The Jokes, section 4: Ain't Got Nothing Else

The Cartesians hate this but the opposing forces have taken to referring to the intersection of the three spheres as the Origin, with x,y & z coordinates demarcating the boundaries. They take issue with the z. It doesn't work that way, they pontificate. Mathematicians do not understand metaphors at all. Along this controversial Z strolls a young Observationalist ostensibly on patrol. His thoughts flutter like butterflies buoyed on the breeze. The sky is cloudless for the first day in weeks. The war is at a stalemate which is the closest he's known peace in years. Besides, so long as the village in the valley on the east side of the Seine is the focus of each enemies gunsights the Observationalists can enjoy the sight from the sidelines. All future foreseeable skirmishes will be between the Shaggy Dogs and the Dead Baby Shot The Dogs. Let them whittle each other down to size the commander said and the battalion laughed as one.

His steps are buoyed by the butterflies in his feet as he floats along the z coordinate with the breeze. And then he sees them. A young man and a young woman. That's not what he sees, though. He sees Observationalist officer and a member of the Dead Baby Shot The Dogs.

Within moments the phalanx of iron enforced huts that comprises the Observationalist camp is a mad scene of vicious gossip, vituperative denunciations and vociferous uproar. Not a few note with derision the situation's similarity to Romeo & Juliet as written by an emo hillbilly. A few of the paunchy, middle-aged, bushy bearded officers namedrop something called Leroy Jenkins. High horses are arranged as stadium seating.

By the time the offending officer returns everyone in the camp has an act. All of the constant cantankerous kibitzing has rejuvenated the community. In a way this was the best disaster; that could happen. Their weapons are freshly honed, not for years has their sense of inequity and discord been this sharp, this forceful. Their superciliousness up to full on Cross-Hicks mode. Their reproaches spiteful, full of spittle, yummy. Delicious. But what of the peace?

The community grew divided. There were those who wanted to take the advantage, maraud and guerrilla their foes like predators in the trees. But there were those who wanted to leave things be, let the enemies wear each other out. The young Observationalist whose covert wooing gave rise to this division was a vocal member of the latter quotient. Wasn't it, he pointed out, a betrayal of the Observationalist philosophy to take unwarranted action? They'd be self-defeated. But unfortunately his visibility became a liability for his faction as he was nothing more than a traitor. You see, the female leader of the dominant hawk faction observed, men never want to take responsibility for their willys. Oh, it has a mind of its own, does it? Has your member ever gotten a migraine, buddy? Would you like one? That became their rallying cry. Has your member ever gotten a migraine? Would you like one? I just...I just don't know anymore.

Selva was the name of the young Dead Baby Shot a Dog girl who meshed so wiry with the young Observationalist whose name she did not know, whose love she cherished, whose strategy and preparedness secrets she pocketed like someone else's wallet.She was a hero to her people. Her actions were repugnant. She betrayed a man she loved for no good reason. It's not like there would be anything to be gained from the Observationalists. She wasn't even employed as a spy. It was a whim. And the Observationalists suspect nothing! How cruel. How hilarious! Selva would never have to buy herself a drink again, and she was on a serious binge.

The world turns ever onward, but for how long?

TO BE CONTINUED....

(Next installment prepare to meet an old friend!)