Christopher WunderLee - The Loony - a novella of epic proportions

They have been meeting for all of time, at least that’s what they’ve decided, having control over that sort of thing, observing the edict of compromise and control. Constructed for the sole purpose of historical accuracy, the United Architects of Information is a voluntary, unilateral, international, transcontinental, official, unknown, illicit, secret, sometimes bombastic, federation of countries under the sweaty armpit of the United Nations World War Deterrence and Advertising committee. Every nation on the little celestial marble floating warily out in the ether of god’s gaseous universe, is a member and meets twice yearly to discuss historical accuracy and information sharing.

History, the known incidents of the past, the chronological record of significant events, the cause and the effect of time, is decided like a neighborhood poker game around the post-industrial waste table of the United Architects of Information through complex bartering systems, owed debts, gambles, bluffs, buy-offs, pay-backs, intimidation, threats, arm-wrestling matches, Indian leg grappling tournaments, and an occasion “rock-paper-scissors” contest.

The true foundation of the organization is unknown, but its modern form, with its delegates, speakers, agreements, and records, was designed by the preeminent Kurdish civil servant and political philosopher, Bertrand ibn Johnson, who recognized the futility of physical action and was the man who coined the idea: “the victor writes the account.” Johnson, inebriated by his own ego, determined that through a network of collaborating dignitaries, the Janusian, distorted face of time could be morphed into the Aphroditic, grandeur of advertising and public relations. “You must sell the citizens your account, not just beat their heads in,” ibn Johnson said a little too often to remain coy, but none-the-less, convincingly, and it was from that seed of deceitful clarity that the They were born.

From thence forward, representatives of the world’s domineering powers could propose historical events, present to their fellow Brutus’ proposals for battles, wars, treaties, tragedies, atrocities, skirmishes, near misses, rivalries, retribution, and the like, to later find it written in the sky as though belched from god’s own wisdom. The economic and military might of the nation determined its value, capabilities of requesting “favors” from other countries, and ability to receive positive treatment in historical records. The history books churned out the doctored events a few generations later, slowly tweaking things, adding insignificant facts after insignificant lies, until the full-blooded truth of the matter was that Japan conquered China in the Japo-China War, or the Serbs killed the Austro-Hungarian heir to the thrown, or it was an Englishman who first stepped foot on the north-pole (it was actually completed by an Inuit woman named Meme Snowpucker), or German scientists invented the rocket, or what have you, all of which, blatantly, specifically, without question, were complete and utter lies, born from the ironically green tables of Their negotiations, compromises, debts, and credits.

There were only four hundred men on the planet that knew this, and they were all pathological pseudologues or hobos or politicians. The truth was, no one knew what had actually happened, ever, because as far as they knew, They had always determined what history was going to say was a fact and what was a landmark event and who was to blame and who was not.

* * *

Albert stared into her eyes, confused. She looked injured, hurt, pleading, upset. He couldn’t understand her. She said his name, twice, and he released her. She did not get up, but turned to face him, both still on the toilet. “Oh, Albert,” she wept. She tried to nestle close to him, but he kept her away. “Please,” she whispered and stretched her neck to kiss him. He felt her soft lips contact him, her breath against his nostrils, that familiar smell. He shuddered from her closeness. “This is where I belong,” she said finally, after a few pecks on his chapped mouth. She rubbed her head against him like a cat trying to scent her owner. Albert caressed her nude arms and shoulders.

Harris clasped the back of his head and smiled coyly into his eyes. “Would you like to come home?” she asked, pressing herself against his lap. “I can make you forget it.”

Albert reacted to the pressure involuntarily. He still had the pistol in his hand. He raised it to her head.

“Do we have to do this way?” she asked, pretending to ignore the gun, scooting up his thighs. She unbuttoned the top of her skirt and pulled it down over her shoulders. “I think you’re going to need both hands.”

Albert reached out and cupped her left breast in the palm of his hand, ran his thumb over the nipple, touched the dark mole just under the areola, “I remember this from Shakespeare.”

“Put the gun down and put the other hand here,” she instructed, drawing up the ends of her skirt. He could see her rotund haunches, the slight appearance of cellulite rounding itself on her upper thighs. How he loved the way it giggled, the curves changing, the supple ripples of skin. Albert ran the nose of the pistol up her thigh and around her backside. Harris moaned.

“I missed you,” Albert finally admitted.

“You don’t have to miss me anymore,” she unbuttoned his fly and gingerly exposed him. With a shuffle of her weight and ascension up his body, she positioned herself and let the tip rub her insides. When she was ready, the canal wet enough to accept him, Albert felt himself enter her, he remembered the way it felt, the smooth, sweaty walls, the encapsulating warmth of being within her, he shuddered, and tried not to cry. “There… there now,” she breathed into his face as she began the motions, the one’s she was famous for, the elliptical clock-wise hip dances that teased her labia and got him harder, until he filled her entirely. “Quietly.”

Albert came in a convulsing shiver rather too quickly; Harris continued to move against him, even though he could do no more. He collapsed his head in between her breasts and held her by the hips. She continued to work on his flaccidness, getting as much as she could out of him.

She heaved out a short, inaudible sigh, and shook slightly. Then, she relaxed and let her weight push him back against the toilet. “I’m sorry Albert.”

“Me too,” he barely said, holding her. She pushed away from him and stood up.

“HELP… RAPE,” she screamed, “HHHEEELLLLPPPP, please, someone, HHHEEEELLLPPP…” she ripped her own skirt further open, tugged her soiled panties nearly off her own body, and began beating on the stall door. “NOOOO, STTTOOOPPP, NOOOO, HHHEEELLLPPP,” her mascara was running, she threw herself against the wall and collapsed to the floor, her legs spread open, her right arm lying over her chest, readjusted to not cover her breasts, for the benefit of her rescuers, of course, and pretended to be injured.

By now, there was a crowd of the bottom of people’s legs outside the stall. Albert remained on the toilet, confused, staring blankly at Harris’ body, still somewhere enjoying its sight, but knowing he had to react. The marines’ feet came towards the door. Harris’ arm was partially outside the stall and one of them pulled her quickly out from under it. She closed her legs so that her knee didn’t hit the door and lifted it back up when she was free of the stall. Albert heard the gasps from the crowd and a few of Harris’ moans. They were all hard out there, the bastards.

“Back away,” he heard one of the marines order the crowd. Albert heard them cock their own guns. “You there,” they were, he assumed, addressing him, “come out of there.”

“I’ve got a gun,” Albert threatened, hearing his own voice, not realizing that he intended to speak to them. He still hadn’t comprehended what happened.