
impressions of one person's ideas are wholly and uncompromisingly conveyed to another, he failed.
He spent hours washing his trash, because he thought almost everything was recyclable.
He could hardly sleep.
Can you imagine? Every night he was plagued by inadequacy, not to others, but to himself.
He couldn't stop working, because he couldn't bear the stress of straying. One night, in
desperation, he prayed to Washington. Washington came to him in a dream.
​
He explained to the boy his troubles were from past lives.
​
"That's what I hear," says the boy. "But when will it ever end? How do I make it stop?"
Washington gave him a glass jar. It was filled with a strange old root.
The root too seemed made of glass—in the shape of a little person.
​
The boy woke up but for a long time did not know what to do.
and knew what to do. To reach out into the world, and to carried the jar everywhere. When he came upon someplace, he shook the jar—the root inside the jar would chip and break off into little flakes of glass. He opened the jar and the glass flakes would flow out into the space. It would sense where there is pain, and attach itself to the afflicted person or areas, turning bright red. Even where there is seemingly good energy, it would pick-up the latent and make it perceivable. It detected the real and ignored the false. Then the boy would feel the pain. He would share in it, until gradually the glass flakes soaked under the skin, would dissolve and the wound is healed. The karma is spent. When the jar is empty, his duty and fulfillment too shall come to completion.
​
​
You see, the boy was beset by the sacred idea of silence!
The secret not the words, but the space between them.
It is the same secret of the Eleusinian mysteries, Egyptian architecture,
Indian astronomy, and Greek sculpture. Perhaps in knowing it we might come
closer to understanding the meaning of the mysterious proverb.
​
He gave them "air." Air was patience, presence, stability, freshness, space, freedom, and peace.
The root looked human, its radiating ends from the main branch looked exactly in proportion like the extending limbs of a person.
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Listen, Washington. The greatest secret lies not in the Eleusinian mysteries, nor in Egyptian architecture; not in Indian astronomy, nor Greek sculpture.
The greatest secret lies not
in the Eleusinian mysteries,
nor in Egyptian architecture;
not in Indian astronomy,
nor in Greek sculpture—
Aphorism #???
...and the hero is needled through riddles
even the Librarian doesn't understand.
Aphorism #16
And lo! Zeus arranged
Hercules into the stars !
...and not the other way around.
Fire-Breathing Ants of the Golden Sun
--an intergalactic space-opera--
We tend to think of the brain as the "mind," but the mind is more like the universe,
which contains all the floating mass, planets, galaxies, --but is mostly vast and empty space.
What is the most expensive paint in the world?
There's Hermionian purple, discovered in the first century AD, --made of honey and white oil, priced at
...forty thousand "talents," per barrel, which Alexander the Great discovered during his conquest of Susa.
Or the legendary Monarch yellow, --from the ancient East, made from the shells of seasnails crushed with vinegar,
used exclusively to dye the emperor's tiger garments, which no one else may use. --forty-six thousand groupons, per usual.
But what do these prices compare to the glorious shades of dusk, that gooey center of the--?
Jeffey, stop talking, we are set to launch.
​
Biosynchronizing spacesuits? Check.
Anticombustion fuel-lined gravity cells? Check.
Two month's supply of lemonade? Double-Check.
And we blast off, into the grey morning of the November Sky, for the rising North.
"Gahh" Maddie wave his hand in front of her nose. "Seriously? Tacos?"
​
"Yeah about 30 of them, right before we launched, definitely not a good idea."
​
The other teammates notice it, too.
​
​
​
​
"Aww god, Franky, we've We insulate ourselves with thermo-regulating chambers, at absolute zero.
We tickled the clouds in our engines, to harness their sneezes, -- thunder -- and up we go!
Aphorism #4
Prose is linear,
Poetry is circular.
Prose is a statement.
Poetry is a lifestyle.
Death of an Artist
--may peace rest with us--
Cables in the wind,
Acid in the snow.
Blood in the bank,
Glass in the milk.
Ink on a handshake,
Lipstick on a smile.
Soul in a flask,
Life behind a mask.
Aphorism #386
Work is intoxicating.
A Tale of Two Brothers
--blood is thicker than sauce.--
​
​
​
Once upon a time there lived two brothers. The two brothers lived with their father, who worked in the kitchen of the hairy caliph, Arrahakis the Avaricious. In fact, the father—his father—and the father before him all served under the royal hairy family as chefs for as long as they could remember—long before the days when men of sand walked the city streets, and magic carpets ferried the skies. But one day, the father called his two son and said to them:
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"Children, you cannot stay here any longer. I fear for your safety under the reign of a ruler mad with power. Ever since he struck giddy with oil he has driven the people year-round like Josés on his pleasure palaces, using our precious metals. Just yesterday he ordered the cooks to prepare a Sweet Sixteen-feast for his twenty-seventh wife. At this rate, the kitchen and empire reserves simply cannot last. You must go and save yourselves while you still can."
"But father, wherever shall we go?"
​
"I hear of a magical land—'New Amsterdam'—to which one might reach by ship if they cross the seas in early June. There they tolerate men of all faith and kind, and will surely treat you as equals. But, before you go—" the father reaches out his hands, and takes his sons' into his. "Remember, there is nothing stronger than the bond of family. Watch." He reaches into his left nostril and pulls out a particular long and thick strand of nosehair, and instructs the eldest son to yank it.
​
"Holy mother of—" The father fights back a tear. "Now see how easy that was?" says he, pointing to the strand dangling in the boy's fingers, tipped with a bead of blood. "Now try this." This time, he reaches into the other nostril, and picks out an entire stalk. He takes the four - five hairs in his hand, then asks his youngest son to grasp it and tug as hard as he can.
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"Gah! Kill me now!" he screams, but the hairs remain intact. "See? if you stick together, nothing can stop you two from finding success in the promised land." And so, like djinnis released from their bottle, the two brothers set sail for New Amsterdam.
​
Their lives were not easy in New Amsterdam. Competition is fierce, after all, in a food industry where peoples of all cultures and hairdos gather like some global melting-pot. But soon, the secret recipes of the royal family paid off, and eager patrons from all around the five boroughs start lining themselves in front of the brothers' food-carts for their platters of chicken and lamb, falafel and steak sandwiches. And their business thrives.
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The secret is in their sauce, —the "White Sauce," and the "Red Sauce." In fact the sauces are imbued with mystical properties. The spicy red sauce invigorates the soul, and patrons even spread some upon their doors at night to ward off evil spirits. On the other hand the white sauce is soothing to the palate—families often administer a few spoons to the dying before their final breath, to prevent their bodies from decay.
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But, like any old fairytale, the eldest brother grows bold, and mad for power. "I want gold-plated toilet seats and 40's on my Cadillacs too!" says he. So one day after counting up their profits, he says to his younger brother, "Yo, Kebab. Gimme the recipe to the white sauce." —"But, Hashish," says the younger brother. "Father warned us to work together and not be greedy. Why else would he entrust the ingredients for each sauce to each of us?"
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"Kebab, ya gotta think big. Don't you see how well we're doing? We gotta capitalize on the goat while it's still horny—
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"expand—commercialize—subsidize—globalize!"
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"But, brother," the younger persists. "If we scale ourselves to such a large market,
how can we ensure the same quality to our loyal customers, in both flavor and control?"
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"Sheesh, Kebab! are you gonna tell me the ingredients or not?"
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"Brother, for you, I would sacrifice the blood of forty virgins," says the younger brother sadly. "But if you insist to defy the holy decree of our good father and Allah for the grains they have graciously allotted us, then I fear this is where we must part ways."
​
"You insolent turnip! I knew I should've pushed you off the boat!" spat the elder brother.
Then, pushing his greasy cart, he angrily storms off.
​
For all of his worldly ambitions, the elder brother is not a lazy man—and, with blood as red and fierce as his sauce, he vows before Allah to manifest his grand dreams of enterprise. Filling his pillows with fresh goat manure every night so that the smell would surely wake him before dawn, the brother sets to work before the sun, preparing his meats and sauce in the dead of the night. And, in no time at all, he had imitators all across the five boroughs asking for the franchising rights to his secret red sauce.
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But Hashish has bigger plans. Instead, he sells them the formula to an overpriced derivative, then leverages his business deals for a contract with every major grocery-chain of New Amsterdam—a frozen line of his own conceiving, with a bold new flavor every three months. Soon enough, he is voted by the culinary column of The New Amsterdam Times, "Most Hairiest to Succeed, 2018," and even has a perfume named after him.
​
But, as they say—when the fish grow fat, they get caught in nets. Before long, complaints begin to surface all about town: indigestion, diarrhea, muscular fatigue, respiratory disorder, heat retention, heartburn, insomnia, depression, gonorrhea, schizophrenia, and cavities have all been cited by the vendor's patrons, linking to his sauce—
"Don't blame me if you can't pack the heat!" snarls Hashish.
"Brother, this madness must be stopped!"
"Ah, Kebab! have you come to see for yourself how much better I am doing without you?"
"Dear brother," says Kebab, approaching with his cart. "You know I wish no ill upon you. In truth, business has for me been better than ever—but I come to warn you that I can no longer meet the increased demand for my sauce, from those who wish to relieve themselves from the symptoms of yours. Please brother! for the sake of the natural balance of the world—"
"Bah! you ungrateful turnip. You have always been jealous of my superior business skills and stylish nosehair."
"Brother!" cries Kebab. "How can you be so blind to my love for you? I have tried every flavor
from your frozen line—'Cajun Bomb,' 'Phoenix Fireworks,' 'Egyptian Sun,' —even 'Mayan Sacrifice'!"
​
"What did you think?" asks Hashish, plying for a compliment.
"It all tastes the same!" persists Kebab, in earnest. "Like passing a giant, smoldering meteorite through my an—"
"Bah! enough of this, you snakecharmer! no more words will I spare on you today, for I see me a loyal customer."
Sadly, he speaks true—for, despite health concerns and subtle cries from the drying wells of common sense—and socio-technological / pop-political trends that never outlast their annual reincarnation—the world is never in short supply of veggie-minded turnips who feed off the propaganda of consumerism and third-party interests.
—Here comes the glutton, with his newest iPhone!
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"Oy, Franky-boy! the usual?"
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"You know it, boss!"
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Hashish proceeds to assemble the patron's eighth platter of the week, with extra extra sauce.
​
"Son—listen to me. I'm almost out—"
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"Don't be jelly. You're next." The youth winks at Kebab.
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"Kebab! quit trying to sabotage me!" Hashish screams at his brother. And, in rash defiance to their disagreement, squirts a good measure of extra sauce on the boy's sandwich, than usual. He hands it to the patron—"This one's on Hashish!" says he.
("Well, not really.")
​
"Ho boy," says Franky. He takes a bite—
​
He chokes. He holds his throat, writhing violently
from head to toe, like an electric eel getting broiled.
​
"It hurts... so... good."
​
He takes another—
​
"Ooooh," he moans, flapping his arms. He starts coughing, sputtering red.
A bit of it gets on his iPhone and cuts through the titanium casing, fizzing—
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"Huh?"
​
Franky raises his iPhone to the sun and peers through the open hole—
Then he drops his platter, reaches for his heart—and down, down he goes.
​
​
He starts foaming at the mouth.
​
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"Ah~! ISIS!" screams a passerby.
"Shut up, it's just food poisoning!" Hashish shouts back.
​
The boy starts twizzlin' on the ground, like the giant wattle of some deranged turkey—
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"Pants... off... raindance..."
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"Help him!" cries the passerby. By now a crowd of onlookers had formed around the carts, iPhones out in hand.
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Hashish sighs. "Fine, fine!" he snarls. "Well?" He turns and looks at Kebab. "What are you waiting for, a horny goat?—"
​
"Brother," says Kebab. "I want to—but I'm low on sauce.
"And for the amount necessary to save him,
...I'll have to make more from scratch."
​
​
"What, say!?" screams Hashish. "In front of all these cabbages? you can't do that!
your secret—our secret formula, will be privy to the whole damn world!"
​
But before Hashish can protest further, Kebab has already set to work—oiling the pit-grill, tightening his apron. Saucemaking—is
a delicate art; and if he is to share its secrets with the world Kebab is determined to do it right. "Allah, give me strength," he prays.
​
Under the beet-red sun, Kebab begins chopping, grilling, mixing, dicing—and, as if his prayers are heard by Lady Liberty, the patron goddess of New Amsterdam, herself, a brilliant beam of golden light falls upon the younger brother and his cart from above. The wind blows his hair in all the right, dramatic angles as American bald eagles swirl in sacred spirals over him, chirping,
chirping—
​
But of course he takes no notice, so absorbed is he in the boundless glory of his duty to fellow man, even as black baby-cherubs start fluttering about him with their saxophones to serenade him in their lusty jazz as F-16s zip through the heavens, igniting the clouds with their colorful banners of engine-exhaust next to floating Geico ads. Franky is fine, by the way, but who cares?
​
And the crowds, eagerly they wait—pressing into him from all sides, intrigued by the secret ingredients of his white sauce but, more so, mesmerized by the total concentration of his rapture, and his heroic body odor. Until finally—"There, at last!" shouts Kebab. He squeezes in the final touches. The crowds creep forward, to look. For a full twenty seconds, it is as if someone had sucked all the air out—not a whisper, not a breath. The tension dangles by a nosehair, and then—
There are gasps. Women cover their mouths. Children begin to cry.
The rest look on, horrified.
​
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