Why not continue to add to this uninspired section?

Jeez, I don't know why I can't get out of the trap that this Balaam episode has become, for my fake novel BRYAN THE TYGER that I'm trying to keep bloating — here's yet another part, and the chapter's STILL not finished. Instead of going on and on with these last three installments, I should have just written a single sentence: "The Tyger & the Panther talk with the Ass; then move on to fresh farces." (Maybe I'll do a copy-paste replacement with that, when revising.)

[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.

*

Balaam takes a breath and looks as if he is going to speak, but then closes his mouth before saying a word. With a baffled look, he performs this same set of minor movements that precede the act of talking, and he appears to be on the verge, over and over, of making an utterance, howbeit without ever actually delivering any speech. The reason for this almost laughable display is that he keeps desiring to respond to some aspect of his situation, yet then repeatedly realizes that there’s nothing to say about it — all these pressures merely are what they are, and he’s stuck in their midst and compelled to feel their effect while remaining powerless:

King Lush-Green wants Balaam to curse the jungle beasts; Christ’s wife has urged Balaam to abstain from cursing the jungle beasts; meanwhile, the legal team that the King has ordered to stay at Balaam’s house until the curse is accomplished has threatened to revoke Balaam’s professional prophet-license if he proves noncompliant. And these latter lawyers are quite a hand­ful to live with: they’re like soldiers stationed at one’s residence during wartime. (Or, recall that group of unruly suitors plaguing Penelope and Telemachus in The Odyssey.)

Ultimately Balaam therefore decides to slumber. He thanks Bloody Mary Magdalene’s New-Age Spirit for the advice, which he agrees is most prudent; then he goes from room to room of his household, making sure all the lawyers are comfortable and have everything they need. After topping off their nightcaps and pouring one for himself, Balaam slides on his pajamas and slips into bed.

§

On the morrow, Balaam wakes early to saddle his ass. (This is the same one that Sancho Panza rides in the novel Don Quixote. The ass also starred in A Terrible Misunderstanding, my own closet drama, where the creature had the dual role of playing Saint John as well as Saint John’s donkey.) Balaam takes along his cursing implements, which consist of a magic wand, and one of those phaser guns that the evil storm­troopers wield in the movie Star Wars (1977); the kind that shoots laser-beams. He only carries these items in case he is called upon to follow thru with the curse that was ordered (the prophet quickly waived off as inexperienced foolery King Lush-Green’s request for song-bowls and hypno-healing). For Balaam still hasn’t made up his mind about what he shall do, whether he shall heed his familiar spirit Ms. Magdalene’s advice to hold off and let be, or obey the Highest King Lush-Green’s order to curse the deific animals; so he has opted to let his ass make this decision for him:

Balaam clutches his cursing implements and mounts the beast; then he nudges the ass to see which way it will walk. The creature is starting from a crossroads, and there are only two paths diverging: one leads to the alley where the cats are currently gazing upon the street-art, and the other road is just as fair, tho slightly less worn.

The ass starts to trot forth; and Balaam, holding the deadly wand in one hand and the laser gun in the other, thinks to himself:

“Whichever path this burro chooses, I’ll end up cursing someone — whatever proves to be my destination will present me with the sight of my target: it’ll either be the jungle felines, who are rumored to come from Hell and serve the Devil; or it will be the Holy King and his Blessed Oligarchs.”

Now, lo, the ass takes the straight way toward the dead-end: it goes along the highway, all the time braying contentedly, and turns not aside to the right or the left. (King Lush-Green of the Wasteland Wilderness, spying on Balaam via remote-controlled drone plane, rejoices to see this.)

Balaam’s ass, at last, enters the alley where I Bryan the Tyger and my soul-mate Myala the Black Panther are admiring the murals and aphorisms that the populace has spray-painted.

Myala and I both at once turn our vast heads and notice Balaam on his ass, at the far end of the alleyway.

Now, just freeze the scene here, in your mind, gentle reader, and let me take a quick moment to tell you how the spirit of the New Age’s own Bloody Mary is reacting to her runaway medium. (Recall that Balaam was moonlighting as her clairvoyant.) Ms. Magdalene’s anger is kindled at the rider, not the ass, on account of this choice; for, behind the curtain of reality, Mary had knelt down and instructed the little burro, back when he still belonged to Sancho Panza, that if anyone ever were to force the poor beast of burden to make a decision about which way to go — say, at a fork in the road — then he should close his donkey-eyes and just “use the Force”; which is to say: relinquish his own free-will and allow his passenger’s inclination to move his limbs by proxy, as if he is a walking ouija-board. Thus, although Balaam assumed that his ass was ambling at random, he himself (while being unaware of doing so) was piloting the creature via psychokinesis.

Now Mary’s blood is boiling since Balaam took the road with heavier traffic, as opposed to the one less traveled by: so the spirit of the Magdalene stands hovering directly in the way, for an adversary against him. She resembles Satan, in all her glory, for she is enraged. (“Why are damsels so attractive when their passions run high?” — that’s what our little donkey is thinking.)

Of course the ass sees the spirit of Bloody Mary blocking their progress, with her glittering sword unsheathed in her phantom-hand: therefore the ass turns and bumps into the wall, right into the flesh of the nymph that is spray-painted there: and Balaam spanks the ass with his wand, to bap some obedience into it, for Balaam is cloudy-minded from avarice (he presumes that the King will promote him over all other prophets, if he succeeds at doing this dirty deed); thus he continues to overlook the presence of his goddess.

But the spirit of Mary Magdalene stands firm and blocks the way, between the walls of the alley. (Each wall is covered with pictures of picnicking nymphs.)

At this point, I myself step forward and whisper to Ms. Magdalene — at least I attempt to whisper, but I fear that my purr comes off sounding more like a growl (it’s not my fault I’m ferocious!) — saying: “Mary! Bloody Mary! with all due respect, while appreciating your concern, we ourselves are more than able to meet the advances of this student of yours, this greenhorn medium here: no problem. Don’t worry, we’ll save the burro alive: we’re familiar with this ass from olden times; and we won’t maul the man either, we’ll only offer him the proverbial thorn of instruction (II Cor. 12:7). I’m just trying to say: If you have things to do elsewhere, please feel free — Myala and I can handle this situation.”

Now, when I address the above speech to the spirit of Mary, Balaam’s ass mistakes my intent (he’s a decent fellow, but a little over-panicky) — he assumes that my wrath has surged up, and that I’m ready to break forth — for, as I explained, my whisper sounds a lot like a growl — so the poor burro instinctively flinches back and ends up crushing his rider Balaam’s other foot against the alley’s other wall, right at the part of the mural where the staircase is depicted with nymphs descending it. This provokes Balaam to spank his own ass a second time.

And the spirit of Bloody Mary Magdalene of the New Age, while yet brandishing her weapon, having heard the words that I spake to her above, now tilts her head my way and sez: “I hear thee.” Tho I can tell that she’s still piqued, as she answers thru clenched teeth while her bosom is heaving. Then she paces forth, which causes the donkey who’s carrying Balaam to shrink back into an alcove of the alley.

“Be merciful,” I say; “he’s just a newbie.”

So Mary corners Balaam, who remains unaware of her spiritual presence, for he is bent on cursing us felines. (A perceptive reader might wonder why Balaam doesn’t simply shoot us with a laser beam from his phaser gun. The only answer I can give to this, as author, is that then the tale would not go how I want it to.) Now, unlike his passenger, the ass does indeed see and even reveres the bloody spirit of Ms. Magdalene, especially her upheld glittering sword; so, instead of moving forward out of the alcove, which is what Balaam keeps commanding the donkey to do, he just collapses: the ass bends all four of his legs and rests his belly upon the cobblestones, which causes Balaam to topple and fall and land on his rump. This annoys Balaam so greatly that, on reflex, he spanks the ass one last time with his wand.

Now this third spanking charmed the ass, so that he decided plainly to voice his complaint. And he said:

“What have I done unto thee, that thou hast magicked me these three times with thy wand?”

And Balaam answered his ass: “Because thou hast sinned against thy master and proven thyself a disobedient slave! I now wish that, instead of merely implements of cursing, there were a glittering sword within mine own two hands, for then I would administer justice, and give thee a slaughter; thus inconveniencing thee to get born again like Christ.”

Now the ass sees that Myala and I, the jungle felines who are poised at this alley’s dead-end, are nodding in approval and motioning with our forepaws, repeating a gesture that means: “Keep standing up to the mean man — this is fun!” with the additional implication: “Don’t worry: we’ve got your back!” So the donkey grows bold and replies to Balaam:

“Am not I thy faithful servant and main mode of transport? And was I ever wont to do likewise unto thee? — I repeat: Hast thou ever been sat upon by thine own ass!?”

And Balaam, now sunk down in utmost shame, murmurs hoarsely: “Nay. Not till now.”