Authors: Matthew Revert
Hooster had been relegated to the deepest recess of the dingiest alleyway. It alarmed me to note how little prize we pay quality these days. Immaculately attired in a Valentino Newman suit and deadman top hat, Hooster beckoned me over.
“Worthington, my lad,” he said to me. “It’s been days.”
“Yes, my dear Hooster. I apologise for my scarcity, I’ve had urgent business that required my full attention.”
“Pay it no mind. It’s just so jolly good to see you.”
“The feeling is completely mutual,” I replied. “As much as it pains me, I must dash off as soon as possible.”
I made a show of studying my fob watch to illustrate the point.
“Certainly,” he replied. “In what manner may I be of assistance?”
“So kind of you to ask, Hooster. I require, and I do hope you can provide, a bell crown topper immediately.”
“Ah, Worthington!” He said with a kind smile. “You certainly are a man of superior taste. I believe I have exactly what you’re looking for.”
“Smashing!” I replied, letting my excitement get the better of me.
Hooster began foraging through hatboxes beneath his stall, carefully moving one aside to examine the next. He emerged a few moments later with a pink and red-striped cylindrical box.
“Wait until you lay your eyes on this number,” said Hooster. “This work of supreme artisanship has been imported from France.”
The Europhile within pumped a gentle fist of excitement. Hooster placed the box before me, slowly removed the lid and then, ever so carefully, peeled back the white tissue paper. The redolence of the Bastille filled my nostrils, briefly overriding my other senses. As my vision returned, I was greeted by the most adequate hat I had seen in some weeks. Hooster held it toward me.
“Would you like to try it on?” Asked Hooster.
“Indeed, I would, but I’m afraid I have no time. I really must be off. That said, I will most certainly purchase this kingly hat. How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see,” he said, fingering the label on the box. “That will be $840.”
“A remarkably good price,” I replied while placing the cash before Hooster.
With a handshake, followed by a mutual bow, I made haste back to the threshold of the bamboo forest, hoping the birdman would be waiting. I freed my new hat and disposed of the box in one of the many repositories that map our city.
I was relieved when I found the birdman waiting patiently where I had left it. It seemed nonplussed. I carefully lowered the bell crown topper to my crown and centred myself before I continued my approach.
“I’m so happy you waited,” I said to the birdman, who didn’t seem to acknowledge what I was saying. “After the assistance you’ve given me, it would have been most inappropriate not to afford you courtesy.”
With that said, I bowed and titled the bell crown topper ever so slightly.
“You earned that,” I said.
Rather than console me, the birdman, once again, beckoned me to follow, and together we made haste. I brushed away the shoots of bamboo blocking my path with sure arms, conscious only of my forward momentum. I could feel a horrifying quantity of urine flooding the antechamber between my bladder and urethra. Had the divine visage of the public restroom not emerged into view, there’s a chance I may have inflicted a great indignity upon a poor shoot of bamboo. I tumbled forward, falling to the forest floor and crawling like a pauper toward my salvation while edging my pants down.
I clambered into the restroom and exploded into the cubicle. I barely had time to admire the pristine porcelain before I had sullied its perfection with thick, uncomfortable urine. It thundered out of me, merging with the water in a torrential downpour of relief. A moan escaped me that I could not silence. I let it leave me in an echo of unsuppressed satisfaction. The flow extended beyond any length I was familiar with, and as my bladder slowly became more tolerable, I allowed myself to admire the surroundings. Everything was somehow more beautiful than I had remembered. I am accustomed to expecting a certain decrease in lustre whenever something wonderful is re-experienced. This restroom flew in the face of this, revealing only more beauty, like a Parisian hat museum in the spring.
Of course, it wasn’t long before my eyes once again fell upon the sexual solicitation on the cubicle wall. I didn’t just stare at it – I stared into its very soul. The heart of the man who wrote it beat in every word. I studied each word in isolation before letting them come together in sentences that embodied a rare form of beauty. The totality of these sentences, as they joined into one breathtaking request, overwhelmed my body. With urine still escaping me, I slumped forward on the toilet seat. I turned my head toward the message once more, paying attention to the proposed time this mysterious man wished to meet. That time was today. If I desired, I could meet him… I could solidify this perfect mirage. The only requirement on my part was to ignore my sense of reason.
When my bladder had forfeited its contents, I slapped my face with confused hands, willing sense to prevail. Meeting this man would be an unthinkable mistake. I wasn’t some form of animal at the mercy to his baser self. I was man for whom decorum was desired above all else. I fastened my belt, flushed the toilet and walked toward the washbasin. I stared at my pathetic reflection in the mirror, wondering who the familiar stranger was that met my gaze. The man certainly looked like me,
but his eyes possessed a putrid lasciviousness I had never seen before. His chest was puffed up like some uneducated beach buffoon attempting to attract a bikini-clad member of the opposite sex. I twisted the tap and felt a strong burst of cold-water wash over my hands. I cupped this water and splashed it against my flushed face. I stood hunched over the basin for some time, watching the water drip from the face of this stranger whose reflection was mocking me.
CHAPTER 4
That afternoon, I wasn’t the man I had come to expect myself to be. I sat at my desk, staring at my hat, silently apologising to it. There had never been a situation where I had neglected to wear a hat while outside. I had come to learn that within me lurked a primal beast of sickening appetite. It pounded at my mannered exterior, willing it to break. I must have looked out of sorts. Several co-workers attempted to engage me in conversation, but I responded in listless platitudes that sent them on their way. I wasn’t concerned about causing offense. What concerned me was the unstoppable momentum of the clock that marched forward, bringing me closer to the time where this man would be waiting in the toilet block. It seemed reasonable to assume that my weaker self would capitulate to this beast within, ensuring I would be waiting for the arrival of this man I didn’t want to meet, yet wanted to meet more than anything.
I began to reason with myself that what I was feeling must be akin to the craving an addict must feel. Having read a good amount of literature on the subject, I knew that cravings were a transient sensation that would leave me eventually. It seemed improbable that I possessed the willpower to outlast the sensation, but I could, should I be so bold, place myself in a situation that would physically prevent me from visiting the toilet block. I decided to have myself arrested. All I needed to do was think of a crime weighty enough to ensure my imprisonment for a day or two. Anything else would become a considerable blight upon my record, and anything less would risk succumbing to the craving.
I settled upon killing a gibbon because the punishment was of a token nature due to their burgeoning presence within the urban environment. Gibbon homicide was essentially a civic service that would, before long, become a lawfully sanctioned act. Taking a life isn’t something that sits comfortably with me – the closest I had previously come was accidentally breaking the beak of a mallard in my youth. But, given the alternative, I felt I had no choice.
The secret to disposing of a gibbon is relatively simple. They have a naturally occurring lever within the depths of their anus that, once pulled, releases a toxin within their brain. Minutes later, they
resemble overcooked gravy. The reality of such an act is somewhat unpleasant, but one does what they must in order to avoid a fate far worse.
Gibbons are naturally attracted to individuals called ‘Chad’, and being familiar with several prominent Chads in the area, finding the gibbon was never going to be a problem. I excused myself and left the office, making sure, this time, not to forget my hat, and trying to flush the toilet block from my depraved mind. I found that I was growing increasingly interested in the time, reaching a point where my pocket watch remained pressed into my palm with its cover yawning open. With my free hand, I practiced the way I imagined one grips a gibbon’s anal lever until I had convinced myself I was up to the task.
The weather outside had taken a rather miserable turn, which had the benefit of clearing the streets somewhat. I squinted against the rain that lashed at my face, desperate for a Chad. I knew of a Chad congregation that occurred daily around the escutcheon district. I made haste, knowing that my sense of morality was at stake. Such was the urgency of my task that I bypassed the hat vendors that usually invigorated my day with fresh headwear. At one point I attempted to run but grew concerned about how foolish such an action may appear to others whereupon I settled on a brisk, but dignified walk.
Finding the Chad congregation was quite simple. They were huddled beneath an Italian escutcheon storefront seeking refuge from the rain. They were taking turns nuzzling a dead salmon for warmth. While I was familiar with these Chads, it was a chap called Chad Plinkton I was keen on speaking to as he and I had similar demeanours.
“Well if it isn’t Worthington,” proclaimed one of the more haughty Chads when he saw me approach.
“Gentlemen,” I replied with a tip of my hat.
“To what do we owe the pleasure? It’s certainly been a while.”
“Yes… I apologise for my scarcity, but as you can imagine, things have been quite busy. Now I do apologise for being forward, but I need to speak to Chad Plinkton rather urgently.”
A short, stocky Chad emerged from the serried pack. “He’s in there,” he said while gesturing toward the window of the escutcheon shop with his thumb. “He’ll be a while.”
Not willing to disturb a connoisseur in the midst of escutcheonry, I pressed ahead in Plinkton’s absence.
“Well perhaps you gentlemen can be of assistance,” I said. “Would one of you be so kind as to point me toward the nearest gibbon?”
The stocky Chad moved further toward me, allowing the rain to fall upon him, clearly more concerned with my question than staying dry.
“What the heck do want with a gibbon?”
I inhaled deeply, not sure how much I should reveal about my intentions. I settled upon revealing nothing.
“It’s a rather uninteresting story, suffice to say that I require one immediately.”
The Chads were growing perturbed by my imposition, and had my situation not been so urgent, I would have felt a great deal of embarrassment.
“You know,” said the stocky Chad, “the propensity for us Chads to attract gibbons is a profound source of shame among us. There have been some former Chads who went so far as to change their name to escape this ‘curse’. We remaining Chads were quite put out to discover that upon changing their name, these former Chads ceased to attract gibbons. And now you brazenly approach us looking for a gibbon? I’m sorry, but that strikes me as insensitive.”
I was growing agitated by this stocky Chad. I had never seen him before this moment and I had an urge to pull the brim of my hat down over my eyes in his presence. Before my dwindling temper could get the better of me, the horrifying screech of a nearby gibbon attracted our attention. The Chads looked downward, kicking their feet against the ground in embarrassment. The stocky one beamed a dismayed look my way then gestured toward the shrieking with his eyes. I tipped my hat and followed the sound.
I want it noted that had my situation not been so urgent, there’s no way I would have proceeded with the following. I only relay it because I don’t want to withhold information from you. You have to understand that I was in grave danger of succumbing to a lesser part of myself. With that caveat, make of my actions what you will. I can’t stop you from judging me.
Gibbons are an intimidating beast, and I won’t pretend deliberately seeking one out didn’t fill me with a certain level of fear. The sound was coming from an alley behind the main strip of escutcheon stores. The shrieking was soon joined by the sound of pummelled rubbish bins – a cacophonous affair that was murder on the ears. When I first caught sight of the gibbon, I motioned to turn around, which would have been the sensible decision. Gibbons possess an interminably aged appearance, as if stricken with progeria. Their black marble eyes betray nothing one would associate with emotion, which makes reading their motives difficult.
The creature caught sight of me and froze, a rubbish bin raised above its head. I continued my approach with an outstretched arm, as if to indicate I meant it no harm. Very gradually, the gibbon began an approach of its own, sniffing the air and contorting its mouth into various puckers. It hurled the bin aside, which landed with a clatter, and extended its arm in response to mine. Together we moved forward until our hands, his like dry leather and mine impeccably smooth, were touching. I was caught unawares when, in one quick leap, the gibbon landed in my arms where I cradled it like a baby. With such close proximity, I could see a certain longing in its eyes that I tried to ignore as I snuck my hand toward its backside. Losing itself in affection toward me, it wrapped its furry arms tightly around my shoulders and nuzzled my neck. With my nose pressed into the gibbon’s wet fur, I could hear from within this beast a heartbeat similar to my own. I began to have second thoughts and contemplated sparing its life. Had the gibbon seen fit to leave my hat alone, I may have followed through with this change of heart. The moment I felt the hat leave the safety of my head, I slid my hand into the wet warmth of the gibbon’s anus. Its eyes, like hardboiled eggs, bulged from the sockets while I fumbled around inside, seeking the naturally occurring lever out. Having, ‘til this point, only possessed theoretical knowledge of the lever, I didn’t quite know what to expect. The tips of my fingers found a bone-like protrusion that I assumed must be what I was searching for. However, I found that pulling at this protrusion only resulted in the gibbon reciting Winston Churchill quotes which, I must admit, wasn’t unpleasant. With the stately words of Churchill caressing my ears, my ever-disappearing hand clasped at something more metallic… more lever-esque. I pulled with a firm hand, feeling it give way. The gibbon unleashed a harrowing cry before slumping forward where it sat, lifeless on my hand. I felt like a perverted puppeteer and shook my arm, trying to loosen the poor
beast, but its anus clenched as the brain toxins provoked spasms throughout. Then, with a loud splat, the gibbon was rendered chunky gravy. It clung to my arm but, as unpleasant as this was, I reasoned that this would serve as appropriate evidence when the police came to assess my immediate guilt.