David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

Knabenshue set the orbigator down in Hooker Park, where the Chatterjee Brothers were putting on a twilight concert, plinking twin pianolas in the band shell. Hooker took a pedal cab directly to the Tunney Arms, booked a room and went out for supper at the Palace Orienta.

When he entered, kidneys sputtered on the grill, brains bubbled in hot fat and a cricket fiddled on a window sill. A husky young American male sitting at a back table drinking a cup of urpmeal, stared at him. The American's fingers tapered carrot-like from thick hilts to infantile points and one foot, shoeless, much larger than the other, rested inside a drawstring bag. The young man wore a shawl and a heavy coat, yet still shivered.

Hooker was shown to a small, two-seat table near the kitchen door.

"The special tonight is imp steak, Mr. Reverend, served on a bed of urpflanz sprouts," the waiter said.

"I'm sorry, but I was told no one around here would recognize mc. You did."

"Frankly, sir, I didn't. That American who's waving at you. He told me who you were."

The young man raised a finger and forced a smile, gesturing in a way that indicated he wanted to sit with Hooker, who nodded in the affirmative. The American's progress to the table was remarkably slow. Every tiny step pained him greatly. Sensing this, and thinking the man might fall over and hurt himself, Hooker stood and gave him a shoulder to lean on.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you. It would be an honor to dine with a sitting Reverend."

Once situated at the table, the man spoke obliquely for a while about the origin of Pisstown. "The north-south and the east-west pedal trams go through here. It's a hub of gray-market trading in imp jowls, frozen heads, Jake powder, organ meat, imp pelts, anything anyone might want. And it's in the Fertile Crescent, so the weather is mild all year round."

"Yes," Hooker said. "I plan to retire in these parts."

"Despite all that, I feel sick unto death," the young man said. "My mother abandoned me a long time ago, left me with a band of nomadic stinkers and this horrible foot. Now I've got a bad case of parasites. Can you help me?"

"Yes, but how?"

"They say you have a license to kill."

"Not any longer. I've stepped down. I'm just a citizen, like everyone else."

"Please. Show a little mercy. There's only one way to cure what I have." From a pocket within the folds of his coat, the young man took a small-caliber pistol. "It would be a comfort to die at the hands of a great man like yourself."

"I'm very sorry, but I can't do that. They'd send me to Permanganate Island."

"I'll do it myself, then." He touched the barrel gently to his temple and fired. But because that shot failed to deaden his pain, he shot himself in the eye. Within a few moments, he fell lifeless to the floor.

Guards appeared on the scene, questioned other diners and the waiter, and made a swift arrest. The following morning Hooker was sentenced to ten years in the Permanganate Island prison for malignant neglect.

There were side-shifted innocents among the guilty at the prison facility, confined to their cells after curfew, but permitted to stroll along the violet beaches during the day. Owing to the toxicity of the sand, however, these strolls were limited to a hundred steps in one direction, then a hundred back. Otherwise, shiftees could wander about the greener central parts of the Island as they wished.

In his cell, Hooker had a gel can that sat on a tiny table near his cot and he used the black soot that collected on a stick held above its flame to do arithmetic problems on the wall, long numbers times other long numbers, the results divided by small fractions. Also he used soot to mark the days with streaks on the wall and to draw simple stick figures with perfectly round heads. The gel can's light was sometimes used, as well, to project shadow figures for amusement.

Standing on tiptoe he could see a high stone wall and a four-seat latrine. Prisoners lined up all day and night in the rain to use it, the red-tinged water running down their faces and off their hats like blood. Sometimes the rain stopped suddenly and when it did the sun baked the Island ferociously. Hooker stood in the potty line one day for three hours, forced by regulations to go naked. By the time he got relief, he was covered with blisters and his flesh burned red.

During year four he shaved his mustache, grew a goatee, and refused all nourishment for forty days. At the end of this period, Guards have testified, he was transparent. "If he stood before a candle," one said, "you could see the flame flicker behind him, and the outline of his spine."

Year five it never stopped raining and thundering outside. Violet-tinged water seeped through the prison wall and flooded Hooker's cell to a depth of six inches. When it receded, months later, his feet were deeply wrinkled, soft, stained a shade of purple and impossible to walk on for days.

Year six, prisoners were given haircuts. Hooker didn't want one. If you had long hair you could play with it. You could plait it, twirl it, wrap it around your head. It gave you more things to do with your time. So Hooker fought with the barber. He slammed him in the throat with his boot. When the barber yelled, the Guards came in. They slapped him around until they could no longer lift their arms.

Year seven Hooker shaved his head and face and sat cross-legged on the floor, carving tooth-shaped nuggets out of soap with a long thumbnail that he'd let grow for this very purpose. He made a drawstring pouch out of a bandana to keep his nuggets in. When he held it in his hand and imagined there was gold inside, he felt a childish glee.

Year eight he collected earwigs from the damp floor and put them up his nose and in his ear canals. He plugged his nostrils with soap and held his hands over his ears. Once he got used to them moving around in his head, trying to dig their way out, it became an addiction that ranked second only to masturbation.

When year nine came along, he grew a bushy mustache and lay on his cot in a state of suspended animation. It was the year his legs began to stiffen and grow numb. He remembered almost nothing of the seasons other than the sunny summer day when he watched a pair of grasshoppers mate on the bars of his window.

Ten was a snowy year, dedicated to counting the days until his release. He stiffened even further as time passed and could sleep only by kneeling on all fours. When the day of his release arrived, he was issued a suit, a tie, a big hat, a sack of starch bars, a small wog of willy, a morning edition of the City Moon, and a ticket for the ferry to Bum Bay.

"Look here, Hooker," the Guard said, tapping the rolled-up paper. "The Pisstown Chaos is over. People are finding work. Anywhere you go, there's a job to do."

"Thank you for that tip," the Reverend said, tucking the paper under his arm. "I do like to watch people work. It fascinates me."

The Bum Bay ferry arrived at Permanganate Harbor a few minutes ahead of schedule. With the help of a Guard, Hooker climbed stiffly aboard, chose an aisle seat and strapped his feet into a set of pedals.

The End

David OWe's novel, Motorman, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1972 and re-released by 3rd Bed Press in 2004 with an introduction by Ben Marcus. Its sequel, The Age of Sinatra, was published by Soft Skull in 2004. He has edited two non-fiction books, Cows are Freaky When They Look at You: An Oral History of the Kaw Valley Hemp Pickers (Watermark Press, 1991) and Cursed From Birth: the Short, Unhappy Life of William S. Burroughs, Jr. (Soft Skull, 2006). His short fiction has appeared in Harpers, Esquire, the Paris Review, TriQuarterly, the Missouri Review, the Pushcart Prize and elsewhere. He lives in Lawrence, Kansas.