Sushi

The train moves slowly around the bend

carrying the cargo of neat

little packages, transported

in a continual loop

on the plastic conveyor belt.

You arrange the engine oil soy sauce

the pickled ginger and the wasabi

which produces a bright, nitroglycerin kick 

to the sinuses, a dose of self-administered tear gas.

You unsheathe ubiquitous wooden chopsticks

ready for action.

This is not unlike

clocking in

at a miniature factory job which requires

the careful assembly of a meal directly 

on the floor of your empty stomach

grain by grain

piece by piece

plate by plate.

Behind the scenes, the crew communicates quietly

achieving a synchronised kind of workflow

further breaking down animals taken from the sea

with precision instruments

providing the components you and the other customers will need

the raw materials

the fabricated sheets of seaweed

the hand-moulded rice forms

the symmetrical panels of pink and red meat.

The clients come and go as the train

moves on

turning at a steady rate

each plate covered with a protective plastic dome

which you must remove

putting to one side.

People arrive, eat and then leave

some on the leash of a tight schedule

others free to linger

staring into their phones 

while outside buses and taxies 

on heavy rush hour routes

draining the city of it's commuter blood.

You take your time

keeping an eye on the line

delaying the efficiency of production

as the crew continues to assemble new plates

seared eel, orange row 

satori mushrooms, crab 

tuna and snapper.

There are moments when you suffer from buyer's remorse

as you pick something up off the line

which you didn't really want

or only thought you wanted.

Something that looks better than it actually tastes.

The stakes seeming higher with every bite

because everything is so carefully metered out

in this reverential shell game.  

At other times you simply clasp

your hands together and watch

the plated up aquarium swim past

the fish and octopus and eels

mechanised into this new food chain. 

You pinch and hoist the small cylinders and cubes 

across the empty space between 

the little plastic platforms and 
your mouth, where molars and canines wait.

Your stomach slowly begins to fill up

piece by piece

grain by grain as

Country & Western music 
plays through over-taxed speakers. 

The crew removes unwanted offerings

handing them through the steaming hatch

to the waiting dishwasher 

who in turn, circulates hot flatware

back onto the restaurant floor.

And when you have stack of 10 empty plates

and an additional empty bowl which contained miso

it is time to pay.

They have a golden cat figurine waiting at the register

a maneki-neko.

They say it brings good luck.

The cat smiles and waves goodbye as you collect your

change and a little candy 

that tastes like a Granny Smith apple

exploding on the end of your tongue.

The Emporium of Lost Punchlines (2nd draft)

   
A duck walks into a bar.

While the duck waits to talk to the bartender he notices a Frenchman, an Englishman and an Irishman sitting at a table near the jukebox. The Irishman is telling his drinking companions about the time, not so long ago, when he was working as a travelling encyclopaedia salesman and how his car broke down near a farm on a desolate country road.

You can stay the night in the barn under one condition, the farmer told the Irish salesman. Do not try to cavort or mess around with either of my daughters. If you do, there will be trouble.

The salesman agreed. The farmer had two daughters. One was very beautiful and the other one was extremely ugly. That night after the Irish salesman had gone to sleep up in the hayloft, he heard a creaking sound down below and then he heard someone climbing up the ladder up to the loft. Who is there? He asked.

It was the ugly daughter.

My life hasn't always been like this, whispered the ugly daughter. And she proceeded to tell the salesman about a time, not so long ago, when she had worked as one of the highest paid, most sort after escorts in Barcelona.

Wait, wait.....I'm sorry, interrupted the salesman shaking his head... but I find this all a little bit hard to believe.

Why? asked the ugly daughter, because I am not traditionally pretty? Because my looks are unorthodox? Let me assure you kind stranger, I have other attributes, other talents, which supersede society's rather narrow conventions of female beauty. And to illustrate her point, she continued telling her story.

In Barcelona, she lived and worked out of a grand but decrepit hotel near the train station. A place that has seen better times. One night a young handsome priest who was on the verge of becoming ordained, turned up at the hotel. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

I need to be with a woman, he said, just once before I devote my entire life to God. I must know what the female body is like.

Sounds reasonable to me, said the hotel manager who also served as the local neighbourhood pimp. I have just the thing to either challenge or reinvigorate your faith. And he slid a key across the counter for room 23.

Up in room 23, the young priest and the ugly daughter got undressed and did the deed. They screwed like wild animals. As far as the young priest was concerned the sex was incredible, mind-blowing.

The following evening the young priest returned. I must try that one more time, said the young priest. I need to know if last night was an anomaly or if I am by nature a sinner. The same thing happened. Only this time around the sex was even better and more mind-blowing. This is indeed a true test of my faith, said the priest as he counted out the money owed.

On the third night the young priest showed up again but this time, on his way up to room 23, he got stuck between floors in the buildings rickety old elevator. The hotel manager/local pimp was changing a light bulb on the second-floor landing when this happened.

What now? He thought after hearing the young priest calling out in anguish. After climbing down from his stepladder and establishing that there was indeed a horny young priest stuck in the broken down elevator, the hotel manager-pimp called a 24-hour elevator repairman to rectify the situation.

Across town, the elevator repairman picked up his telephone phone. Yeah? What is it? I see. Well, I did have plans tonight, complained the elevator repairman.

Look, I have to get this priest out of my elevator, said the hotel manager-pimp. All this commotion is bad for business. I run a discrete hotel. I can't have people shouting and carrying on like this. It'll scare away potential clients.

Alright, alright....just tell me one thing, said the elevator repairman.

Ask away, said the hotel manager/pimp.

How many hotel manager/pimps does it take to change a lightbulb?

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

I have no idea, said the hotel manager/pimp. I haven't gotten around to it yet what with all these damn interruptions!

Okay, okay.....you just got me thinking....that's all. Forget it. Look I'll be there as soon as I can, said the elevator repairman. Just tell the priest to sit tight. Help is on the way.

The elevator repairman hung up the receiver, ending the call. At that moment he was laying in bed next to a sexy female penguin. He turned to his sexy female penguin companion and said, darling, I'm really sorry but I have to leave. I have an emergency job on the other side of the city. The penguin crossed her flippers over her bare breasts and said, are serious? really? You promised me a night of raunchy, unbridled interspecies sexual congress. I'm sick of this....this lack of commitment from you buddy! Life is too short for your wishy-washy brand of love.

What can I do? pleaded the elevator repairman, as he began to get dressed and gather up his tools. My business card clearly states that I am available 24/7. My professional reputation is on the line here baby. You've got to understand that. I mean, you like all the fine dining and all the fancy gifts I bestow on you right?...The truth is I need to earn money to make those things possible. Caviar and yellowfin tuna don't come cheap honey. Surely you can see this?

Fine....just as long as you're not off to see that polar bear slut, grumbled the sexy lady penguin. If I find out you're doing the dirty with her, there will be hell to pay buster! Believe me!

I already told you baby.....I'm finished with all that. I only have eyes for you. I'm telling you right here and now, there is only one anthropomorphised Arctic circle animal for me....and I'm looking at her right now.

The elevator repairman finished getting dressed, went downstairs and got into his vehicle. On the way to the repair job, he had a violent head-on collision with another vehicle. The person driving the other vehicle was a world-renowned scientist. Blood, glass and twisted metal lay strewn across the road.

The elevator repairman and the scientist were pulled from the wreckage and taken to the hospital in the same ambulance. This is going to be a hell of a mess to untangle, commented the ambulance drive.

As a result of the accident, the elevator repairman's brain was critically damaged but his body was basically uninjured. The complete opposite was true of the scientist whose brain was intact yet his body is damaged beyond repair.

There's only one thing we can do, announced the head surgeon, tipping back his third glass of scotch. We must perform a brain transplant!

My God! replied the nurse, this kind of operation has never been attempted before doctor! Do you think it will work?

No to worry. We'll call in Dr Rodrigues. Rodrigues is a world-famous neurosurgeon and a personal friend of mine. He will jump at an opportunity like this. In fact, just recently, while out on the links, Rodrigues was complaining that he needed a new challenge. This will be just the thing.

The medical team worked for 72 hours straight, transplanting the scientist's undamaged brain into the elevator repairman's healthy body.

What in the hell.....? groaned the elevator repairman/scientist once he has regained consciousness after the operation. I feel really strange. What has happened to me?

The team of doctors leaned in for a closer look. Here is the thing.....said the head surgeon, we had to put your brain inside an elevator repairman's body. It was a total mess. I'm actually surprised we got away with it. Then again, Rodrigues is a genius. What a guy! They all nodded and murmured in agreement.

Wow! This is all very confusing, says the elevator repairman/scientist. So in essence, I am a combination of two different people?

Yep! That's about the size of it, replied the head surgeon. Spot on.

After a great deal of rehabilitation, the elevator repairman/scientist was released from the hospital. From this point on, he attempted to live a normal life but this proved to be difficult. Of course, he was compelled to resume travelling around the world, giving important scientific lectures to his colleagues. Yet at the same time, muscle memory meant he has an almost insatiable urge to seek out malfunctioning elevators. To make sure the public could safely get from one floor to the next. It was quite a dilemma.

(Note: he often pondered how he should refer to himself. As the 'scientist/elevator repairmen' or the 'elevator repairman/scientist'. Seeing as how the brain housed the scientist's conscious mind and personality, it did seemed appropriate for the word 'scientist' to come before the words 'elevator repairman' in his hyphenated title. Then again, he also felt that 'elevator repairman' should come before 'scientist' in honour of the body's contribution to the overall enterprise of being alive. After all, it was the body that did all the grunt work. In the end, he decided he would adjust according to the situation. So for example, if he was standing at a podium, delivering a lecture on quantum physics, he would refer to himself as the scientist/elevator repairman. And the opposite held true if he found himself running a maintenance check on an elevator. Accordingly, he had two sets of business cards made up to reflect his shifting professional status).

A year later the elevator repairman/scientist had another head-on collision, this time with a vehicle driven by an infamous serial killer. It was a terrible mess. Blood, glass and twisted metal lay strewn across the road. The serial killer's hands were transplanted onto the body of the elevator repairman/scientist.

You know the drill, said the head surgeon.

The elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer went through rehab and was released from the hospital. This caused a number of logistical complications because now, on top of everything else, the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer was compelled to murder people with his bare hands whenever the opportunity presented itself.

A year later, the same thing happened again. The elevator repairman/scientist/cereal killer had yet another car accident, smashing into a famous male pornographic actor who was renowned for his 13-inch penis.

Jesus Christ, you again! said the head surgeon to the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer. Alright....you know the drill.

And this kept happening, as the elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer/porn star continued to have serious road accidents and acquire replacement body parts, slowly transforming into a horrific amalgamation of hands, eyes, legs, internal organs, toes...etc. A terrible creature who was comprised of many different people all of whom were seamlessly stitched together. The problem was, eventually, these additions went well beyond accepted conventions of the human anatomy. That is to say, Dr Rodriguez began to experiment, attaching a range of excess appendages to parts of the body where previously there had been none. (Note: from this point on the abomination previously known as the 'elevator repairman/scientist/serial killer.....etc. etc.' was simply referred to as 'The Creature' for the sake of clarity).

I fear that Dr Rodrigues has gone too far, his colleagues back at the hospital began to mutter amongst themselves in the hallways and corridors. But what can we do? Rodrigues is a genius!

That may be so but the question still remains....why does a person need seven arms, nine feet, three anuses, five eyeballs and so on? asked the head surgeon.

A nurse appeared, pushing her way through the group of doctors. Bloody doctors, she muttered under her breath. She didn't have time for all this idle chit-chat. It was all very well being the hospital superstar surgeon but someone had to clean up the mess after all these operations. She still had a pile of excess body parts and other offcuts to take down to the hospital incinerator. Each rejected part would need to be recorded before a conveyer belt carried it off into the flames.

As you can probably surmise The Creature was shunned by society and forced to wander the uninhabited parts of the earth under cover of darkness. In this way, his legend grew and stories of his rambling exploits would be told around campfires and as a means of terrifying young children.

One night, many years later, The Creature came to a log cabin in a remote part of the northern woods. The ground was covered with deep snow and a crescent moon hung in the sky. The Creature was very hungry, lonely and desperate. He knocked on the front door. Knock knock!

Who is there? asks a voice from within the cabin.

It is me, said The Creature, answering with one of his many tongues.

'Me' who? replies the voice from within the cabin.

'Me, it's a long story' answers The Creature.

Nothing happened for what seemed like a very long time and then a wolf howled in the distance. The Creature stood where he was, unsure what to do next, his breath emanating from his body in little-frozen puffs. Should he break down the door? Maybe go on a rampage? Or was that too.....obvious? The truth was, lately, he'd grown weary of rampaging. He was tired of all the blood-curdling screams and he was developing what felt like carpal tunnel syndrome in several of his hands. Maybe he should just go away? He wasn't sure. It was hard being such a hideous creature because people always expected the worst from you. Sometimes he wanted to break with convention and do something totally unexpected. Start singing for example. After all, he did have the larynx and vocal chords of a famous opera singer.

Meanwhile, inside the cabin, the hillbilly who had been talking to The Creature through the door reached for his smartphone. He dialled the local police.

Please state the nature of your emergency, intoned the voice on the other end of the line.

Can you send a squad car around here? Please? whispered the hillbilly. Someone or something is trying to break into my home. Come to think of it, you might be better off sending a bunch of cops on snowmobiles seeing as how I'm way, way, way out here in the snowy woods. Yeah, I think snowmobiles would be the better option.

Miles away, the Police Snowmobile Squad (PSS) sprung into action. They suited up and tore out of the station house on their snowmobiles. They began to cross the frozen terrain of mountains, forests and lakes. Unfortunately, they became lost almost immediately and ended up driving around in circles until they all ran out of gas and had to abandon their snowmobiles.

This is fucking bullshit! shouted the squad leader. We are supposed to be professional woodsmen! Or at least have some knowledge of how to plot a route across this kind of terrain without getting lost! You realise we look like a bunch of amateurs!

Um....we were following you dude, muttered one of the men.

You see! That's what I am talking about! Right there! shouted the irate squad leader. You need to take ownership! It can't always be me.

They all stood around, looking down at their snow-covered boots. A wolf howled in the distance.

Not that I'm....deferring ownership boss but...um.....what should we do now? asked one of the junior snow cops.

I don't know man, said the squad leader, sitting down heavily on a log. To be honest, I'm at a loss. I just don't know anymore. I have run out of ideas. The squad leader lowered his head into his hands and his shoulders began to tremble and heave.

Is he.....crying? whispered one the snow cops.

You okay boss? asked someone else.

I'll be fine, said squad leader, his tears freezing to his face and beard like little salty icicles. I just need a minute. Can I have a minute?

Eventually, the squad leader regained his composure and the snow cops came up with a plan. After some soul-searching, they decided that change was in order. They were tired of the snow. They were burnt out. They all agreed; saving stupid people from avalanches and icy crevasses was not as rewarding as it had once been. Instead, they would become a freelance firing squad. As such, they hit the road and began travelling to different countries around the world. Countries where the death penalty was still permitted. Countries with governments that quashed civil upheaval by using such methods as a deterrent. They even did private functions. They would pull into a town or city and then start advertising their services. Firing squad for hire! We provide our own ammunition and rifles! We never miss! Proclaimed one of their typical flyers. It was slow going at first but as time went by, their reputation began to spread and business began to boom.

One balmy afternoon, the firing squad was doing a job in some filthy third world country that had just been rocked by a violent revolution. A man condemned to die, an enemy of the people's revolution, was escorted out his prison cell and into the prison courtyard where he was lined up against a bullet-riddled wall. Black vultures wheeled overhead in the desolate sky like kites of death. The condemned man thrust his chin out and spat on the ground. He was very handsome. The wives of the revolutionary generals were conflicted. The condemned man had to be executed. This was a given. He was a symbol of the previous regimes oppression and cruelty. Still, this didn't negate the fact that he was a handsome brute.

The squad leader raised his sabre. Ready! He shouted. The firing squad raised their rifles to their shoulders. Aim! shouted the squad leader. The firing squad took aim. Earthquake! shouted the condemned man. Everyone freaked out. They had all received extensive training in the event of an earthquake so they dove for cover, trying to avoid falling powerlines and glass. And it was during the ensuing confusion that the condemned man managed to escape. He broke free, ran out of the courtyard, across the road, dodging a truck loaded down with bananas and dived into a fast-moving river. Bullets began whizzing past his head but he managed to get away. Floating down the river he still had to contend with alligators and violent rapids but he made it. Eventually, the river carried him all the way out to a harbour port on the coast.

Disguising himself as a local sea captain, the once condemned man managed to commandeer a fishing trawler which he took out into the open sea. He was thinking about applying for political asylum in New Zealand. He'd heard New Zealand described as an untouched Eden with an intriguing range of microclimates and geographical features. Unfortunately, the trawler sank in a terrible storm. The once condemned enemy of the revolution, now the sole survivor of the infamous fishing trawler tragedy, managed to swim through the crashing waves to a tiny desert island. The island was a very simple affair: a dome-shaped piece of land with a single palm tree jutting out, providing meagre shade from the blazing sun. Once safely ashore, the escapee's only form of sustenance came from coconuts and the fish he managed to catch in the surrounding reef. How ironic, he thought, I escaped the firing squad only to become a prisoner of this tiny, remote island. Out of the frying pan and into the flames, as they say. It didn't take long for his clothes to become rags and for his beard and hair to grow into a shaggy mop.

Months after being rescued from the island by a gang of inept Somalian pirates, the castaway emigrated to New York. He planned to sell snow cones and hotdogs from a small cart in Central Park. Maybe even blended cocktails in the summer. He'd heard there was good money in it. While this was happening, he began seeing a psychiatrist on the upper east side. In these sessions, he talked extensively about being marooned on the little desert island. He explained that, while he had been stuck on the island, his existence had taken on an almost two-dimensional quality. Day after day, it was just him, the island and the palm tree. And each day was almost exactly the same as the one before and the one to follow. Sure, there were slight variations like that time he caught a really big fish. And that other time he caught a slightly smaller fish. And the time he caught an octopus which was hilarious, it not a little rubbery for the purposes of eating. And the other time he tried to make that large crab his pet only to get bitten on the thumb.

And sure, there were occasional storms but more often than not, there was no reprieve from the banality of his two-dimensional existence. On very rare occasions, he would see a black smudge of smoke on the horizon indicating that a ship was passing by. But what could he do? Being the only source of food and shelter, he couldn't very well burn the palm tree to make a signal fire. There were times when he was so hungry, so emaciated, that he would begin to hallucinate and see mermaids out in the water beckoning him. Beautiful women with soft, ample breasts and flowing hair the colour of coral. Once he had tried to swim into the arms of one these ladies only to find he was swimming towards a black shark dorsal fin knifing across the surface of the water.

On the island, after the sun went down, the once condemned-but-now-marooned man would sleep with the wind in his ear and with no fire keep him warm until the new day greeted him. And as previously established, each day was a repeat of the one before. Perhaps, instead of 'earthquake!' I should have simply yelled 'fire', he often speculated. At least that way I would not have become a prisoner of this desert island hell! To alleviate the boredom, sometime he would come up with a humorous sentence that commented on his condition or existence in general. Like the time he said to the palm tree, "So....what's new?". Or the other time he muttered to himself, "I really got to get out more". He composed thousands of these comments, storing them away in his mind for a later date.

The psychiatrist listened to all this from his chair near the window while the man (the political exile, marooned castaway, now proud owner of a food and beverage cart in Central Park) talked from the comfortable leather couch where he lay, his hands clasped together across his chest. The hourly rate for each session was $124. Each time the man showed up for his fortnightly appointment, the psychiatrist would inwardly roll his eyes and groan.

I have this one patient, the psychiatrist would tell his colleagues, at a local tavern, and all this guy ever talks about is this desert island he was stuck on. Every session I have to sit there and listen to these stories about the fish and the palm tree and the hopelessness the passing days....blah, blah, blah. Enough already with the desert island! I mean...I seriously want to grab this guy by the shoulders, shake him violently while I shout, get over it! Move on! No one gives a hoot about the firing squad or the desert island! Right into his face. Of course you can't do anything like that, can you? I mean these guys are our bread and butter, right? They paid the bills. Every time I get this impulse, all I have to do is remind myself how much money my daughter's orthodontist is costing me. Not cheap! Let me tell you. And college? Forget about it! I mean sometimes I honestly feel like I am a being held hostage by these people and their damn problems! Sometimes I am tempted to throw in the towel. This was true. The psychiatrist secretly fantasized about moving to Vermont to live on an organic farm and make goat's cheese.

Hearing all this, the psychiatrist's colleagues would nod their heads in sympathy because they had their own droning patients who had become marooned in dysfunctional behavioural patterns and in bad habits.

The psychiatrist had a number of patients on his books including a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a lawyer, a judge, a redneck, an orthodox Jew, a Catholic priest, a Mexican, an African-American, a Chinese guy, a Frenchman, a homosexual, a nun, an epileptic, a kleptomaniac, a prizefighter, a lion tamer, a midget, a cowboy, a rodeo clown, a stripper......etc. etc. Of course, these people all had complex, nuanced lives which extended far beyond the good, bad or neutral connotations these simple titles might call to mind. Lives which the psychiatrist only really got a second-hand glimpse of during their one-hour sessions. At times, it truly boggled the psychiatrist's mind when he tried to keep track of all these people and their intersecting lives that stretched out beyond the confines of his little office. Sometimes, after a session concluded, he was tempted to follow some of these people through the city, back to where they lived. Just to see if their stories checked out. There was also the additional impossibility of keeping track of all the primary and secondary relationships and the absurd situations in which his clients found themselves in. And in many cases, one title was simply not adequate. For example, one of his clients was Catholic American epileptic stripper. He also treated a blonde homosexual Mexican lion tamer who suffered from bulimia. And so on. In any case, there he sat, day after day, in his leather chair, an archetypal psychiatrist in both appearance and behaviour, waiting for them to turn up with all their ridiculous yet financially lucrative problems.

And these were his post glory days! At one time, not so long ago, the psychiatrist had many celebrities on his books. These clients included Gandhi, The Dalai llama, Elvis Presley, Richard Nixon, Margaret Thatcher, Jesus Christ, The crew of the space shuttle Challenger, The captain of the Exxon Valdez and the Titanic...just to name a few.

And while he had initially enjoyed the prestige of dealing with these high-profile clients, eventually he had decided to stay away from them. Sure, the money was good but the psychiatrist found that he was becoming desensitised to the problems of ordinary people. All he seemed to do with these celebs was listen to their endless, minor grievances about their chauffeurs and nannies. He'd gotten into the psychiatry game to help ordinary people but here he was, pandering to the rich and famous. So, one day he put an end to it. And the next time Madonna called him up for an emergency session, right in the middle of her Blonde Ambition tour, he told her that he was sorry but unfortunately he was unavailable. And he referred her on to a colleague.

Anyway, one day the psychiatrist was riding the subway back from the museum to his office and a man dressed in a filthy and vaguely sinister clown costume sat down next to him. Without any kind of preamble, the clown started telling the psychiatrist a joke.

So the joke goes like this, said the clown....a duck walks into a bar.

Once the bartender had finished dealing with some other patron, the bartender turned to the duck and said, buddy, I'm sorry but we don't serve your kind in here.

My good man, said the duck, I have no intention of drinking in this establishment. I am simply here to inquire if this is 385 South Broadway. Do I have the right address?

Feeling quite embarrassed, the bartender replied, oh man....I apologise.....I'm so sorry. It's been a long shift.....I'm tired. Anyway, to answer your question....you are correct. This is 385 South Broadway. What were you looking for?

Well...I'm looking for the Emporium of Lost Punchlines, said the duck.

The bartender shook his head. That doesn't ring a bell, he said apologetically.

No. Clearly, this is a bar.....said the duck, not the Emporium of Lost Punchlines. I guess I have the wrong place. Either that or the wrong address.

The bartender and the duck pulled out their respective smartphones. They both began an online search for the Emporium of Lost Punchlines.

Yeah....I'm not....getting anything under that name in this area, muttered the bartender, squinting down into his phone. What did you say it was called again? The Emporium of....

The Emporium of Lost Punchlines, said the duck.

Um....okay.....nope, nada, said the bartender looking up from his phone.

Me neither, said the duck.

I wish I could be of more help, said the bartender.

I don't understand.....It's supposed to right here....on this corner, the duck said. God! You just can't rely on Google Maps.

The bartender called out to the Irishman who was sitting with his companions near the jukebox.

Seamus? Have you heard of a place around here called the Emporium of Lost Punchlines?

Interrupted in the middle of his story about the farmer's ugly daughter, Seamus looked up from his pint and slowly shook his head.

Naw man, I've never heard of a place by that name. There used to be a place call....now what was it called?.....um......no. Come to think of it, that was something different.

If anyone around here would know, it would be Seamus, said the bartender. He's lived here his entire life. So......

Okay then, said the duck. Thanks for your help. I better shove off.

Hey listen, said the bartender slipping his phone back into his pocket, what I said before? About not serving you? That's not my decision.....you understand? That's the bar's policy. No offence intended.

Its fine, said the duck. No offence was taken.

Look some of my best friends are ducks, said the bartender. But then he stopped himself, smiled, shook his head and added, whoa....that didn't come out right.

Yeah, it kind of made things worse dude, said the duck.....Look, it's fine. Really. I have to go.

Okay, said the bartender, still looking sheepish. Good luck.

And the duck walked out of the bar.

The Chief

So how long have you been doing this? The whole, you know, talking to yourself bit? A year! Wow, that's a long time. But then again, you might not be remembering correctly? Right? You said yourself that you have an unreliable memory. So I'm thinking it could have been a year or it could have been longer. It's hard to keep track of these things when you have a bad memory. Anyway, for now, for the purposes of this conversation, we'll just say it's been a year. Agreed?  

And how did it start? I see. Okay, so you were just, um, muttering shit to yourself, externalising your thoughts? Like people do. A word here and a word there. No big deal. Just....what? Oh totally. There is nothing wrong with the odd word slipping out, I mean we all have inner monologues, but I guess all those little words started to add up. They became sentences, correct? And then, before you knew it, you were talking to yourself. Yak yak yak....Blah blah blah, your thoughts coming out unfiltered in fully articulated sentences which, in itself, is not such a bad thing, is it? I mean, come on...where is the harm? Who are you hurting? Right? No one. People talk into their damn phones all day, don't they? On the bus, on street corners, in traffic, they yap away into their little phones. And who knows? I mean, do we have proof they are actually talking to someone else on the other end? No, we do not! I agree. But I guess society frowns on people for openly talking to themselves without the phone. Society doesn't like the unfiltered verbalisation of one's innermost thoughts. It scares people, that's the thing. 'They' would prefer for you to keep it all bottled up inside. Like that's a healthy solution. Give me a break. Are you joking? All these people walking around with their heads and hearts about to explode, full of these toxic thoughts and ideas. 'They' think that's healthy? Yeah, right.   

And so how or when did you first become aware that you were talking to yourself? Really? Albert told you? Ha ha ha. 'Huston we have a problem!', did he say something like that? Okay....yep....well you guys do spend a lot of time together, don't you? Day and night pretty much. Probably more time than you spend with your wife, right? And how did you respond, when Albert mentioned this so-called 'problem'? I see. Well, I don't blame you. I mean it must have been a real shock, being called out like that. Being asked to doubt your own mental competence? I couldn't even imagine. What? Albert? Noooooo....Albert is one of the good guys. And he's smart. Doesn't miss a trick that one. Personally, I have complete confident in Albert's judgement. No. No. You're not hearing me. What I am saying is, I really don't think he has 'an agenda' other than his loyalty to this country, you know, to our country. That is my honest assessment. What? Okay, I mean, sure, point taken, everyone has an agenda in some way or another. What I'm saying is I think Albert can be trusted. That's all. 

Anyway, back to the......so Albert noticed you sitting there, by yourself, mumbling up a storm early one morning in Air Force One, as you were skimming over the clouds, the sun just beginning to crack the horizon. Oh, okay, you didn't mention insomnia before. So let me get this straight now. On top of everything else, you couldn't sleep? Wow! You had insomnia, intense job pressure and the pain meds all compromising the clarity of your thinking, is that about the size of it? Yep. Yep. It's obvious man. The more spaced out you got, the more you talked to yourself in an attempt to stay on script. Any fool could see that. Anyway, Albert confronted you. He told you he was concerned, that this constant self-talking was a very troubling development. And understandably you felt betrayed. It hurt your ego, didn't it? You don't want to be perceived as weak. As unreliable. Some doddering old fool. And after that, word got around the camp fire. Sure it did. Word always 'gets around', even in a supposedly controlled hierarchy like ours. That's the nature of this beast. Dominance through competition. People don't get this far up the chain unless they have something fiercely competitive inside them. No one is content with their slot. They all want to keep moving up. They may not be conscious of the disloyal and at times treasonous impulses that inhabit their hearts but make no mistake, these impulses are inherent to their nature. On some basic level, these people relish the chance of destabilisation. They crave it. 

And it's not like you could very well hide all the self-talking. You are a high profile guy, right? Cameras flashing in your face. News crews. Interviews. Top clearance security briefings dealing with sensitive information. Am I right? It wasn't like you were hearing voices, were you? Well, no, not at first. You were simply keeping your own council, right? Sort of acting as your own advisor. Advising yourself in the moment. And really, if you can not trust yourself, the voice inside, then what? I'll tell you what: you're nowhere. You're done. You're finished. What? No, no. Not at all Sir. I thought you understood....I'm on your side, all the way.   

Alright, alright...the point is Albert was concerned with all the supposedly unacceptable self-talking because as your Military Aid, he had The Football, correct? That was his primary responsibility, to guard and make the codes available to you. And I believe, combined with the muttering, there was that 'insistent' when you attempted to rush Albert and initiate the ICMB's, deviating from the procedure. Is that correct? Actually, if we're being truthful here, there were several 'incidents' in which you forcefully 'requested' the football because you wanted to initiate the ICMBs. Even though there were no reported provocations from the countries that we currently consider to be a potential military or political threat. Okay, okay, I hear you. Your actions were predicated on a 'gut feeling'. You felt that 'something was up', that the intelligence they were drip-feeding you was fake. Bogus. Yes. From your perspective, you felt this creeping threat on an instinctual level. Like a shadow in an empty room.  

What's that Sir? Well yes...I totally agree....at the end of the day, you are the President. The leader of the Free World. The big enchilada. In theory, you should be able to get your hands on the party favours whenever you damn well want to. Fuck'n A Sir, I totally agree. And so what if you were talking to yourself? Who cares? Like we have been saying all along, lots of people talk to themselves. Yak, yak, yak! What you're telling me is, our country needs to be protected from its enemies! Simple as that. That is the crucial issue here. Everything else is incidental. And really, sometimes you have to go with the preemptive option. People forget that. They do. They don't want to deal with the hard decisions. They think it's all folk songs and low-fat soy lattes. After college, most people in this world simply want to mentally check out, play ethical Monday night quarterback from the sidelines as they blindly follow the predetermined consumer paths the media and the pharmaceutical companies have laid out for them. This is the safe route. I get it. Yep. Yep. What you're saying is, they don't understand what someone like you, the President, has to endure on a daily basis. The burden. The pressure. My god! They certainly don't understand how the information is distorted, how the very fabric of reality is manipulated. No sir. If they did acquire the level of understanding you have, it would shatter their little minds. Truly it would. 

Anyway....so you were talking to Albert?......Oh, okay, I did not realise that....now you're saying it was all a test? Okay, that makes sense. So you were just testing Albert? Right, so you just wanted to see if you really had access to the codes...the Biscuit....and therefore, if you still had the capability to initiate. Ha ha ha....yeah, well....you're absolutely right. There is no point having a loaded gun if you can't use it. Well said. And so his response was....? Oh, okay, he questioned you. He questioned your motives and then, finally your mental state. Albert had the balls to ask why you wanted the codes. No, you're right, technically speaking, as the Commander-in-chief, he should not be questioning you. He should defer to you in that situation. His job is to: 

A. to establish authenticity and then 

B. follow your orders in regards to either initiating the codes or to stand down. Fuck'n A Sir. 

What's that? Well now....that's different. Ha ha ha ha ha. So now you're saying you did intend to nuke the world. Wow. I didn't realise that. Okay, well that might be viewed as....something different altogether. If you don't mind me asking, what was the....um....thinking behind this plan? I mean, do you think that destroying the plant was that good of an idea? Personally, I can't really see how taking that kind of drastic action would 'help humanity'. Okay. So what you're saying is, you feel that the nuclear purge was a valid solution to....America's problems. Okay, so you wanted to wipe out the Middle East, Russia, China, Northern Africa. Of course, I mean, you're right, there are some very bad people in all of those countries. Terrible individuals. And you simply wanted to lay down the law with a decisive strike, turning these places into parking lots. Just go ahead and level them the fuck out. These places that cause us so much god-darn trouble in recent times. Why not? Just turn their government officials and their military into shadows on the wall. Simple as that. What? Affirmative Sir. I get that, you were tired of all the messing around. Like your Daddy always said, diplomacy is more often than not a process of assuming the weaker position. Eventually, you have to concede. And that's when they bend you over a barrel, pull your pants down. You! The President! The Commander-in-chief! You are expected to suffer these indignities, to deal with some little oily despot with tin stars pinned to his chest. Tin stars that his crooked uncle awarded him for no good reason other than he originated from his daddy's ball sack. Seriously? Are you kidding me? And your response? You said, No Sir! No more of that! You were through playing nice. And then what? I mean what was supposed to happen after you deployed the ICMBs? Oh.....okay, so then you were gonna send our boys in to claim the assets. Of course. It's so damn simple! Yes. I see. No more messing around. Nuke and pillage. I like your thing on this Sir. If you're gonna be an empire....be an empire for Pete's sake! Be strong. If you have to revert to a 'necessary evil' then do it! Don't pussyfoot around. Do it! What's that? So you're saying, right after that thing in Japan, with the first bomb, you're saying we lost our balls? It does make you think. Why did we invest all that time and money into developing all these great weapons when we don't even use them?  

What's that? Oh yeah, there is....there was....a slight problem with this approach. If you did nuke these areas, these countries, you can't very well send in our men to commandeer oil production, right? I mean, look at Fukushima. Look at Chernobyl. Look at the mess those accidents made. The damage to the infrastructure and the environment. The displacement of the population. The radiation working its way into the.....I'm sorry? No, I'm just trying to get my head around....Oh, okay. You're saying, it would have been manageable, that it was no big deal. Pull the trigger and deal with the consequences afterwards. We'll just get the military boys suited up and get them to work. Gas masks and shovels.  

Anyway, what with all the talking to yourself and attacking Albert and the memos you sent out in the middle of the night....people started getting worried. They just didn't get it. Jesus christ on a bike, you tried to explain your vision to these....these flunkies, to make them understand and it didn't work. Sometimes, even when you lead the horse to water and shove its head down, it still won't drink, right? 

Anyway, in response to this, they sent in the three damn headshrinkers. Or as you like to call them, The Three Stooges. And together you all had several long, long discussions. Pointless discussions really, is what you called them. The whole thing, a total waste time. No, no...I understand, I do. You could have been using that time for much more important things. It must have felt like......right.....like being followed around by efficiency experts. Mental efficiency experts, Carl, Tom and Zach, your personal shrink ghosts dressed in tweed with their little notepads. Oh sure, I would have felt exactly the same. It must have been a completely unacceptable intrusion. I understand that. Definitely. Anyone would have felt the same, being questioned and probed like that. And then? Then they went behind your back and gave their little reports to the Vice President who until that time, you thought was a pretty stand-up guy. Not so! No! There was no loyalty there. No sir. Obviously, the VP was gunning for your slot. Of course, he was. Are you kidding me? He was right there, waiting in the wings for you to stumble, to fall.

Right, yeah, so you decided to cool off on the whole eyeing-up-the-football thing, play it cool. Pretend like you didn't have a care in the world. Sure thing. That's the way to do it. Just ignore 'em. Even though there was obviously something very wrong, something screwy, you just ignored them. One thing is for sure, you can't trust anyone anymore. Sorry? Oh....so you have begun to question everything including the validity your subjective experience. Is that what do you mean when you said, everything feels a little bit shoddy, a bit amateur, like you're in a high school theatrical production? Interesting. Yes. I totally agree. You can never let on that you feel this way, that you think these things because...precisely! That's what crazy people think. What did The Three Stooges call it? Solipsism Syndrome. Do you feel this applies to your experience? That this....all this...is a product of your mind?  

Anyway, you know what to do when the cracks appear. You just keep on trucking buddy like nothing untoward is happening because if you start expressing doubt, you know, if you start to squirm, that's when they have you. Oh yes. I totally agree. You just smile and nod. Smile and nod. And maybe, if you stop talking to yourself all the time, that might help as well. Even when your inner voice, the only voice that makes any sense, is....is....clawing away at your insides, you have to rein it in buddy. You can't sit around talking to yourself. 

What?........who am I?

You know who I am.

Hello?

Hello???

Are you there?

Is anyone there?

Danny,

First of all, I am writing this letter as a matter of national record in accordance with the 1974 CCPWB Act (The Commander-in-chief Psychological Well-Being Act). The second reason is to get you up to speed so that you are able to assume your role in February. At this time, you need to be aware that, as of May 16th, 2019 the President of the United States was relocated to the desert facility in New Mexico (The exact location will be disclosed on Monday). We took this prescribed action to protect both the President and the public. 

By way of an effective and quick illustration, I am sure you have seen the movie The Truman Show? That critically acclaimed and commercially successful Peter Weir film (1998) in which Jim Carry played the oblivious star of a reality television show, his entire life staged in a giant movie studio. A fictional world populated by actors. Well....we're kind of doing that. Except we're not televising it. God no. Quite the opposite. We are currently in damage control mode. Anyway, if you haven't seen this particular movie, I would advise you to do so. 

The desert facility houses perfect replicas of the President's day to day physical environments. The White House (of course), the Pentagon, the Capital Building, the Situation Room, Air Force One's interior cabin, the President's retreat in New Hampshire, a golf course and so on. And these are only the primary locations. We have many other interior sets replicating places from the 'real world'. The exterior background views, as seen through windows and doors, are provided by the latest Ultra Hi-Definition rear screen projection technology and computer simulations. Amazing stuff. Mind-blowing. We have top guys from Hollywood working on these effects. Top people. 

The main problem we have encountered is the believable transition between these locations, in other words, continuity. This has proven at times to be extremely challenging. Although the President exists in a hermetically sealed world, there are times when he needs to believe that he is travelling. This means we are required to maintain the illusion that he is driving and flying great distances every week in order to reach these locations when in actual fact he is always contained in a simulated travel experience. Either driving around in circles, his views restricted due to security concerns or flying in the Air Force One simulator which never leaves the ground.

As you can imagine, these logistical concerns certainly do keep us on our toes. Your role is all about coming up with creative solutions to maintain the suspension of disbelief. Don't worry, it's not that daunting. You will have many resources at your disposal. For example, we currently use an array of mood-altering drugs, hypnosis and misdirection to keep the President believing that he is still the acting leader of the free world. Existing in controlled environment presents us (you) with many advantages. The President's sense of time and therefore his sleeping patterns are very easy to control. We can 'put him out' for long periods of time in order to set up the following day/scenario. To this end, we use gas or we will administer sedatives through his meals. There is a highly competent team of advisers, special effects technicians, writers, carpenters, actors and doctors on duty. A team whose main purpose is to keep things running seamlessly. A great team. So don't worry.  

Of course, there have been slip-ups, incidents which might have already compromised the flow of realism, bringing the authenticity of the President's experience into question. The Psych Team and the security guys are quick to deal with these disruptions as they occur. To date, we do believe the President has begun to have doubts that he actually lives in the real world. In conversation, he has expressed concerns for his own sanity. The glitches I mentioned in this paragraph have only served to support these suspicions. Basically, he suspects our mistakes are the result of his own solipsistic paranoia. He thinks he is slowly losing his mind. Which is true. On both accounts (us shaping his reality and him being cockcoo). Of course, this entire operation is top secret and as such everything mentioned in this memo including this facility, the team, the paranoid president etc. etc.....all of it will be denied. Including this memo. Just something to keep in mind. 

In terms of what is happen out in the 'real world', the proxy President was installed in 2019. He is an Australian actor who bore a strong resemblance to the President. I have only mentioned this (again, it will be officially denied) because it is good for you to have some context. The main thing is the public has no idea this switcharoo has occurred. As far as the people of this country are concerned, the President has simply become a more personable, friendlier, less crazy guy seemingly overnight. It was like he went to sleep the crazy asshole President we had all become accustomed to but somehow, overnight, he received a complete personally overhaul.  When he woke up he had turned into a really nice guy. From that day on, everyone loved him. It was a miracle! 

Except it wasn't. That night, we went in, knocked the crazy asshole President out and then shipped his ass out to the desert in a helicopter. The First Lady was briefed and understood this was a matter of national security and regaining public confidence in the Democratic government. And taking on board the gravity of the situation, the First Lady really stepped up. She and several other members of the President's inner circle would from that point on be required to take on duel roles. They would need to 'perform' in the real world and in the fictional world we had built to support the President's ongoing containment. Really it all comes down to meticulous scheduling. 

So that's how things currently stand. The insane President works tirelessly in his artificial office running the country. The simulation team, which you will shortly be heading, also works tirelessly to make the canned experience seem real. Working to our advantage, the President had become increasingly isolated in his (real) public office anyway. Prior to the switch, he had reduced his public appearances down to a minimum which helped. Of course there will be occasions when you will need to stage crowd events with angry paid extras (before the personality overall, you will remember the President's popularity was at an all-time low) and riot police to hold them back. Luckily for us, the crazy President prefers to remain locked away in the White House. These isolationist tendencies and his extreme paranoia will make your job much easier.

We are all here to help you make the transition into this new role a successful one. Albert (the Military Aid), Dr Vanderbilt, the First Lady, Frank, Monk, Pete Jenner and Clive Wenders....all these people are approachable and committed to the task described above. Do not be afraid to ask questions. 

Lately, Albert, the Military Aid, has become especially close to the President. Being the President's Military Aid Albert is responsible for carrying The Football which of course is a dummy. Just to let you know, The President has recently become fixated on The Football. He sees conspiracy everywhere (as well he should. He is after all, in the middle of one) and he perceives even in our closest allies as a potential national threat. No doubt about it, he has Nixon's sickness. If fact he tells us (through the Psych team) that he has spoken on several occasions to an entity which he believes to be the ghost of Richard Nixon. As such, the President has put the staff writers through their paces. He tends to doubt all the fictional media we feed him and recently he has begun to question the 'performances' of his wife and his inner circle. As you can well imagine, this has the potential to turn into a giant meta-cluster fuck. 

The President has aggressively gone after The Football four times this year, demanding access to the nuclear codes. Albert has managed to talk him down on each occasion. In one incident he became extremely violent. Through ongoing consultation with the Psych team, we have come to understand that the President is determined to strike out against....well, everyone. The entire planet. Whether or not the President has truly become homicidal is difficult to ascertain at this time. The psych team's recommendation is to continue monitoring him, see how the situation plays out. The President's thirst for nuclear war has led us to entertain the possibility of actually staging the nuclear scenario. There were some obvious advantages in following this narrative. We could keep the old man in a bunker from here on in. Definitely a plus. We could completely limit and control his exposure to the outside world. He would be led to believe that the surface of the earth was populated by survivors suffering from radiation sickness, slowly dying as they searched for food in the rubble. This approach was also under serious consideration for a time because our budget was dramatically slashed last year, requiring that we cut corners with the simulation. This has resulted in longer chemically induced sleep periods for the President because obviously being unconscious is far more cost effective than being awake. It has also meant that the quality of the technical wizardry I mentioned before has recently diminished. In essence, the President now lives in a world which has begun to contract. I wanted to keep things positive here and not dwell too much on the negative but the budget cuts will need to be addressed at some point. Admittedly, these budget cuts mean that the sets have become a bit worse-for-wear through lack of maintenance, that the effects are not as cutting edge as I may have initially led you to believe and that, at times, there is a noticeable lack of variety in regards to props and walk-on extras. In other words, our work with the President could now be accurately described as having low production values. Personally, I feel the President of our fair country deserves better than a 'B movie' experience. Believe me, I have repeatedly brought these concerns to the attention of my (our) superiors. This feedback has fallen on deaf ears. I will not labour this point because I do not want this letter to descend into a counter-productive grip session. I will leave it at that. 

Anyway, as I was saying, this is why we seriously thought about going with the whole nuclear narrative option. But there was one serious problem. As things currently stand, we could have returned the President to the real world after his term in office was finished. He would have been able to acclimate to real life. Sure, he would probably have considered himself to be delusional but he would be able to function. On the other hand, if we went with the nuclear story line, it is highly likely that the President would end up wandering the streets of some foreign country, ranting about a nuclear war that never happened. We simply can not allow this to happen. 

My final piece of advice to you is to remain vigilant and see to all the details. This operation needs to be as seamless as possible. I will leave you with an example of exactly how tenuous the day to day running of this project can be. Last month we had a thing. A glitch. The President opened the wrong door. No big deal right? This door should have been locked but it wasn't. As a result, the old man stepped out of his air conditioned Washington DC office directly into the blinding heat of the desert. So, as a result of an idiot intern in the set department neglected to lock one door, we had a situation whereby the President was wandering around in the 105 degrees New Mexico desert understandably thinking that he has gone to some new level of craziness or that he was the target of some sinister conspiracy....etc. etc. 

It was the whole 'Capricorn One' scenario (A political conspiracy thriller dealing with a staged mission to Mars. A movie made in 1977 and starring Elliot Gould and OJ Simpson. Part of a spate of movies during that time which dealt with government conspiracies. I recommend you watch both The Truman Show and Capricorn One as homework. I'll send you ripped copies of both movies). To give you an idea of the incredible shit-storm this slip-up became, it took the security team all afternoon to track the old man down. By that point, he was badly sunburnt and dehydrated. They had to bring him down with a dart to the neck. Very undignified. And that was the easy part. Needless to say, the Psych team had their work cut out for them over the next couple of weeks. We were forced to kept him drugged, inducing a sense of delirium which we later convinced him, through hypnosis sessions, was a result of severe food poisoning. In essence, we got him to believe that all that running around in the desert was just a hallucination resulting from a fever. A fever which in turn resulted from the prawn cocktail he'd eaten several hours prior to the breakout with the actor playing the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Rod Carver. Hell of guy and hell of an actor. Really nails the Limey PM.  

It was dicey there for awhile. The President was a raving mess. As I say, we were forced to hit him a bevvy of mind-altering drugs. This included scopolamine, flunitrazepam, sodium thiopental. (Please see full daily psych evaluation/report for more details). We also had to manufacture an international diplomatic situation to keep him distracted. See what I'm getting at here? One little slip up can unravel the whole damn thing. A tiny pebble dropped into a pond creates unforeseen, far-reaching ripples. And considering the budgetary cuts I previously mentioned in this letter, we do not have the money for these kinds of off-script shenanigans. So I would advise you to be vigilant. Do not let the details get away from you.  

Thank you for attention to these matters Danny. If you need any further assistance, do not hesitate to contact me over the weekend. I am confident that you do a great job in this new role. I will brief you Monday morning with more information and introduce you to the gang. 

All the best, Dan Harrington.