Talkin, walkin, shoppin

The next things to do in my fake novel BRYAN THE TYGER are talk, walk, & shop. So in this next episode we talk, walk, & shop. And I tell you about the items that we bought.

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 Seventeen

The anger of Achilles subsides as I speak, and he admits as much.

“However,” he adds, “it is not because your argument convinces me that I grow calm; rather, your ceaseless rambling exhausts my will-to-revenge.

“Also, let me prove that, here in my extended life, I have become a true enthusiast for the writings of that luminary, whom you rightly call our hero, William Blake – immediately I recognized your deception in citing those lines that you allowed to end that previous chapter:

“By removing the words from their context, you attempted to make a dismal passage that deals with diminished delight seem as if it’s a prophecy of erotic fulfillment. However, if you had continued past the point in the poem where you stopt, the effect would have been exactly the opposite; for, after the section that you recited, the verses go on to say:

. . . they wail & shadowy tears

Fell down & shadowy forms of joy mixd with despair & grief

Their bodies buried in the ruins of the Universe

Mingled with the confusion. Who shall call them from the Grave.

“I only bring this up to establish the fact that you have not convinced me with your proof-texting. Your rhetorical style is dishonest; you remind me of another soul who recently joined us here in the Torrible Zone: he calls himself Paul the Apostle. Why are you smirking?”

Admittedly that insinuation did make me smirk. But I give no explanation.

Now Myala the Black Panther lifts up her voice and replies: “Maybe a better way to establish the point that my friend Bryan here failed to make would be to consider the following snippet from Blake’s Jerusalem; it’s only two lines – the first mentions the far more intense fashion of coupling done in heaven, while the second disparages the earthly flesh-style of copulation:

Embraces are Cominglings: from the Head even to the Feet;

And not a pompous High Priest entering by a Secret Place.

“Does that better serve the purpose?” Myala addresses the great Achilles.

“It is a much better choice of scripture,” he sez; “however, here, Blake is dealing with liaisons of a heterosexual nature. Need I remind you that my lover is Patroclus?”

“Wait a minute,” I Bryan the Tyger now interject; “what Myala quoted is still pretty much applicable: for is it not the same old High Priest entering by yet another . . .”

“Enough, enough,” sez Achilles, waving his hand as one would at a table-waiter who, unwantedly, continues to present one with dish after dish of complimentary caviar.

So, seeing the shade of Patroclus approaching the scene, we part ways amicably with Achilles; and Myala and I spend the rest of our adventure exploring the Torrible Zone’s rolling acreage.

Almost immediately, as we pace forth, we come up behind the above-mentioned Apostle Paul: it is his form, unmistakably. I use my mighty right forepaw to tap him on his shoulder; then we slink around and pass by him on the opposite side, so while he looks to see who touched him, there’s nobody there, and we are long gone by the time he turns back around. This way, we avoid having to deal with him.

It happens that the Torrible Zone is pretty agreeable. It’s a nice place, with a lot of sights and sounds. There are trees everywhere, plus a bunch of wholesome activities for one’s family to enjoy. It has little makeshift amusement parks here and there among the weeds; and kiosks riddle the dune that serves as its marketplace. This dune is basically the biggest open-air mall imaginable: it expands beyond the horizon in every direction. So, just for kicks, and because I happened to have some caesar coins in my cat-purse, Myala and I end up making some purchases:

First we buy a mechanical silver owl. Cradling the thing in my left forearm, I switchblade out the claws of my mighty right paw and etch an inscription into its underside:

i am bubo property of astro bryan

Then I turn to Myala and explain: “That’s in case I ever transmogrify into an astronaut and get to star in my own space novel.”

When I tire of having to hold this robot owl under my arm like it’s an American football, Myala suggests that we buy a cart.

So our second purchase is a cart. I place the owl in the cart.

Next, we buy a sack of rice and one cranberry-filled pastry. We place the rice among our other goods, but Myala and I split the savory treat between us immediately, and we keep going “Mm! Ooh! I can’t believe how good this is!” while we devour it.

Then we purchase a swarm of robo-bees, which are sold as a set with a matching, metallic hive. The reason that the bees are mechanical is as follows.

What happened is that, once upon a time, all the Torrible Zone’s pollinators decided to go extinct; because the Agricultural Industry joined forces with the Chemical Manufacturers, and they started proving themselves correct about every single issue; therefore, having scared away the real bees, mechanical dummies were invented as replacements. And it turns out that these robo-bees are the perfect complement to my metal owl Bubo. (In place of orange honey, the droid hive produces quicksilver.)

We also buy a pig, a few jackdaws, a special monkey, and many cases of a local brand of absinthe. (One drop of this elixir goes a long way.)

Lastly, we filled out a cluster of legal forms, and I stamped my paw-print upon the dotted lines of all these documents, to serve as a signature, which resulted in our solidifying a lifetime subscription to the Stilton Cheese Company. This means that Myala and I will receive regular shipments of cheese to our castle for ever and ever.

We place this paperwork on top of all the other stuff in our cart and then return to our sieve-ship.

Our next adventure will probably be to see if we can navigate past the newly mobile Scylla and Charybdis so as to reach the Chankly Bore. – I sure hope that the gulfs don’t wash us down!