Goin out onto the floor

Here's the 2nd half of a two-part chapter of BRYAN THE TYGER. In this episode, Bryan the Tyger walks out onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and enjoys a fun adventure.

[I got tired of graffiti-ing tygers onto junk ads, so, for the next few days, the obligatory images that accompany these announcements will be just lazy attempts at hand-drawing copies of ad photos with felt tip marker.]

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.

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So we gallop over to the building where the trading takes place. We arrive just as the old folks behind the podium in that little balcony box are coaxing some celebrity starlet to bash the gong (cuz the old folks who officially preside over the ceremony are too feeble to make any noise when they swing the mallet — often, even if they manage to lift it, it slips from their grip).

As the trading day begins, some of the stockbrokers notice that a Burning Tyger and a Glowing Black Panther are pulling a Fiery Chariot onto the trading floor. Many people nearby begin to scream and panic. But I roar out to whoever is willing to listen:

“Fear not, we come in peace. My name is Bryan, and this is my friend Myala. There is a horse-whip in the seat of this chariot, and we invite anyone who dares to hop in. We will give you a free ride, and then drop you off back here: no strings attached. Only, if you whip us, the electricity from our fur will travel up thru the whip and shock you, and it will ignite you into a ball of flames, and you will burn to a crisp. But that’s entirely your own decision: for, as I said, there’s no need to use the whips. We’re jungle beasts, not horses of instruction. — Now, do I have any takers?”

One stockbroker approaches and remarks: “But the chariot is already on fire; so why do you say that we’ll burn up only if we whip you? We’ll obviously get burned the moment we mount that mobile throne.”

“No!” I roar, “you have misunderstood. This chariot was made by me myself, from good lumber. I ignited each of these flames with my own burning Tyger-fur, by walking close to several cedars and felling them. So this combustion that you see here is made from genuine hell-fire; thus it has only as much heat and light as I desire it to have; for it obeys my will – in other words, I can make it as hot as I want, and I’m telling you that it’s not going to burn you: trust me.”

The broker who questioned just now looks skeptical. “So I’ll only get burned to death if I choose to use the whip — is that what you’re claiming?”

“That is correct.” 

The man rubs his chinny-chin-chin and then looks around at the other brokers on the floor of the Stock Exchange, which, for the first time in a great while has gone pretty much quiet; for very few trades are taking place in the background. The man addresses the surrounding crowd of fellow stockbrokers:

“Should I trust this monstrosity?”

The crowd gives a halfhearted cheer.

“Alright,” the broker nods and grits his teeth. “I’ll accept the challenge.”

The fellow steps forward and places his foot on the edge of the mounting step.

Over my shoulder, I say to this man: “Go ahead, son of Adam; fear not — take a seat on the Merkabah! And don’t be confused because I referred to this contraption as a Merkabah: that’s just another word for Chariot. Stop acting so shy. Look, the flames are not burning thru your shoe, which is resting on the step — what are you waiting for? Hop on!”

So the stockbroker throws caution to the wind: he pulls himself up by the rail and lunges into the box seat. After adjusting his position for comfort, he places both of his loafers on the footrest.

“See?” I say, “there’s no trick to this; I’m just offering you a ride. Now where would you like to go? — Or would you prefer that I surprise you?”

“You choose,” the broker is starting to regain his confidence.

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll just bring you around the block, real simple and quick, so that your friends here at the Stock Exchange can know that we jungle felines are to be trusted.”

“Sounds good,” sez the broker.

“By the way,” I say, “what type of stock trader are you, exactly?”

“Um . . .” (the man must think for a moment — he didn’t expect me to be so conversational,) “I’m a commodity broker. I mostly deal in futures.”

“Futures? OK!” I say. Then we take off. We exit the floor of the Stock Exchange and begin to gallop on the main, paved road. The motorized vehicles around us are honking and swerving to avoid hitting us, because we travel without regard for traffic laws. Everything in our wake ends up spinning out and catching on fire.

“Yee haw!” shouts the commodity broker from the box chair. He takes the whip into his hand, absentmindedly.

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I say, “but don’t use that whip — remember what I said!”

“I’m just holding it for the look — I’m not gonna crack it,” the broker sez. “This is really a blast!”

We round the corner and head back toward the Stock Exchange. We re-enter the trading floor, which, in the meantime, has swelled back to its normal level of action. People are shouting and gesturing maniacally to each other . . . 

All this chaos dies down as we approach. Most of the brokers turn and squint our way, curious to know what happened to their colleague.

“Aw, is that all?” sez the commodity broker from the box seat of our chariot, still gripping the whip. “That was a riot — let’s do it again!”

“I’ll gladly bring you on a second trip, but only if no other of your colleagues wish to go,” I say. Then I address the crowd in general:

“Anyone else dare to hop in and ride on the Mystical Merkabah?”

Another nondescript man in a suit now steps forward and addresses the broker who’s currently in the box chair:

“Don, did they treat you alright? Do you think it’s worth a shot?”

The commodity broker answers from the chariot: “It’s pure bliss — but I wanna try it a few more times; so, wait till I’m finished.”

“No, let me try!” Then this new trader turns and addresses me directly: “Tell Don to get down and let someone else have a chance; I’m interested in taking a spin, O Evil Beast.”

“Please, call me Bryan,” I say. “I am a Tyger, and this is my shadow-soul Myala; she’s a Panther.” (Myala nods.) “Sure, we welcome anyone who dares to hop on.” Then I address our current passenger:

“Hey, commodity-trader Don, climb down and let your friend here enjoy a ride. You’ll get a chance to go again, once everyone else has had their turn.”

I look back and see that Don is now firmly gripping the guard rails of his box chair and pressing his loafer into the chest of his fellow-stockbroker who is trying to ascend the mounting step.

“Guys, don’t fight,” I say; “there’s plenty of time for everyone. Now, Don, get down and let your colleague have a shot.”

Don the commodity trader now acts in desperation. With a thrust of his leg, he shoves the in­truder away from the box chair, then he turns and raises the whip high overhead and shouts:

“Gyah!”

With all his might, Don cracks the whip twice: once on my Tyger-back; then again on Myala’s Panther-back.

Now an electric buzz is heard. At the crack of the whip appears a glowing fire-ball, which shoots thru the length until it reaches the handle; then it leaps out as a thunderbolt and burns the stockbroker to a crisp. This happens in an instant. Don now resembles a man-shaped piece of coal, and smoke ascends from his charred corpse.

After a moment, the stockbroker whom Don had fought away from our Chariot of Fire approaches the box chair and places his foot on the mounting step. He hoists himself up and then kicks the burnt body of the commodity trader off the far side of the guard rail.

“Gyah!” this new passenger shouts.

“Hold on a sec,” I say. “Could you look over the side and check if your pal Don there is still holding the horse-whip in his carbonized hand?”

This new passenger gazes over the rail and sez: “Yeah, he’s still got a grip on that whip, there.”

Turning my head so that I can look in this stockbroker’s eyes, I ask: “Will you do me a favor?”

Slightly flummoxed, the man replies: “OK?”

“Go retrieve the whip — bring it in and just set it back down on the box seat, so that it’s lying next to you, as a temptation, while we ride,” I say. “You don’t need to use it, and I strongly urge you not to; but it’s important that we keep the instrument within arm’s reach of our passengers, at all times.” – I nod; then I say one more thing to this man:

“By the way, what’s your name, and what type of stocks do you trade?”

While climbing out of the chariot and prying the whip from the scorched mitt of his deceased colleague, the fellow replies: “My name is Larry. I’m full-service; I do a variety of stuff — a little bit of everything.”

“OK, Larr,” I say. “Do you mind if I call you Larr?”

“Not at all,” Larry replies, as he mounts the box chair with the horse whip.

“Alright, then, Larr. – Do you have a request for any particular path of travel, or should we just improvise like we did with your ex-friend Don?”

“Surprise is fine,” sez Larr.

So we go on a slightly different route. (To tell the truth, I’m interested in seeing the sights of this city, and this ride-service gives me an excuse to do so without feeling too self-indulgent; for, this way, instead of aimlessly sightseeing, I feel like I’m offering a service to the community.)

Now, at a bend in the road, when we’re gracefully curving past a gorgeous, sparkling-calm pond to our right, and oncoming traffic is crashing and burning all around us like it’s the End Times, Larry stands up and cannot help himself: He cracks the whip violently on the back of Myala the Black Panther, and then on my own Tyger-back, as he shouts:

“Faster, pussycats!”

So Larry self-immolates as well. We thus trot back onto the floor of the Stock Exchange with his toasted cadaver. The trading chaos immediately halts and there is pin-drop silence.

“Poor Larry whipped us,” I say. “Anyone else dare to ride?”

A woman steps forth.

“Hop on!” I say. “Take the whip from his hand before you toss him overboard.”

So she does as instructed. We find out that she is named Martha, after the spouse of George Washington. We take her on a fine trip — it proves to be the best course yet — but she grows excited and ends up whipping us harder than either of her precursors.

This same cycle continues throughout the afternoon, until the closing gong sounds, marking the end of the trading day. But we continue this recreation for the next few months, allowing broker after broker to fry themselves in delight, until the Rulers banish us from the floor.

After all is said and done, the number of heavenly angels that end up being engendered during this jaunt totals more than three thousand!