Botchi

The bison calf returned after its arduous journey, now defunct as the Alpha male within the group. He made his way into the dumb-waiter that propelled him downwards at a good rate of knots, into the sanctuary that had been purpose-built by The Ford as a means of storing the meat stocks of the city. His review as Alpha was in swift motion, the lieutenant calf of the herd already serving up a beef-feast to a stylish femi-bovine of almost Parisian quality. The group was oblivious to the fallen hero’s return, his bowed head showcasing the shame of the previous hours. He retired to the corner where the rotting fruits of the fleshy orchard gathered, last on the general’s hit-list. The calf watched as the balance of power shifted seamlessly, male pride (and the mirrored shift thereof) a lucidly transparent offering. His period of grace had vanished as quickly as it had come, a metamorphosis of orthodoxy that threw the early mastery of Bolero into fresh insignificance. His spirit waned, the calf retreated into his tiny neural to contemplate the slow plod towards death. Perhaps the rumours of the shiny blade were true, a quick and painless denial of life only to supply to another? Or perhaps as in the darkened scriptures the bolt would be employed, a less than stunning stunning, a final glow-white trip into the unknown? Whatever, he would no longer be king, merely a ball of sustenance with a forgotten periodical to tell. The bison calf rued the faint memory of Kluzens and Old Man Alan as the yellow mist permeated the shaft of the dumb-waiter.

The pleasant overriding nature of proceedings filled the last minutes of our hero’s life with immense platonic plebeian insight. The equality of disaster, be it the variable class or status, was apparent as the herd slowly choked on the poisonous toxins enveloping the stockmarket. Oppz’s apparent oversight of sulphur-compound in relation to bison herds was slight in the grandest of schemes perhaps, but the localised damage was hard to quantify. A methodical relinquishment of ratio, the formal application of theory divorced from environmental context – Oppz had overdone it with the copper again.
“Look Uncle Mezzanine, the cows are sick” bawled Thimbel.
“Sulphur. Come, the game’s afoot young Thimbel. It has been deployed, war is upon us and now we must fulfil our small but vital role within the Ford mechanism.”
Mezzanine had been Senior Bovine Tender since the fallout from Five Centurions had been soaked. Oppz had managed to destroy the herd on every single sulphur test run since Mezzanine’s promotion. Mezzanine was always the first to ascertain the arrival of the tracing element in his all-important sector.

Mezzanine’s retirement was imminent and while that filled him with sorrow, he could reflect upon the good fortune that he’d enjoyed. He cherished the steady, rhythmical work of cow care and took delight in a close proximity to nature, relishing all from the minute to the macroscopic. Alas, his simple nephew Thimbel lacked the commonsense and physical prowess to take over the herd and would no doubt be reassigned, upon his uncle’s retirement, to the carbon neutralising depot located deep under the Ford.

Mezzanine grabbed Thimbel’s hand and set off to their lodgings situated in the east escarpment of Five Paddocks. They both lived on the top floor of the Ford Agricultural Workers’ Union. The Union boasted en-suite facilities for all workers, a games room and a renowned bar called ‘The Kennel Handler’ but known to all, for semiotic reasons, as ‘Hobson’s Choice’. Mezzanine arrived at the front door to the Union; they had to pass through the bar to get to the senior dwellings staircase. Mezzanine had never been happy with the layout of the Union and loathed to take Thimbel through the raucous crowds which often congregated during the midweek harvests. The Ford had never listened to Mezzanine’s requests for a simple structural reconfiguration to the Union.

Mezzanine pushed open the door to the Union and could hear howls of laughter coming from within. He had forgotten that the shrub and hedge lads had booked the Australian comic Scotty Sideways for the Tuesday matinee slot. Mezzanine attempted to dash through the throng of agricultural workers but was thwarted by numerical mass.
“I tell you what,” barked Scotty from the stage, commanding the crowd like an air traffic controller, “I was playing that strange game you Eurofolk call Douche the other day.” (Whoops and cheers from the audience). “This bastard had me triple pinned behind the outside four.” (A squeal of laughter from sections of the crowd). “So I pulled a triangle from my pocket and said, triangulate that you stupid twat.”

The crowd fell about in piles of mirth as Mezzanine and Thimbel finally arrived at the foot of the staircase. Mezzanine charged up the stairs into their maisonette and flung open a large trunk which resided near a large bay window. Mezzanine pulled out several intricate mirror labyrinths and set them up on top of the trunk that was now closed.
“Jetwell has to be contacted, young Thimbel; the Psion Cannon must be charged. Communication from Algiers could easily be intercepted, therefore, the job is down to lowly cow workers. Sulphur has arrived.”
Thimbel had no idea what was going on and was trying to listen to the strange antipodean voice that was echoing up the staircase.
“…he had arms as hairy as a bollock, a baggage dilemma and a myriad of shoes. What did they call him?”

A cast member of the audience offered his wit, desperate for a second of low-grade fame, perhaps to be spotted by a comedy scout in the stalls.
“Chopper Greaves!!”
An eerie silence coated the small auditorium.
“Squeeze my baptist.” (Laughter) “Naah mate, you lost the ebb of the tide?” (A pause of some 5 perfectly weighted seconds). “Captain Bacon.”
Uproarious scenes. Grown men howled and banged each other’s thighs in a glorious outpouring of liquid joy. Thimbel was unsure as to the punch-line; perhaps the preceding material had led to such a fine climax. Mezzanine had heard the joke before and set to his task without pleasure, instead reminiscing on Scotty’s more politically motivated routines and his halcyon composure in the face of his most powerful adversaries. In Uncle’s eyes, Scotty Sideways had merely cheapened himself, the true grace of mind now rotten to a bawdy core. Captain Bacon, for Benson Quine’s sake, that joke had done the rounds at the labour camps for decades.

Uncle Mezzanine had precise control over the mirrored maze that he had personally constructed. Removing the outer lace of his left sneaker, Uncle carefully uncoiled the cotton that surrounded the optic fibre necessary to initiate labyrinth communication.
“Hold this end,” Uncle commanded as he withdrew his filament pen.
“Only let go when the filament has penetrated that nozzle, west of your index digit.’’ (Uncle Mezzanine’s personality shifts betwixt chemical and agricultural science were widely deemed as acute).
“Yes Uncle.”
“Now, easy; easy; easy.” The white-hot filament eased (indeed) its way into the optic fibre, now cooling to form an arrowlike shaft of communicational enlightenment. Uncle Mezzanine pointed the fibre at the dappled ridge of Wolf Hill. The arrowlike shaft wound its way up the optic fibre, thereby morphing into a pulse of light surrounded by a thin pocket of darkness. The combinatorial effect of light and its absence generated an undetectable pod of information, which now stood proudly at the end of the fibre.
“Watch now Thimbel.”
Thimbel and Mezzanine stood back and observed as the pod gently detached itself from the fibre and hovered on the breeze that was blowing in through the bay window. Then it vanished in front of their eyes.
“Where has it gone Uncle?” asked the callow simpleton.
“Off to Boron Jetwell at the Ford via the ridge of Wolf Hill. Although the scientists of the challenging paradigm are decades away from constructing the means of apprehension, we never risk sending pods direct. Now come hither Thimbel. We must set up the triceptacle for the confirmation response.”
Mezzanine marched over to a cupboard and began to search for the relevant tools.

Next chapter…