Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

“I’m not sure how to respond to that but if it gets us started I’ll take it.”

“But one last thing.”

“What?”

“How did you come to the conclusion, whenever you did, that it would be wrong for the state to execute an individual like Kingg? I assume you know that a strong majority of this country’s population disagrees with you on that point?”

“How?”

“Yes, how.”

“I guess I thought about it.”

It was settled and we got to work. We worked long, hard, and well. That Toomberg was a smart fuck. He could grasp things instantly but without mentally simplifying their complexity like most. When we were done I felt I knew Kingg. I certainly knew the situation he was in as well as I could. And despite some huge problems I felt in control of the case now and my trip out there would, I was sure, cement that control. It was late.

On his way out, Toomberg stopped near my door and looked at some articles and books I had on the semicircle table there. “What’s all this boxing stuff?” he said.

“Boxing stuff.”

“I find Boxing fascinating,” he said. “I don’t mean to say that I watch individual matches and am fascinated. Rather I find the very existence of Boxing fascinating. Aren’t you ever surprised that human beings are still willing to admit they derive pleasure from seeing others hit and harm each other?”

“No, I guess I’m too busy being one of the pleasure-receptors.”

“I mean the sport should probably be banned don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t ?”

“I guess, it’s complicated.”

Toomberg left and moments later it wasn’t so much that Dane knocked on the door as it seemed to open on its own with him in the doorway.

“We have to talk,” he said. “I have an idea.”

“How did?” I wondered.

“Secretary gave me your address, you really should provide an apartment number you know.”

“You must’ve just passed Toomberg on the way in.”

“Must have, may I come in?”

“It’s late man, I’m beat.”

“It’s about our plan, and your conditions.”

“I figured, but besides it being late I just spent quite a few hours working so can’t we talk tomorrow?”

“Allow me to say one word. Then if you still want me to leave I will.”

“One word?”

“One.”

“Fine, just one word and no tricks.”

“Course not, tricks are for kids.”

“What’s the word?”

“Swords!”

“Swords?”

“Swords.”

We looked at each other silently for like ten seconds.

“Come in,” I said. He sat on the treacherous stool and I lay on the sofa. “What about swords?” I exhaled.

“My new favorite channel’s this goddamn Beastly Burden Channel. I can watch a predatory cheetah chase down a hapless antelope all fucking day. The best part is when they’re sitting around waiting on a victim. These cats will do things like stretch their jaws revealing their honed instruments of death. I don’t have to tell you what they look like when they spot dinner either. They uncoil like a spring, every muscle rippling and taut in service of a single objective; to kill and eat. There’s no deliberation, no contemplative thought. Instead their entire being, their very existence, is nothing beyond desire. A desire that must be fed. It’s glorious and beautiful and I love it.

Of course it can also be quite sad. As a matter of fact just before coming here I was home crying it was so damn sad. It seems a pride, has there ever been a more apt word, of these gorgeous cats had fallen on hard gastronomical times. Anyway one of these famished felines has managed to secure a tasty meal, but is eating alone without catty support. Suddenly it’s surrounded by goddamn hyenas, those mangy mutts. Turns out they want the cat to share. Share! Can you imagine? This majestic, sexy, sleek beast giving even the slightest bit of its lion’s share to those ratty mouth-breathing pieces of shit. Now if you know anything at all about the situation, you know there’s not a lioness in the world that is going to lose to a fucking single hyena, is going to let a hyena take even a morsel of its food. And don’t kid yourself, the pussy hyenas know this as well. Of course we’re not dealing with a single hyena here, we’re dealing with like twenty of the bastards and, as I said, one cat. They surround the cat, these filthy dogs. But the cat, like the viewer, knows that twenty dogs can kill it if they need to. It takes one last bite of its zebra dinner, a zebra it fucking acquired when no one else could, through its feline will and sense of self, a zebra rightfully bestowed on it by the cosmos, then leaves it to the mutts. Well if that doesn’t make you cry then you’re just an unfeeling bastard and I take my leave of you. The cameraman had to gall to stand there and film these lowly furry rats stuffing their faces, knowing that not one of these weasels would’ve had the balls to so much as look at our cat crossly if not for their overwhelming numbers.”

I closed my eyes.

“What can we say about a world that permits such nonsense Casi? Nature should stop worrying about vacuums, which nobody gives a rat’s ass about, and abhor hyenas emboldened by packs. Watching the horrid display, I imagined I was that cat surrounded by those hyenas. I thought about it of course because of what we’re going to do. Know what I concluded? That if I was surrounded by those hyenas, even if they numbered in the hundreds, they would pay a blood-soaked price for that zebra. Especially the first one. You see one of them would have to be first in trying to take some of my zebra burger and I would make sure that presumptuous fuck got it worst of all. I would kill him with the extremest of prejudices. But not just him, I would take a violent chunk out of as many of those pricks as possible. If they chewed one of my paws off, I would keep using the other one to fuck up as many as I could. I would take the bloody stump back from them then beat them to death with it like Samson with that jawbone. Basically they would have to kill me before I would allow them to so much as lick a single zebra bone and even then my final suspiration would be a defiant bite. I would die it’s true, but I would sooner die than know that I, an august, resplendent, regal lion had surrendered anything to that lowly riffraff.”

“What about swords?”

“Swords? Are you high or something? What’s a lion to do with a sword?”

“You said swords. You got in here by saying the word remember?”

“Oh right. I thought about our plan in light of the things you said at lunch. You say you won’t go in with guns and I don’t want to go in unarmed.”

“You’re not suggesting.”

“Of course I am. If I don’t who will?”

“True, but I don’t know, it seems so.”

“Cool? Intense?”

“Bizarre.”

“We’re going in with swords Casi, serious flesh-emulsifying swords. If you think about it, it’s perfect.”

“What if I don’t think about it?”

“Then it’s still perfect. I mean you’re wary of a violent accident right? You don’t want to do harm. Well a sword is a far more precise instrument than a gun. A sword can circumscribe movement in a way a gun can’t. If you put a sword to someone’s neck or stomach and tell them they can’t move, they know they can’t move without cutting themselves. You’re absolved of all responsibility. With a gun, you end up having to shoot the idiot, which you don’t want to do, or worse you run the risk that your opponent will discern your reluctance to do same and that can be a big problem. Lastly, I like the element of surprise involved with swords. I believe that there is less of a chance of retributive violence if we use swords because they’ll be taken aback, think we’re insane or something. I mean who walks in there with fucking swords? I think the use of swords should also satisfy any aesthetic impulses you may wish to appease. Of course you know how to expertly handle a sword right?”