Ordering lunch as a Tyger and a Black Panther

In yesterday's episode of BRYAN THE TYGER, we met a wizard who claimed to be our author. Today, we go out in search of a midday meal. Spoiler alert: we find it, in part 37 of shit now I forgot the title.

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 Thirty-Seven

No further questions, your honor,” replies Myala; then, leaning close to me, she whispers: “C’mon, let’s go. This guy’s no fun.”

So while Bryan the wizard is standing there with his eyes closed, wearing a smug expression, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and slightly humming to himself in self-satisfaction, we jungle felines skulk away.

§

Once we’re safely out of earshot, Myala holds up her forepaw at an angle and sez: “I was this close to mauling that man.”

“Well then it’s good that we left when we did,” I say, “cuz, if it’s curtains for him, it’s curtains for us.”

Myala stops short: “You really believe that? About him being the author?”

I stare into the distance and think for a moment before answering. “I guess ‘believe’ is maybe too strong of a word; but I’d rather be safe than sorry . . . like Pascal’s wager.”

Myala lowers her vast Panther-face but continues piercing me with her eyes: “You’re a Tyger of Wrath, yet you’d ‘rather be safe than sorry’?”

Trying not to look cornered, I say: “The guy’s a zany old eccentric. I don’t see any harm in letting him indulge his fancy.”

Myala cocks her head. “I see your point.” Then she tilts her head the other way. “And, after all, one of Blake’s proverbs does say: ‘Dip him in the river who loves water’.”

So we continue to walk thru the desert. Soon the ground becomes green.

“Ah, it looks like we’ve reached the edge of the wilderness,” I remark.

We both stand for a moment and admire the gentle slopes of the grassy plains lying outstretched before us.

Myala squints: “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Are those Tyger-lilies?”

I survey the plants bestrewing the land, all of which are in flower. “Sheesh! maybe that robed fellow was who he claimed to be,” I laugh. “Should we partake?” (I now note that Myala is already bounding thru the hillocks on a devouring rampage.) “Hey, wait up!”

We both jaw the landscape lilyless.

After tallying our scores, we declare Myala to be the winner. For the amount of Tyger-lilies that she consumed corresponds to the number of years that have passed since the death of Julius Christ, whereas I myself ate only as many flowers as there are years succeeding the rise of Caesar Jesus. The difference being either 44, 33, or 77. (I forget which — it was just a frivolous game.)

Then an alien spaceship crash-lands and Doctor Kohault gives us a pep talk (unsolicited); then this alien spaceship leaves again, in a state of disrepair.

“Well, that was odd,” I say. “What do you wanna do now?”

“Why don’t we break into a grocery store and steal some kitty chow?” Myala suggests.

“Sounds good,” I say. “But do you really want to crash thru the glass, even if the double-doors open for us automatically?”

“Yes,” sez Myala. “It’ll be much more pleasant, that way.”

§

So we skulk over the hillocks until we find a Big-Box Grocery Store, also known as a Supermarket.

“Behold, the glass doors have auto-opened!” sez Myala. She extends her forepaw to direct my attention to the accurately described phenomenon.

So we both shuffle umpteen paw-prints non-doorward. Then we bash thru the glass panel and land on a display.

“This is like an explosion in a shingle factory,” I quip.

All the customers in the store begin screaming and panicking. They all rush to one corner of the store and continue to scream and panic there collectively.

I step forward from the heap of glass-shards and now-untethered shingle-bundles:

“Have no fear!” I roar at the crowd of shrieking consumers; “I Bryan the Tyger and our imperator Myala the Black Panther have come to eat up all of your kitty chow.” Then I add: “We wouldn’t normally sink so low as to accept the type of food that your kind thinks we favor, but—”

“Ooh, Bry, look!” Myala interrupts, holding up a package of red meat wrapped in plastic: “They have sheep!”

So we ditch the kitty-chow idea (I unbalance all the cans that I had been cradling in my forearms stacked in the shape of a pyramidal turret) and instead clean out the store’s inventory of mutton.

Since nobody dares to approach the cash register while we jungle beasts are attempting to buy our groceries (the entire customership of Orangu­tans are all still screaming and cowering in the corner of the establishment, along with the store’s staff and management), I pen a handwritten letter, using the supermarket’s own stationary, and leave it on the countertop, alongside a heap of banknotes that will more than cover the cost. And my letter reads as follows.

“Dear grocery store, I Bryan the Tyger and my shadow-guide Myala the Black Panther tried to buy up all your yearling mutton, as well as every other lamb-product that we could find in your red-meat section. However, when we arrived at the checkout lane, there was nobody who dared to let us pay for our selection. Probably this was because we had entered the ‘Express Lane’, whose sign (I just now realized) stipulates that only orders of ‘twenty items or less’ should attempt to use this register, whereas Myala and I have billions and billions and billions and billions and billions and billions and billions of packages of lamb and ram meat, all wrapped in clear plastic, overflowing our shopping cart, in addition to ninety-nine live sheep. So that’s why I am leaving this pile of cash-money on the countertop. The total amount of my payment is more than it would cost to purchase Louisiana plus all of Mexico and the Republic of Texas, so there will undoubtedly be funds leftover after the transaction is finalized. With regard to this surplus, I declare: Keep the change. Consider it a superabundant gratuity. — Signed: Tyger Bryan.”

Then, in very fine lawyer-print, underneath my name, I write “Wizard and Author,” just for a lark.

So that’s the story of what Myala and I did for lunch on March 8 of 2021.