1st stop in the city of green

Here is the next part of BRYAN THE TYGER where all of us main characters travel to the shining city at the top of the hill. And we visit a Money Shop.

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Let the record reflect that I, Bryan the Tyger, while carrying as passengers Emily Brontë and Dorothy Gale (as played by Judy Garland), along with my friend Myala the Black Panther, who is conveying on her own back the White Bride Emily Dickinson, now gallop at full tilt into the Shining City, following the paved path that leads there, all the while chant-panting repeatedly the catchphrase “Follow the yellow brick road”.

When we reach the radiant cosmopolis, we slow our gallop to a skulk, for we are in awe. Everything is glowing green, eerily, like all of these glass skyscrapers are coated with the universal symbol for radioactive slime. It’s truly breathtaking. — There are no other types of building but these glazen structures with multiple floors, which look like palaces made from huge ice-shards.

The first thing we do is find a money shop. We look for a place that has a big dollar sign ($) on its top, which is lit up in neon lights — the glyph reminds one of a serpent on a pole (see the biblical book of Numbers, Ch. 21 “And the LORD said unto Moses: ‘Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole.’ And the LORD sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and much of the people died”). — Everything in this city is illuminated and flashing, and there are money shops everywhere. I approach the glass double-doors and place my paw-pad on the fingerprint reader.

“That’s not going to work,” sez Emily Brontë, and she nudges me with the heel of her foot, “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else.”

Then, when the reader scans my paw-print, the double-doors glow red, a buzzing alarm erupts, and the word “DANGER” flashes at us in bright neon above the entryway.

“I told you so,” sez Ms. Brontë.

“This place,” sez Emily Dickinson, “vaguely reminds me of the world called Krypton, where the comic-book hero Superman is rumored to have been born and subsequently was forced to flee when only an infant, because his people ruined their realm, most likely on account of greed; for they financialized everything and could not kick their addiction to compound interest, which always leads to slavery and, like a parasite that kills its host, drags the Demos down to Chaos. “For the love of money is the root of all evil,” (1st Timothy 6:10), and it has the effect of sending the populace into a state of barbarity, so that they’re forced to ark their Übermensch — the one true flower among so many weeds — via interstellar incubator, and launch this lad towards the nearest Planet of Promise, shouting in unison the following salutation, as the babe flies away in his cushioned manger-pod: ‘Sayonara, superboy! Go help life-forms elsewhere, cuz this realm’s toast. And tho our reunion with thee might not occur in this dimension, still we join hands and sing while thou art blasting off; yea, now we belt out our favorite drinking-song . . .’

“Then they croon very slowly:

We’ll meet again 
Don’t know where 
Don’t know when! 
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day . . .

“And, after this, the 2nd part of this stanza goes:

Keep smiling through 
Just like you always do 
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!

“At last, they wave their lime-green kerchiefs and shout as one their home planet’s motto: ‘There’ll Always Be an England!’”

Now, just after Ms. Dickinson finishes her above speech, the red flashing double-doors turn blue and open automatically, and the “DANGER” sign changes to “WELCOME,” underneath which appears a blinking neon phrase in fine-print that reads: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’entrate.” (Ms. Brontë tells us that this means: “Throw caution to the winds, ye valued customers!”) So we enter the Money Shop to look around:

I, Tyger Bryan, while browsing, discover a five-dollar bill that I’d like to purchase: for it has on its obverse a portrait of Abram, the nation’s great patriarch, done on the day when he “went in unto” his wife’s handmaiden Hagar (see Genesis 16:1-4); so I place this paper banknote in our shopping basket. (Dorothy lets us use her wicker handbasket for shopping; as she no longer needs it, since her little dog escaped.) Dorothy herself chooses both the fifty and the hundred dollar bills, which also have pictures of dour bureaucrats printed upon them; so we add those as well to our order. Ms. Dickinson selects the thrillion dollar bill, which is wholly imaginary and has a full-color collage by Henry Darger on it — it’s definitely the most exuberant item of money. (“Nice choice,” I remark.) Emily Brontë decides on a military-grade pitchfork and some torches. Lastly, Myala waives off the idea of buying anything: “I’m just not feeling greedy at the moment,” she sez.

So the clerk at the cash register rings us up, and we pay for our purchase with staples.

“Have a great day,” the clerk hands me the loot in a glowing green toxic plastic bag.

However, just before we leave, I turn around and address this clerk again:

“Pardon me, but I feel like I recognize you from somewhere . . . Is your name Gustav, by any chance? Aren’t you the receptionist who worked the front desk at Bethlehem Inn, from the Vampyre Bryan novel?”

“No, but I get that question a lot,” sez the clerk; “Gustav and I must share some striking quality — perhaps he also has ivory skin and emerald-green eyes?”

“Yes, that’s how I imagine him,” I nod.

“That’s probably it, then. But no: the only other fake novel I’ve been in is Cruisin for a Bruisin with the Giant Squid — I played the unnamed female cashier who allowed Executive Stevens to put the $7,000-dollar loafers on the government’s tab, during that time when he was the only soldier of the army who was allowed to wear a business suit.”

Ms. Brontë now perks up and sez to the clerk: “Ah, I could tell that you fell in love with Stevens, in that scene. . . . But he never returned for you, did he.”

The cashier lowers her eyes.

“C’mon, y’all,” I say to my team, trying to lighten the mood; “this is Luxury Land; we need to get a move on.”

So we all exit the glass sliding double-doors of the Money Shop. Then, once we’re outside, I think of one last thing that I forgot to ask the cashier, so I turn around and place my paw-pad on the fingerprint reader again, and the doors turn red and the sign flashes “DANGER,” just like before. And we wait while the alarm sounds for an eternity.

To fill the time, Emily Dickinson recites her poem that begins “Tell all the truth but tell it slant—” and when she concludes, the doors turn blue and let us in again, like before.

“Maybe it’s something about your voice, which causes the security system to melt and allow us passage,” I crane my neck and remark to Ms. Dickinson, who is riding atop my friend Myala the Black Panther.

“That could be,” answers Emily; “but I think it’s just that most modern conveniences are annoyingly inadequate.”

Seeing our entourage reentering, the clerk sez: “Need something more?”

“Actually,” I say, “I was just wondering – I forgot to ask this when we were in here two seconds ago . . . Could you explain why all the money is priced higher than its dollar value? Like, the cost of twenty bucks is never twenty bucks: it’s always a little more, or sometimes it’s a lot more. Like, my five-dollar bill here, with the picture of Honest Abe from Genesis, was priced at six dollars and sixty-six cents. Why is that?”

The clerk stares vaguely, lost in thought for a moment; then she sez:

“To be honest, I don’t know. I never thought about it before. Do you want to speak to the manager?”

I shake my vast head, “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.” Then I add: “I was just curious, that’s all. We’ll be leaving now . . .”

Emily Brontë kicks my sides hard, “No, Beast!” (this makes me halt) then Ms. Brontë addresses the clerk:

“Wait, [expletive]; don’t listen to this feline. Our answer is YES: we demand to speak to your manager.”

The clerk sports a blank look and slightly bows; then disappears through the door behind her.

Soon a woman emerges from the red drapes backstage and introduces herself as the Money Shop’s proprietress.

“By golly!” whispers Dorothy to Emily Brontë, whose waist she’s still clutching while straddling my Tyger-back. (I can overhear her speech very clearly; for I have keen ears that are like radar dishes, which I can rotate and aim at whatever I want to listen to — in this case, it’s Judy Garland, who, in a voice as soft as summer rain, is ad­dressing a bit of expository dialogue to one of my favorite poets.) “That,” she sez, referring to the Money Shop’s Owner, “is the same actor who played the Wicked Witch of the East — the one that was crushed by my house, commencing the Technicolor sequence of our film, at our arrival in Munchkinland; and her feet shriveled up.”

“Bry!” Ms. Brontë shouts directly after hearing this account from the glossy lips of Dorothy who just broke character, “you [expletive] Tyger, maul her!”

So I maul the manager.

Now the young nameless cashier steps out from a doorway at the back of the shop and innocently announces, before seeing the evidence of the crime scene:

“Please believe me — I cannot find her: she’s normally in the smoking room, watching her stories, but now I don’t know where she has flown off to. Perhaps she’s—”

The clerk now steps into the blood that’s coating the floor and perceives the Real Me, Tyger Bryan, with my vast, terrifying face held low to the ground, taking one last lick.

“Oh my!” the clerk clutches her pearls. “You’ve torn in tatters the Queen of Hearts!”

Now Dorothy pipes up: “Queen of Hearts? No, this is the Wicked Witch of the East.”

The clerk blinks a couple times and then puts the facts together: “Ah, that’s cuz one single actor played both roles. We’re talking about the same person.”

“The same [expletive],” sez Brontë.

Both Dorothy and the clerk of the Money Shop pause for a beat and then begin to laugh.

“Say — excuse me,” I address the clerk, who immediately stops laughing and gasps in fear; “no, don’t be afraid — I just have one last question before we leave. Do you know where we might find the Wizard of Oz?”

Now, feeling a sharp nudge upon my Tyger-frame that registers more toward my rear legs than the usual Brontë-kick, I realize that Dorothy Gale wants my attention:

“Tyger Bryan, why do you ask a common Money Store Clerk for secret info that I myself could have given you quite easily? For I already explained that I and my other travel-mates whom you consumed yestereven had just returned from a visit to the Wizard.”

“Oh, that’s right — I’m sorry,” I say in earnest. Then I turn to the clerk: “Never mind, my dear,” I perform a salute with my mighty right forepaw, “we’ll be taking our leave now, and Dorothy will guide us to the Wizard. She knows the way.”

The clerk remains trembling in place and clutching her pearls as we exit the establishment.