the man and the boy have had enough. but there's nothing they can do. they have to keep living despite their objections.
boy: this constant need to gather food is bothersome.
man: no, it serves as a break to our rambling thoughts. it reminds us that we are not as yet stars. plugs us back into our humanity. and gives us a chance to talk. you never talk anymore.
boy: what more is there to say? i admire your relish of the word, my comrade in skin, but i'm afraid we need a decoder, not just the symbol. humanity you say?
man: i heard it in a dream.
boy: human, how ghastly. the wind works overtime, coming to us in our sleeps through the tunnel between our ears.
man: to that useless grey mold in our heads.
boy: aye, we live by the heart.
man: we could always hunt.
boy: yeah i dunno. seems like a slippery slope to a dark path. i don't want to end up eating you.
man: you won't kill me, brother, we are on a higher plane than other first wanderers in other biblios, i can feel it. i feel the wind close to our cheeks, lapping them. don't you feel we already have one wing?
boy: the second wing, that's where they get ya.
boy: any luck deciphering the red cross?
man: i love sleeping. not cos i feel rested afterwards, for the dreams. the wind comes to me vividly there than outside our cave. it speaks in a language i can hear. it's extraordinary how the wind guides us.
boy: yeah just a heads up, the red cross is fading badly. it's the monsoon season or something, non-stop rain, i mean it's getting ridiculous. this isn't small talk, weather is everything.
man: please, don't ruin our pleasant chat. i don't even want to think of the Yellow Monster. overcast skies are better. cooler. the thing is not a thing in itself but of what it encompasses. you see? think of it as circles. a large circle and a small circle, together. the cross represents another thing. we tend to take a limiting view on things. we should do the opposite, take the expansive view.
boy: don't blame me, blame these bodies.
man: thus the cross is another object. and the key to our journey
boy: our crisis
man: is to find the wielder of this object. i have long felt in my bones that there is another. don't you?
boy: yes. before i had bones. the same but different. a missing puzzle piece. completes us. when we cannot on our own.
man: yes. a fellow star. to complete the ladle of our constellation in the galaxy sky. so it may shine the brightest.
boy: i dream of this person a different way.
man: speaking of, the dream speaks of our relationship.
boy: whoa, hold your horses!
boy: the greynimal?
man: ah. maybe.
boy: how's your writing coming?
man: along. going. you realize i'm writing the very first book.
boy: those papyrus pens are cool. the very first library is all yours. this cave is a little drippy, but books need to be kept damp to last, right?
man: it's my personal diary. full of missteps and musings. a little cliché i know.
boy: oh no, this is an action-adventure!
man: so anyway, you're my son.
boy: i don't believe we're human. there's gotta be something more to us than that.
there's a knock at the door.
the boy answers the doorbell by whooshing away the leaf carpet around the entrance hole. there before the confused but courageous couple are like 43 or so greynimals all with their googly-eyes trained on the two who are too tired to react.
boy: you like my spear? wow, coz, get out here! there's like a whole family of these grey animals at our front door, tracking mud in from the doorstep. we appreciate that. keeps our neighborhood sturdy. an entire army! an empire of these things!
they are the Lutum. they move in unison observing the man and boy with a scientific fascination that burns with religious fervor.
the Lutum: we are the Lutum. we are not animals. you are the animals. YOU ARE THE MISSING LINK!!!
boy: the what? look, sorry about your pal the other day. we were hungry. so sue us.
the Lutum have not stopped pointing in unison.
the Lutum: your existence changes everything! in our philosophy, art, and science. we now see our world in context with the grander universe. we are like your cousins. where is your ship?
boy: okay fam, i like your fingers. hey cozzin, get the fire going, we have company barbecue! i'd offer you guys something to eat but that previous grey animal ran away.
boy: wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute. hold up. hold the phone. hey, are they our missing star? the same but different? that which will perfectly light the perfect darkness?
man: you tried to whisper that in my ear but the greys all bended their bodies to enter our ear canals, the space between our ears. their bodies are like a clump of grey mold.
Lutum: what miracle. and we all breathe the same kind of air. tell us, where did you come from?
man: tell me, what do you know of a red cross?
Lutum: are you broken?
boy: plainly. tell me, do you have anything to eat? conceiving of this more as a potluck. do you have any of those, what are those called? wheat thingies.
Lutum: bread loaves.
boy: you read my mind.
Lutum: we don't eat bread. we eat burnt toast.
man: ah. huh. never thought to use the fire like that. genius. come in.
in the well of the Senate, there is a lion in the room. but security is not called. nor animal control. this animal takes his time, stretches out his jaw, and roars so loud the white stone walls shake.
John McCain: this may be my final statement. on the matter, unless you guys bring it up again. this past week i have thought harder than in any previous week in my life. if only my head was playing along and kidding around. it's lasting cos it's the last. you don't think about things until you think about the end. because only through ends are there meanings. and this bill is mean.
President Bump: i should have been nicer to you, John. i pardon myself for that. i was new to the politics game, i didn't know the rules. i just wanted a win.
Pence: sir, how about you join me here in the well of the Senate and do some of the gladhanding with me? y'know, the shaking of hands? and the ribbing to get the Members to do what you want? the arm-twisting. sometimes you actually have to physically twist an arm. and actually poke someone in the ribs. i'm not advocating violence but you gotta get their attention.
Bump: speaking of members, time for my scheduled daily masturbation.
Pence: yeah don't put that on your twitter. keep it boring, like you ate an apple.
Bump: i don't have time for all that, my hands aren't up for it. what's your name again? you're not another son are you? besides wouldn't it be weird if i was there in the Senate well, like just another joe schmo chopping it up? that would look weird. i'm having supper.
McCain dramatically raises his arm with all the might of a steely soldier, takes a long dramatic pause, forms his hand into a point, and thumbs-down with backbreaking delight. there are audible gasps in the cavernous room, one from one Scaramucci letting out an Italian wail.
McCain: i am quite bemused inside doing this. revenge is best served like hot soup, bragging and red. they criticize me for being a gloryhound, for seeking the spotlight, in it only for the show. well, they're right! i deserve this! i'm cool after all i've been through. i'm the living embodiment of the Nietzsche stronger quote. that's why i listen to Nine Inch Nails! yeah i think about it first, but i also think about how best to insert myself into the play in the most thrilling role. i'm my own best agent!
McCain walks to the center dais of the room and dons the Emperor's golden wreath laying there in symbol. it's real to him and John is transported back to Ancient Rome. there, Scaramucci is quite literally his lapdog, barking by his side.
McCain: i feel the leaves on my head. they are grapeleaves, not thorns. i see clearly through this eye. young man, what do you know of courage? of true sacrifice?
Scaramucci: i'll never be whacked. no matta what any mook says i'll never leave my dream gig.
McCain: the job is up. you're all talk. you'll never know what it means to be a mensch. men are jerks in circles. real men walk the open road alone.
McCain takes his thumbs-down, which has been thumbs-down this whole time, and plugs it into Scaramucci's eye.
Scaramucci: ows that smarts!
McCain takes his thumbs-down and pushes it into a plum pie, a little-known Ancient Roman delicacy. his thumb spears out two plums and he wags the prunes in front of Scaramucci's face.
McCain: you know why the crowds down there cheer for me, young man? not out of fear or craziness. they recognize i was willing to sacrifice my life for my people. are you?
Scaramucci: respect the family. respect your elders. respect the don.
McCain: know your place. you're not at a garage.
Bump: can i take him now? i'm here to pick him up.
McCain: go ahead. just teaching him the basics. Three Stooges and stuff.
Bump: helicoptering homework, head of the dragon and such. a parent's job is never done. Mucus?
Mooch: please call me the Mooch, sir.
Bump: on tap?
Mooch: women? food? oh, Starbucks Honey Coffee, greasy chicken, and those pastas that look like little hats.
Bump: i love oil. policy?
Mooch: photo-ops at Crocodile Bridge, Stassen, Kimitake, Brody's Castle, and Original Do Bob's. then you have to do the hijabi thing. don't worry, i'll craft the legislation and give you the credit, i'll jot something down on a napkin at the caf at lunch, don't worry about it. fuggedaboutit.
Federer: and don't forget the Prell. did wonders when i had long hair. perfect for helfies.
Bump: Scottington High?
Gannon enters the tableroom disgruntled and snarling and turning up his pig nose in disgust.
Federer: why so bleeding heart? your beating heart broken, is that the matter? haven't found Link yet? he was at Wimbledon. yeah, saw him on Centre Court. he was mad cos all of the grass had been cut so there were no gems or jars to find. no bushes for him to whack with his sword. nothing to chop.
Bump: Link blamed Honda Lawnmowers.
Mooch: chicken's here. hey Gannon, suck your own cock.
Mooch: lick the bones off your own chicken. the greasier, the gooder.
Federer: hey, check out my balls. look at these cute speakers made entirely from fuzzy tennis balls. how many?
Bump: you sell these? sure. but why?
Federer: there is literally nothing left for me to do.
Federer starts to sing.
Federer: Scaramucci Scaramucci can you do the Fandango?
the Pope is enjoying some naked time with Kirsten Powers.
Kirsten: there you go, i installed it myself, your own rainfall showerhead.
the Pope: Squeal!!! i love it, honey, takes me back to my missionary work in Brazil.
Kirsten: but why are Comey and Ashley Parker under your shower?
the Pope: i'm the Pope, darlin'. can't be the only one without a mistress. some healthy competition will be good for you.
Kirsten: but why are Scully and Mulder under your shower?
the Pope: cos they're cool. and they're conducting an investigation. while naked. so they can swim better.
little does anyone know but the water being supplied for the Pope's private shower is coming from a massive explosion of Greenland's underwater icebergs punctured by the spokes of the Statue of Liberty's crown. poor Lady Liberty is stuck, trapped underwater by her piercings.
Mooch: Vlad wants to take you on a sightseeing tour of the Kremlin.
at the NBC Studios, Lawrence O'Donnell is finishing up his fifteen-minute---the entire first segment--- monologue, the topic of which is what exactly Putin has on Bump.
"no one knows," Lawrence concludes breathlessly, dramatically pausing and looking up to the darkened studio's lights and lifting his leg like Hamlet.
his special guest tonight is Bump. sitting across from Lawrence in the studio. which looks weird.
Bump: can we hurry this up? i gotta be somewhere. so these mooks come up to me in the stands while i'm cradling game chili and say the grass here at El Clasico is the good shit. i was like, yeah, America! Link was complaining that the Wimbledon grass was bad. oh, and Chuck Grassley, i know you're watching, Grassley, your ass is grassley and i'm the Honda Lawnmower. thank you.
Bump and his family, not Jared or Ivanka, take the bunny ferry to the bus in Moscow.
Putin: are you sure you want to take the bus?
Bump: yeah what's wrong with public transportation? my son works here. the bus ride gives me leisurely time to think.
needless to say the sight of the two leaders of the free world on a bus gives the normally-dead-inside passengers a jolt. it just looks weird. one of these passengers is Tiffany Bump. but no one takes out a camera. no bombs of any kind, photo or otherwise.
Bump has finished crafting his tweet for the evening:
i don't like people
Putin: would you like your in-flight snack? invokana. it goes down smooth with vodka soda.
Bump: Liver Aid and a little New York Cheddar nosh will be plenty, thanks.
the parties arrive at the Kremlin, all shiny with the sounds of Russian babies cooing and playing.
Bump: this place is a dump.
the beige cave is where we find the Men From The East and the hooded figure dancing up a storm while they hammer away with stone tools in a montage.
hooded figure: my fellow craftsmen, we have built with craftsman tools racing cars, cars, triplanes, and cars on top of triplanes. this cave has been our workshed. our sacred garage. along the way we have prayed for alternative sources of energy and we have been granted them because time is of no consequence within these walls. we are blessed with cross and fire. the blue flame tells us all if we stare longingly into it long enough. and hard enough. we find that the moment our eyelids get heavy and our pupils get droopy is when the visions come, dancing on top of the blue flame with twirling skirts of sparks. like Jedi holograms. we learned last night that we were looking at this all wrong. everyone has their version of reality. so it's not all one big circle. the totality of reality is really divided up into two circles, one smaller than the first one but of equal value. these two circles work in tandem to grind the universe. two completely different versions of the same show. we have the original circle in our possession. we must get to work on this smaller circle.
the Men From The East all ooh and audibly gasp, pointing at each other.
Men: did you get that vision? did you get that dream? cos i didn't. no? you? no? none of us? just the hooded figure? okay.
the hooded figure by herself plays the
ORGAN OF THE RECESSIONAL INTERLUDE AS THE MEN LEAVE THE MONASTERY, CLICK HERE, RIGHT HERE AT THIS LINK
the hooded figure: understanding wasn't built in a day. the road is long. i had a good sleep last night.