Something to be Proud Of

Chapter 21: Western Civilization

Interviewer: “What do you think of Western Civilization?

Mahatma Ghandi: “I think it would be a good idea”

“I am like wipeshit [toilet paper] and the world is a giant asshole. We will probably let go of each other soon...”

- Martin Luther

Buck looked out over the mounds at the sunset. Scoops with conveyors burrowed away in the sludge. Seagulls descended on the foul day’s harvest. “How on Earth can they eat 60-year-old refuse?” he wondered for the umpteenth time. A barge was being filled with the slag (‘for building reefs’), and cargo ships lined up off the coast. Business was good.

Tsam and Buck clambered over the stone-and-scrap metal Jetty, surveying their catch. The creature was vaguely prehistoric. Light orange in colour, covered with transparent blisters, a gaping, uncomprehending mouth. Tsam recoiled inside, but smirked. In fact, he thought, this might be the first time he smiled in years.

“How in the Hell am I supposed to cook it?”

“How would I know?”

They squeezed lime juice over the creature, as much out of habit, as to drive off bad juju.

Buck offered him a shot of tequilas, ‘to numb the senses’ going forward. They had decided to build a submarine, to give tours of the reef. Off in the distance, they heard Sam’s cannon fire.

“He’ll be out in a few months; we should catch a dozen of these for his Zoo. I’ll introduce you. He’s a hoot.”

Sam’s estate was atop a hill, with a 360-degree wrap around deck. (’A good defensive position,” Sam had declared). Alberto spotted a column of pilgrims, marching off in the distance. He could see their banners. He saluted, and tracked them.

“Erasmus, man the cannons!”

Erasmus’s eyes lit up (some boys never outgrow fireworks), and he rushed to the ‘Armoury’. They loaded the vintage cannon with an extra-large load of gunpowder, wadding, and a bunch of old melons.

“Fire!”

Rotten fruit sprayed out the cannon, over the parking lot, doing more damage to Sam’s fleet of trucks than the enemy. For good measure, they launched a couple of screeching fireworks over the heads of the Holy Rollers.

In the procession, the Prof noted the semi-obscene flag waving from Sam’s deck. He smiled to himself. He groped around and found their flare gun, and returned fire. Inwardly, he thought: this sure beats lectures in Wheeler Hall. He had found “relief from all anxiety”; maybe someday he would find God.

“Who says the God Squad doesn’t have a sense of humour?” Alberto chortled.

“Maybe we make an alliance, boss?”

“Why the Hell not? I’d just as soon spend the day with them than with any City bastards. Go fill the jeep with two fishes, bread, and wine and invite them over for a BBQ”

That’s how it started.

PostScript

``Did you ever stop and think that maybe feudalism is what suits man? Some one place to call your own, and belong to, and be a part of; a community with traditions and honour; a chance for the individual to make decisions that count; a bulwark of liberty against the central overlords, who’ll always want more and more power; a thousand different ways to live.”

-- Speyer to the Alien in No Truce With Kings, Poul Anderson

The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being but to remind him that he is already degraded.

-- George Orwell