Speech! Speech!

O my goodness, you must read this new chapter of TYGER BRYAN, where my hero addresses the globe before doing other things. (No, I'm kidding: you do not need to read this; in fact, it is a chapter that I advise you either to avoid or just skim for incriminating info.)

[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.

Chapter Thirty-Four

After resituating all the Solar System’s inhabitants on their respective home-planets, and then moving my own feline family back to our castle on the peninsula in the Alps of the globe formerly known as Earth but which has lately been rechristened Orangutan Land, the first thing I do is hold a press conference:

“Earthlings,” I address the creatures I just saved (committing the blunder of using the outdated designation, as I haven’t yet grown comfortable with the new, official title Orangutanlanders), “thanks for tuning in to your preferred News Network on the TV to catch my speech here — I really appreciate it. Now, what I wanted to say is that, since my bond with all of you has grown strong, because we spent time together charioting to Jupiter and back; moreover, since you’re all so thankful that I provided you with Space Suits and let you screw on Bubble Helmets from my private collection (by the way, I wanna just pause for a second to note what an advantage it is that those helms are clear glass all around, instead of mostly opaque plastic with only a little window in front: for, with the full-glass design, one can really see the helmet-wearer’s face, which is a boon when filming outer-space melodramas, as the cinephiles in the audience then do not need to keep asking their fellow moviegoers: ‘Which of the characters is currently onscreen delivering this soliloquy on extraterrestrial intermarriage?’ because anyone can plainly tell: you can behold the movie star’s entire visage effortlessly; slightly magnified even — I find this much more visually stimulating) — I say, because we all endured this latest trauma together and made it thru the death and rebirth of this planet without a scratch, so now our relationship is not one of potential predator to possible prey but rather that of steadfast fellow-warriors who have survived a common enemy’s prolonged onslaught during one of the bloodiest series of fortnights on the battlefield, I have just one question:

“What shall we do about all these Orangutans that have overrun the land? Do you want me to eat them? Cuz I’m willing to do that. Myala could help me — she’s the Glowing Black Panther who helped me pull you all.”

The executive producer of my press conference begins to wave frantically from behind the camera; she and the rest of the show’s technical crew are huddled together around a makeshift workstation, keeping an eye on several computer monitors. This producer now loudly whispers to me:

“The global audience is responding! Messages are pouring in on our website and over the social networks! People are unanimously voting to let the Orangutans live. I’m getting note after note from loyal viewers saying things like ‘No, don’t eat them!’ and ‘Refrain from wholesale slaughter’; also, countless notes declare: ‘I think they’re cute — do not therefore bite them as food!’ In addition, untold Orangutans themselves are weighing in: I can hear them squeaking and gibbering in my earpiece; they’ve flooded our phone lines. (I wonder why they are only calling and not sending letters to our editor. Perhaps they do not know how to read and write.) They’re unanimously declaring variations on the theme ‘Keep your paws off my daughter!’ – We can only presume that they mean for you to sheathe your claw-switchblades, O Tyger-King Bryan; and, by that term ‘daughter’, they seem to be referring to Orangutans collectively: not only the females but also the brutes; and not exclusively the offspring of any specific caller, but all apes who had the misfortune of being born orangey.”

“Hmm . . .” I stare down at the tangled mass of cords for the audiovisual equipment that is being used to broadcast my live press conference. Then I announce my decision:

“OK, I’ll abstain from eating the Orangutans. I’ll just befriend them instead.”

We hear a faint worldwide cheer, as the entire population of what was formerly Planet Earth rejoices that I have decided to forgo committing yet another genocide.

“Alright, this press conference is over. Thanks for your time!” I say. Then I drop the microphone and go talk to my soul-mate Myala:

“Well, what do you wanna do?” I ask. “I assumed that this would be another no-brainer and all the Orangutans would go the way of the Ibex; but the people have spoken.”

“Let’s just return to our castle and feed the sharks,” Myala replies. “We can do the whole ‘One for you, two for us’ routine, using the fish that we keep in the bucket near the shoreline. It’ll be fun.”

“OK,” I smile.

So we prance back to our castle in the Alps and feed the sharks. We even stand and converse with the Leviathans for a few moments afterwards (we’ve found that, whereas they used to be more standoffish, they’re a little more talkative now — my guess as to the reason for this change is that they’re grateful we saved their hide).

Then Myala and I head back into the castle. We’re now alone again, walking thru the artificial jungle that we planted indoors.

“I wish we owned a time-traveling machine,” I say, out of the blue.

Myala looks over, half-smirking: “And where did this idea spring from?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I was just thinking about ancient Rome. I wish I could go back there and maul all those senators who assassinated Caesar.”

“Ah, you’d like to wreak vengeance,” Myala sez.

“No, not vengeance,” I explain; “I’d like to devour them before they got a chance to commit their murder. Then we could see how the world would have played out with Caesar in charge.”

“You think it would’ve been better or worse?”

I recoil sharply: “How could it be worse?”

She makes an innocent expression, “I’m only asking. — I didn’t know that you were such a fan of alternative history.”

I shake my vast Tyger-head, “I’m not. I hate history; I only like biography. But I’m interested in things being different than they are right now. I yearn to be elsewhere and for everything to be otherwise.”

“Ah, understood,” Myala nods. “I agree.”

§

On the morrow, we breakfast with our castle­mates Nous and Zephyros.

“Do you two eat this stuff every day, with this same cutlery and tableware?” I ask, nudging the kitty chow around my plastic bowl with a cat-spork.

“Yeah, we like it!” sez Zephyros.

“You don’t add any additional spices or meat to this, for flavoring . . . like strips of bacon, or roast pheasant?” I ask.

“No, there’s no need!” sez Zephyros.

I turn and face Nous: “Do you agree with this assessment?”

Nous shrugs, “It tastes fine, to me — it’s better than the harem food that they used to toss us. Mice and whatnot. I’m happy with the kitty-chow, as it is,” she closes her maw upon another sporkful.

I now address Myala, whom I notice is, just as I have been doing, pushing the kitty chow around her own bowl disconsolately:

“Hey, My, will you accompany me on an adventure? I’d like to go and meet some of the Orangutans who overran this place while we were away.”

Myala lets her utensil drop: “I’d love to,” she purrs.

§

So, leaving our complacent castle-mates to their morning meal, Myala and I skulk out to confront the inhabitants of Orangutan Land.

The first Orangutan that we meet is digging a ditch. “Hi, what’s your name,” I address this ditch-digger, “and what are you doing?”

“My name is Ron, and I’m digging a ditch,” sez the Orangutan blankly.

“Are you a droid?” I ask, on a hunch.

“No,” sez Ron the Orangutan.

“Artificial intelligence of any sort?” I push back.

“Nope,” sez Ron.

Myala now pipes up, “Why did you decide to dig this ditch?”

“It’s for a cable,” sez Ron the Orangutan. “We need to bury a cable.”

So it turns out that all these Orangutans are decent people. We meet a whole bunch of them, because they’re everywhere. We try to make friends with them, but they’re all too busy to commit to any type of personal relationship. They all seem to enjoy the labor that they’re doing. They perk right up when you ask them about their income — that is, when you inquire about how much money they’re being paid to work — but I can’t bring myself to relay these conversations to you, gentle reader; they’re just too lifeless. Please forgive this sin of omission.