# Maranatha - Chapter XIV - as told by Sybrand Brubaker

Author: khakidoggy
Tags: Character Development, Food, Jackal, Lynx, M/M, Oral, Siamese Cat, Torture, Violence

#14 of Maranatha

  
  

  

  

M A R A N A T H A  
  
  
  
© Osfer, May 2005  
  
  
_All rights reserved.  
  
  
May only be distributed for free.  
  
  
May not be altered in any way.  
  
  
Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to  
read in your country, state, province or region.  
  
  
The author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader  
  
  
Comments welcome at  
[[email protected]](%5C)._

  

**Available on paperback in 2005**

  

[  
Mail the author](%5C) for information  
or [  
join the mailing list](%5C)!

  

Check out [Maranatha on WikiFur.](%5C)

  

~ Enjoy. ~

  

* * *

  
  

Chapter XIV - as told by Sybrand Brubaker.

I am walking. The street is busy with morning people. People running to and from  
public transport stations and work, women ushering children to school, teenagers  
obviously playing truant. Beside the pavement the road is just coming out of  
gridlock, with less expensive cars populating the asphalt than just a few  
minutes ago. Walking in Maranatha is a pleasant experience, if you don't mind  
the noise and the stink of fumes and of competing foodstuffs from the shops you  
pass, don't mind the annoying screech of youngsters being poorly managed by  
their too-soft parents, of girls giggling and bitching about nothing, boys  
taunting each other about nothing, the glare of the bright winter sun overhead  
and the air, just cold enough to give you a chill but just warm enough to make  
you sweat if you're clothed in winter garb, if you don't mind the drone of  
hundreds of thousands of miserable lives, the flitting snatches of images and  
phrases from radio stations blaring from open-windowed, horn-beeping cars and  
televisions mounted in kiosks, news reports complaining about rises in murder  
rates and this morning's brutal attack on the Sargasso building., if you don't  
mind the homeless people littered liberally around the streets the farther you  
get from the commerce district. Like I say, pleasant.

  Two people are walking with me. One is annoying and can barely keep up, the  
other isn't real and consequently can move through people, which is even better  
than the way I move between them. The one who can't keep up, who keeps getting  
bumped into and has to trail behind me, is the jackal I saw with Tiber during my  
surgery and earlier, up on Tiber's floor of the Sargasso building. He's been  
prattling on about how he knows of my reputation, and have I been working for  
Mister Ferrum long, and he only started working for him a month ago, he was a  
bounty hunter of sorts before then, something that runs in the family, and then  
he mentioned his brother and became quiet. I don't speak to him at all, he  
annoys me and I am trying to fathom just why Tiber wants him dead. That is, I  
assume he wants him dead, because he ordered the jackal to meet me outside the  
Sargasso building once I got past the police and escort me into the city. It may  
seem like a leap in reasoning, Tiber tasking this jackal, one Kierkegaard, to me  
and my conclusion that he must be killed, but you don't know me, nor my  
relationship with Tiber.  
  

  We have an understanding, he and I. Which is to say, he seems to understand me  
but I don't understand him, which fascinates me and is the reason why he is one  
of the few people in the world I honestly don't want to kill, ever, because as  
long as he is in the world I am not totally unique. He has a predator's mind in  
a herbivore's body, something which never fails to catch his business  
adversaries by surprise. It puts tremendous strain on his psyche, something that  
I can relate to, though he seems to weather it much better than I. He doesn't  
appear at all insane, something I can't boast.  
  
Evidenced by the second person walking along with me, Jeremy. He appears to me  
as a grey fox dressed in grey, featureless clothes. A long grey coat with  
shoulder-pads gives him an air of austerity, which his permanent friendly smile  
belies.  
  
"Have you figured Maranatha out, yet?" he asks me. I always listen attentively  
to Jeremy, because he always has interesting things to say. By always I mean  
'always when he speaks', which isn't often. I can go months or years without  
seeing him, and then he'll be there, knelt beside a child I've been contracted  
to kill, laying a hand on the child to calm her before I grip the back of her  
neck and rupture her spine with my thumb-claw, or he'll be sitting on the  
counter of a hotel room kitchen where I'm frying up the kidneys of the bell-boy  
I've been dismembering in the bathroom, and he'll strike up a conversation with  
me. He is always insightful and I love seeing him. I try to kill most foxes I  
meet, because he tends to visit most often when I kill that species.  
  

  I ask Jeremy what he means, but my lips haven't fully settled into their  
stitches and my new skin sits awkwardly on the muscles of my cheeks, so the  
words are garbled. The verbose, chattering jackal behind me pushes past two  
overweight mothers arguing about the price of veal today to walk beside me for a  
spell and asks me what I said, but I ignore him and as I return my focus to  
Jeremy, the jackal has to fall behind or impact the streetlight I pass.  
  
"I can tell you now, and you can realize it later, or I can come back later,  
after you've realized it." Jeremy says. He has his hands clasped behind his back  
and unfolds them for a moment to reach behind and between his shoulder-blades,  
scratching. He does that often.   
  
"Now," I say and my voice has a very different character than usual. Whatever it  
was Tiber's surgeons sprayed down my throat, it made my voice deeper, more raspy  
and glacial, rough granite slabs mashing together. I like it.  
  
Jeremy smiles at me, becoming translucent as he passes through a younger fox  
with headphones on. He doesn't need to ask why, even though I'd love for him to  
visit me again, I want to hear what he has to say now. I'm an animal, after all.  
I will always elect for a little food now over a lot of food later, it's simple.  
I look at him with great attention because if he's going to give me some clue or  
insight, it's monumental. It might even have something to do with the mission  
I'm on, though it's very unlikely. I stop, and the jackal bumps into me, and  
people complain as they try to shove past me and through Jeremy's image.  
  

  "Maranatha is a place where history repeats itself. Things don't just happen,  
they happen again. And people here never learn from their mistakes. You'll find  
this useful, I think."   
  
I gape at him. His insights have always been sharp, but more specific. He taught  
me the love I have for, and the care I take of, my fingers as killing  
instruments. He taught me that I can observe my emotions and my body's pain with  
the same detachment with which I can observe my toes. He taught me to accept the  
things that happen to my body on my long, winding road toward death, and to  
accept that that road will be littered with corpses and that I should enjoy that  
aspect of my existence as well. Let me repeat, for clarity's sake, that Jeremy  
is a figment of my schizoid mind and that he taunts me and drives me to draw out  
a particular torment as often as he tells me insightful things.  
  
But this degree of revelation is new. He's never mentioned anything that doesn't  
have anything to do with me personally, and here he's talking about the nature  
of this city. He's already fading and it's as if the jackal can now move more  
freely, as the pedestrian crowds thin out and he can walk more comfortably  
beside me, tugging his coat collar down now the wind isn't so fierce.  
  

  "Who was that?" he asks, walking beside me as we stroll past a baker's shop. The  
smell of fresh bread is intoxicating, especially when mixed with the faint scent  
of offal from the containers behind the butcher's across the street. These so  
distract me that it takes me a little more than a second to become curious about  
what the jackal just said. "That gray fox you were talking to." He must be  
confused, or perhaps there simply happened to be a gray fox walking near me when  
I was conversing with Jeremy. At any rate, I feel I am nearing my destination  
and I ignore him.  
  
There's no one thing in particular that tells me this, not the sight of the  
oppressively looming skyline in the distance, nor the more weather-worn look of  
the buildings in this part of town. Not the hurried, eyes-to-the-ground manner  
of the blandly dressed pedestrians, no doubt selecting the drabbest possible  
attire so as not to accidentally spark the ire of a gang whose 'colors' they are  
accidentally wearing. Some of those gang folk are plainly visible, congregating  
around expensive cars in their expensive clothes, waving expensive guns and  
doing expensive drugs to distract them from their all-too-cheap lives.  
Unconsciously, my fist clenches with the desire to put a few of them out of  
their misery, or to see, purely out of curiosity, whether I could survive if I  
simply ran into that group on the corner and started shredding them.  
  

  But the day's still early, and there's plenty of time for that.   
  
"Do you have a gun?" I ask the jackal at my side. He grins and nods and can  
barely keep up with me when I round a corner between two buildings. I'm getting  
closer to where I need to be, I can feel it. You're aware of the childish old  
metaphor, "you're getting warmer," yes? I never understood that. When I approach  
somewhere I need to be, whether I know it specifically or not, it feels to me  
like the air gets thicker, like it's more difficult to move until I penetrate  
the very heart of this obstruction and find myself precisely where I am required  
to be.  
  
I positively grunt with effort, pushing through the webbing of this resistance  
and my paces slow, much to Ulrich's confusion. To his credit, he doesn't comment  
or complain. I might not make his death too painful. Perhaps even instantaneous?  
I'll see how I feel when the time comes. In the meantime, I almost trip over my  
feet as I push through the last of the pressure and re-enter 'thin air', so to  
speak. My jackal guard - how like Ophios! - follows with some confusion and  
blinks in the sunlight that bisects the brick-building-enclosed plaza we find  
ourselves in, casting a line of light straight through the middle of a shadowy  
square.   
  

  The light is my path and I experience a hilarious, divine ecstasy as I spread my  
arms and imagine myself performing a balancing act on a beam of golden sunlight  
across an abyss of depravity, as an errant son of Mafdet - no, with my new face,  
hand-stitched and hand-stolen from my dear colleague Claude, I ought to  
represent a panther god, should I not?  
  
"Do you know any panther gods?" I ask Ulrich, who follows me with some confusion  
as, in the purest elation, I walk foot-over-foot along the thin line of  
sunlight, arms outstretched far enough that one could see the slightly red seam  
between the panther fur covering my hands and wrists and my natural stippled  
grey hide running up toward my elbow and further. As my eyes adjust to the light  
I can see the huddled figured in the shadows more clearly... Bums. Homeless.  
Transients. Intransigent, despite their ability to adapt to their environs. I  
know these types. Many claim not to want a regular life, so comfortable in the  
segregated, semitransparent reality in which they live, so distant from everyday  
life that they believe themselves to have a unique perspective on it. Illusions.  
I clear my throat.  
  

  "Robert Holloway."  
  
I said these words quite softly, so it's unsurprising there's no reaction, not  
even a twitch. I repeat it, a little louder and now I notice some shuffling on  
the northern border of the little plaza of poverty. People move to the side,  
revealing something of a tent made of rags and patches of cardboard and similar,  
hardly distinguishable from any other such structures. Then something flashes in  
the tent's opening, something yellow and I stagger back as if I'd just been  
shot.  
  
The concrete surges beneath me in waves, I try to balance myself but the  
movements are too quick and I'm rolling over the ground, holding my ears -  
Claude's ears - and the pressure makes blood seep from the seams. I let go,  
quickly, but only because the pain in my stomach begins to outweigh the bashing  
agony in my skull. I open my mouth to scream but the sound comes out as a  
choking, hacking gurgle as my stomach empties itself and in the process of  
purging, my vision returns to normal and the pain ends.  
  
I tremble, and I'm still unbalanced, but I spit the sick out of my mouth and  
onto the yellow puddle on the floor and stand up, blinking to see, and find  
there's clear motion from the square's denizens toward the two or three small  
alleys that offer routes of escape. My hand clasps the jackal's shoulder,  
fingerclaws extended through the holes in Claude's hide, and they pierce  
Ulrich's coat - his name was Ulrich, wasn't it? - and shoulder and he winces,  
but doesn't pull away. "Kill anyone who tries to leave."   
  

  Those words, and the flash of the jackal's gun as I let him go, cease the ripple  
of movement and this fetid little pond of poverty returns to perfect stillness.  
"Good," I say with a smile, righting myself, and the stillness turns to frozen  
paralysis. I always sense a particular kind of shock from people when they  
witness someone, in this case myself, suffering very powerfully and then  
righting himself as though it bothered him no more than would a modest burp. The  
fact that my eyes, ears and wrists are bleeding probably helps. "Now. Robert  
Holloway," I repeat and I proceed toward the tent, now abandoned by its  
neighbors. From inside there's the stirring again, a gruff cough and a flash of  
yellow that makes me dry retch again, though this time it doesn't catch me off  
guard and I can take the searing pain in stride, keep walking on my unsteady  
legs and focus through the alternately green-red haze that poisons my vision.  
  
"I'm Holloway," says the gruff voice. No fear, which would be curious if coming  
from a citizen, but far less rare coming from a bum with nothing to live for. I  
make a quick judgment as to his nature, and decide he runs on guilt. It is guilt  
which motivates this man to segregate himself from society and to cloister  
himself with this filth. Here, he can do the least harm. Interesting.  
  

  "Do you know why I'm here?" I ask. My voice is raspy, stomach acid having given  
my throat that typical rawness, the spasming in my abdomen causing a continuous  
warble to my voice's timbre. I wonder what that yellow thing is that so excites  
my instincts that my body reacts so violently to it. I wonder, as well, whether  
Robert Holloway is going to cause any clarity to form on the subject of why  
Tiber called me to Maranatha, why he pitted me against Claude, and what the  
significance is of the names he had me memorize.  
  
"Ain't got a goddamn clue, bud," is what Robert Holloway replies as he climbs  
out of his tent, but initially I don't hear him because a thunderous buzzing  
obliterates my hearing, as of a septillion perfectly harmonious wasps which had  
suddenly swooped, hummingbird-like, into a perfectly static crystalline  
formation on the inside of my skull. After my hearing, my sight spirals toward  
absence, first the color fades from everything and then the shape, leaving me  
with blobs of light and dark which my brain tells me have meaning - 'wall', is  
what one blob means and 'gun' the other and I know this despite the fact that I  
can't differentiate the blobs, and then there are so very many that my mind  
shudders to contain them all. Brick, person, belt, sky, cloud, dust, dirt,  
concrete, leather, face, enamel, oil, all of the concepts we normally only  
passingly contemplate and instinctively process now clamoring and crowding to  
fit, at once, in my consciousness. And while that consciousness is, as I've  
indicated, exceptionally expansive, it's by no means enough to contain the full,  
total realization of even this small space around me. As if in response to the  
pressure in my mind, my body tries to empty itself again and wet slime passes my  
lips, a sensation so clear and unilateral that I cling to it for support.  
  

  I must be flailing and screaming, I usually do when this happens. I can only  
imagine Ulrich's panic, employed to guard someone with a reputation greater (or  
worse) than Jack's, now mentally degenerated to the unrestrained capacity of a  
child with a vicious migraine and tasked, as well, with the duty to keep the  
denizens of this plaza pacified. I can't imagine what it would be like to be  
intimidated by a situation like that. It must be wonderful.  
  
One color emerges from the zero-gravity maelstrom that surrounds me and punches  
through me, and it's yellow. I hunger for it suddenly, with a purity that  
overrides all over sensations, like a child hungering for a particular type of  
food, its brain tricked by millions of years of evolution to transform the  
biological process of comparing the food's nutritional value discerned by scent  
to the nutritional deficiencies of its body into the emotion of desire. I desire  
that color, that object, I ache for it. And like any predator, without  
restraint, I pursue it.  
  
The yellow is wrapped around a body and with all my strength I work to extract  
that meat object from the precious color. Merely touching it causes my sense of  
balance to return, my vision instantly clarifying, though the low, buzzing hum  
continued unabated. I scream, I know this because I feel my jaw ache, I scream  
with all my being and finally, finally I have what I need, I have the yellow and  
the hunger abates and the assault on my senses abates and the pain abates and I  
stand, upright, laughing.  
  

  Ulrich's eyes show their whites and every single pair of nicked or torn ears in  
the square is folded back as far as they'll go. . If shock was what these people  
experienced after my recovery from vomiting, there isn't yet a word to describe  
the nature of the paralysis that grounds them as, after my fit of trembling and  
rolling and screaming, I am suddenly calm, and chuckling.  
  
I'm wearing a yellow raincoat, you see, and I find this terribly funny. As an  
experiment, I grab the hem, moving to take the coat off, since It's pulled on  
over the leather jacket I was already wearing, but just as I suspected, my  
stomach heaves again. My body, or my subconscious, or perhaps some other facet  
of me entirely wants this coat and won't let me be without. That's fine by me. I  
have other things to think on.  
  
"Jesus Tapdancing Christ, man! For fuck's sake, take it, take it!."  
  
The body I had taken out of the coat is now lying on the ground, his shirt torn,  
exposing a rotund belly with the typical coloration of a badger. The old male's  
face is so grimy one can barely see the white stripes along his face and one  
might take him for some sort of bear, in the dark. "You are Robert Holloway," I  
state and I sense that Ulrich takes comfort in the way I return to business,  
prompting him to return to his, which isn't difficult since the crowd he has to  
keep quiet is utterly paralyzed. "Where did you get this coat?" Robert Holloway  
makes a few noises signaling confusion, so to help him clear his mind, I stroll  
to one of the walls, where a large white polar bear, pupils narrow and eyes  
red-rimmed from drug-abuse, take the lit joint from his lips, pick up the  
whiskey bottle he's loosely, limply cradling, roll up the sleeves of my precious  
yellow coat - there are some gasps, as this exposes the seams where my  
grey-furred arms are stitched to the sleek black-furred gloves I'm wearing - and  
smash the bottle over his head, dousing him in foul-reeking whiskey, giving him  
a quick stab in the ample belly with the broken bottleneck before tossing the  
joint in his face, causing him to start burning.  
  

  He's groaning, trying very slowly to bat out the flames, clearly riding a  
recently scored high and unable to adequately rise to the occasion. Blood spurts  
in a little fountain from the gash in his belly while his face and upper body  
burn away and there are further gasps and shrieks, though none move for fear of  
Ulrich's weapon, instead huddling together against the walls, literally clinging  
to each other. I smile. It's not that they have any love for one another, these  
people. They just want to make sure their neighbors don't move out of the way  
and leave them as lone targets.  
  
The badger is reacting to what I have done. Remarkably quickly for a male of his  
size he rises to his feet and charges, thick arms outstretched. I straighten my  
coat, put one foot backward and dart my other hand forward to grip him by the  
muzzle, instantly ceasing his motion. My spine and my injured knee catch the  
momentum; there's some pain, but it produces the desired effect - awe. "Robert  
Holloway," I say patiently as I push the male back to the ground, the polar bear  
having now ceased his groaning. Likely he's died of asphyxiation, too high to  
notice any of the pain. I feel sorry for him. "Robert Holloway, if you answer my  
questions I'll most likely simply leave. Where did you get this coat?"  
  

  Robert Holloway seems more clearly now to understand the nature of his  
situation, and he answers. He tells me he found it in a dumpster downtown  
recently, though actually he found it earlier. I ask him what he means,  
patiently, because people tend to babble unclearly when they're frightened. He  
explains that he found it months ago, and kept it, and then gave it away to a  
handsome young male, with whom he slept, and that he later found the same coat  
in another dumpster. His sentence doesn't end quite right and I perceive that he  
has more to tell about this person, but he is difficult, so I stand up and walk  
in the direction of one of the walls, where the huddled people start to shriek  
in panic until Robert Holloway calls me back, explaining that, mere days ago, he  
met the young male again and that they coupled again, but that he looked  
different.  
  
When he's finished speaking, he looks at me, and I look at him. A destitute old  
man, lying on the floor at the mercy of criminals and madmen, who could be a man  
with a house and a family or a lover or at the very least a place in society,  
who would be a benefit to his neighborhood and to all who knew him, but for his  
wretched, self-chastising guilt over something he did or didn't do, which he  
feels should have happened otherwise. I contemplate, once again, what guilt is,  
because while I know the word I have never experienced it, like love or  
affection.   
  

  My silent contemplation lasts just long enough for me to realize that I feel no  
need to ask more and that I have lost interest in this place, so I turn, and I  
walk away, and once I reach the street Ulrich understands that this isn't a  
dramatic gesture but that I'm genuinely leaving, I hear him shout some threats  
and fire a gunshot, which may have been in the air or into somebody, I don't  
know. Shortly thereafter the jackal comes jogging out of the alley and onto the  
street and falls into pace next to me.  
  
  
By the time Ulrich and I reach a place where I feel like stopping, which is at  
least an hour or two of solid, silent walking, I have developed a measure of  
appreciation for the jackal. He hasn't asked any questions, and while, in part,  
this is because he fears me, I feel it is also because he is beginning to  
understand what I am and how I function. I feel rather comfortable with him now,  
and have spent some time during the walk considering methods of killing him that  
would most show him my appreciation.  
  
When I stop, immediately Ulrich is at my side, reaching under his jacket for his  
gun, but I lay my hand on his and stop him. "We're not here because of a name on  
the list, Ulrich. We're here because..." I scan my surroundings, letting it inform  
me why I've chosen to stop here and when I'm faced with a splendidly crafted  
sign with gold letters on a red background, I understand, and it makes me smile.  
"We're here because I'm hungry."  
  

  The windows of the Dong Ma Eatery - an understated name for what looks to be  
quite a prosperous restaurant, perhaps hinting at more humble origins - are dark  
and there are no lights on inside. The sun on the streets is at its peak,  
casting a dry, pale warmth to battle with the hesitant frost that's been  
creeping in and out of the air all morning. When I stand at the glass door for  
over a minute, Ulrich looking rather anxious behind me, all the more so when he  
suddenly jumps at the sound of a distant police siren, an older fox appears on  
the other side of the door. He shakes his head, and then his arms to the  
negative. "I'm hungry," I explain to him, but he continues shaking his head.   
  
"Close, close," the old fox enunciates, pointing at the sign to the side of the  
door, indicating the Eatery's opening hours. He turns his back to me and takes  
his mop out of his bucket to continue vigorously cleaning the white-and-black  
tiled floor. I knock on the window again.  
  
"I'm hungry," I repeat and reach into my pocket, finding a money clip. I've  
never fully understood money, and while Tiber has frequently offered to explain  
it to me I've always found my interest to start wandering after the first few  
sentences and we both simply gave up. The roll of bills is quite thick, and I  
tap it against the window, which attracts the old fox' attention. "I'm hungry."  
  

  This time, the meaning of my words seems to ring home and the fox immediately  
sets his bucket and mop aside and runs to the door, jangling keys to unlock the  
locks while he shouts incomprehensible commands over his shoulder with obvious  
enthusiasm. Ulrich and I are led into the restaurant, whose lights flicker on  
suddenly and the older fox bids us to wait at the 'wait to be seated' podium  
while he closes the door and begins to draw the curtains on all the windows, a  
laborious task which he takes to with relish.   
  
The colors are dark, rich and deep, reds and blues, the mere sight of which  
gives the sensation of being wrapped in velvet, all decorated with gleaming gold  
and onyx, or crafty simulations of such materials. The chairs are high-backed,  
with thickly padded upholstery and the large round tables of deep-varnished  
mahogany are spaced far apart. I must be holding a lot of money, that the  
proprietor of such a fine establishment should alter his regular opening hours  
for me.  
  
The money is pressed, in full, into the hand of a young Siamese cat whose gender  
I can discern neither through sight nor scent, which is uncommon for me. The  
creature, whatever the case, is beautiful in appearance, garb and manner, and  
soon joined by four more, all wrapped in black silk robes, tight around the flat  
(or flattened) chest and wide, sensual hips, flowing loose about the legs, whose  
cream-colored hide sometimes teasingly offers glimpses through the nearly  
imperceptible folds and bands of the garment. They appeared out of nowhere,  
these Siamese, and though they have no features that distinguish one from the  
other I become aware that every time one of them disappears, gracefully  
vanishing into the discrete, recessed black doors that lead to the service area  
or to the kitchen, it is a different cat, identically dressed, which reappears.  
This is curious, but it entirely fails to attract my interest and I am quite  
comfortable.  
  

  Soup bowls with those elegant porcelain spoons the Chinese favor,  
black-lacquered chopsticks with gold engravings which, considering the  
earnestness of our hosts, will most likely be destroyed after our meal. Carafes  
of spring water and red wine are placed on the table without Ulrich or myself  
asking for them and to drink from them we have the choice of crystal glasses or  
bowls. This thoughtful blending of Western and Eastern culinary styles is  
continued in the plate setting, which is complimented by jade plates with gold  
trim and silverware which is as decorative as it is functional. Menus are  
produced, thick, leather-bound books displaying pictures of almost every meal,  
and are removed as quickly as they appeared when Ulrich makes his selection and  
I show no interest whatsoever. With a smile and a nod, the Siamese who takes the  
menu from me assures me that the chef's selection will not disappoint.  
  
All this, mind you, without a word. Only soft, bare footsteps, the rustle of  
silk, the gentle clink and ting of tablesetting and soft, ephemeral music, in  
short, it's utterly sublime. I wonder if any of my victims now reside in  
afterlives as sublime as this. I wonder if I will, when my time arrives. I  
consider that if my existence has to continue beyond this wretched life, I would  
like it to be like this.  
  

  As we wait, and simply enjoy the atmosphere of utter peace and luxury, all but  
four of the cats depart. Their slitted eyes display a serenity and calm I rarely  
see and their motions are mesmerizing in their fluidity. Hips asway,  
black-tipped tails trailing after them like smoke after an incense bowl and with  
perfect synchronicity they circle the table, feline muses smiling soft smiles as  
they regard my jackal guard and his panther prince. Such a pantheon we  
represent, it brings tears to my eyes.  
  
A look of shock, then from one of the cats and the manner in which that shock  
dissipates tells me this one, at least, is a male, though I know no more about  
the others than before. The shock was at the sight of my stitches. The jacket  
under my precious raincoat fell open, it seems, exposing, ha ha, my seams. I  
regard the felines who share a look as they unzip the jacket under my raincoat  
and peel the collar back as if they understand that removing my yellow raincoat  
would mean the death of them all.   
  
One straddles my lap side-saddle, the male, and he's a creature of silk and air,  
so light. He takes my hands and holds them, palm-up, bidding me to hold them in  
his position while he peels my sleeves back. The other stands behind my chair  
and frees my neck from obscuration by the triple collars of shirt, jacket, coat  
and my whole body shivers deliciously as two pairs of delicate feline hands  
stroke my bloody stitches. The shivers turn to chills and back to shivers when I  
feel a coolness around wrists and neck, and I must have experienced another,  
brief episode because there are now bowls of water on the table, one wine-red  
and the other nearly clear and a pile of square linen napkins which the felines  
tending to me take, wet, and apply to my stitches to clean them, squeezing the  
reddened napkins out over the wine-colored bowl before they lay them in a  
basket.   
  

   

A thing lays.  
  
  
  
A person lies.  
  
  
  
I've never lied in my life.  
  
  
  
Am I?  
  
  
  
Beautiful.  
  
  
  
Everything used to be so beautiful.  
  
  
  
Jimmy Knuckles, how could you?

  
  
  
  
My Ophios is enjoying himself. While I'm enjoying the bathing by my curiously  
mute and furiously cute attendants his pair of felines is treating him to  
different kind of cleansing. Apparently his dick was in need of cleaning  
because, by the bobbing of the lower Siamese' head just below the table it's  
getting a thorough tongue-bath. Either the young cat had his or her tongue  
surgically smoothed like some of the working boys like to do (such a challenge,  
to be a feline cocksucker - I wonder if I should try it sometime?) or he's a  
master at his art because Ulrich is thoroughly enjoying himself. He's sprawled  
out in his chair, balanced perfectly on its hind legs, swayed back and forth by  
the sensuous motions of the two felines, one at his feet, the other, like mine,  
behind him, sharing open-mouthed yet shallow kisses. Ulrich's eyes are closed,  
his jacket open to reveal a sweater-clad chest which I know, without seeing it,  
bears even more scars than even my body does.  
  

  Time passes. He climaxes, his sighs suddenly laden with a high-pitched whine,  
the cat at his feet slowing the bobbing of his or her head... But the scene  
doesn't change, and it continues, and Ulrich climaxes again and only then does  
he open his eyes. By this time, my stitches are cleaned and feel far more  
comfortable, even my clothes have been washed, as much as possible without me  
taking them off, and I have hardly a bloodstain to show for the surgery I  
underwent mere hours ago. Ghost-like, the four felines vanish through the wooden  
doors and before they can even fall shut behind them, Ulrich and I both already  
wincing at the loud slam that's going to ruin the blissful calm we've been  
enjoying, others come through, the Siamese in their silk wrappings, one after  
the other, carrying bowls and baskets and trays, dozens of dishes, each of them  
of sufficient quantity to sate the appetites of five healthy men, each of them  
intended only to be sampled and enjoyed.  
  
I wonder at these creatures, who orbit my jackal guard and me so ephemerally.  
Every movement of their gorgeous bodies invites one to take them for granted,  
encourages it even. Why are they here? Why are there so many such exquisite  
beings in an admittedly prosperous, but still ordinary 'eatery'? The obvious  
method of obtaining an answer to that question would simply be to kill one of  
them, for the purpose of discerning how they would respond. Would they huddle In  
fear, would they attack me... Either way, their response would give me information  
about their nature, the purpose of their presence here and their relationship to  
the aged grey fox who opened the door for us. Perhaps my initial instinct was  
flawed - a hideous notion, as I'm sure you'll understand, but it's been known to  
happen from time to time. Perhaps these felines own the restaurant and the old  
fox merely was a janitor.  
  

  I take one of the creatures by the hand - even the smoothness of their fur  
invites a more delicate touch than I intended. How very curious, their magic.  
"Tell me," I ask the feline as I draw him or her onto my lap, a position the cat  
gracefully inhabits, leaning its modest weight on me and treating me to the  
press of hip and thigh as it extends a perfectly coiled arm to the table and  
deftly takes two chopsticks in its fingers, bringing some fried vegetable or  
another toward my lips. I accept the morsel and it delights me to such a degree  
that I begin to purr, Ulrich laughs at this, he himself stuffing his face with  
the delicacies presented on the table, but I'm so entranced with the cat on my  
lap that I can't even be bothered to walk around the table to impress upon the  
jackal the impropriety of his reaction. "Tell me," I continue, lickin my  
unfamiliar lips, "Why is it I feel no desire to kill you?"  
  
"Perhaps we are not for you to kill," say all the cats at once, dulled voices  
coming even from the doors, droning from above as if every one of the Siamese  
spoke the words at once. I nod and politely push the cat off my lap, much to its  
surprise.  
  

  "Thank you," I say as I stand up and take a bowl of fried pork from the table,  
and I've pushed the outside door open and walked onto the street before Ulrich  
can break the spell of the eatery's peace. I stand outside with my bowl, waiting  
for Ulrich to emerge which, after a few moments, he does. He's zipping his pants  
up and blinking in the light and quickly zips up his jacket even though it isn't  
now as chilly as it was this morning. Disappointment of an almost child-like  
quality emanates from him despite his attempts to keep his demeanor dour and his  
ears pricked upright. He loved being in there and, though he knew he wouldn't be  
in there forever - he's clearly a man raised with disappointment from when he  
was very young - he had counted on being in there a little longer and would have  
liked to know a little beforehand when I intended to leave, so that the  
transition from the soft, heavenly embrace of the room and the service and the  
meal to the coldness and noise outside wouldn't be so abrupt.  
  
"I was hoping I could sneak out back to the men's room to bang one of those  
kitties," the jackal says mournfully, stuffing his fists in his jacket pockets.  
"Why did we have to leave all of a sudden?"  
  

  I look at the Dong Ma eatery, and concentrate very deeply. Not on the sight of  
it, in particular, its windows drawn, its sign unlit, but on my memories of it,  
my experiences. "Because it was weird," I answer my jackal guard and begin to  
stuff sweet and sour sauce into my nostrils. Ulrich completely abandons his  
attempts to understand me and I smile, which causes him to remember whom he's  
serving, and shuts him up. I, meanwhile, my olfactory senses appropriately  
overwhelmed by the pungent sauce, concentrate. As I said, very deeply.  
  
The half-empty noonday streets vanish from my experience and are replaced with  
half-empty evening streets. The difference is that during the day, people try to  
disregard the presence of others o they can feel more alone and independent  
while at night they take comfort in knowing there are other people also enjoying  
a night on the town. Glass half empty, glass half full. Half full of what? And  
why not simply drink it? Honestly, you people and your expressions.  
  
Peeling away layers of interpretation and interpolation I let my instincts and  
their sensory memories shape the universe. My body and my mind are intimate  
lovers, and my body's faculties know the lusts of their bedfellow. They know  
that I want information, salient information about this place. It must be  
significant, because I was drawn to it, so my instincts are already yearning to  
pour their sage whispers into my reality-deafened ears. Rounded, bereft of their  
tufted points. I don't miss my old ears yet.  
  

  Light gushes onto the street. Succlent, scintillating warm light bursts from  
Dong Ma's wide-open windows and sloshes over the pavement and onto the street  
which seems to rejoice in the warmth it's granted, soothing it against the chill  
of a night that's just not frosty enough to draw snow from the sky, at least to  
give some purpose to the cold the streets endure. Sounds, smells, everything  
radiates from Dong Ma, where males and females of all types sit and talk and  
laugh and eat and have the best time living people can have when they're not  
having sex.   
  
I walk up and down the street, peering into Dong Ma's unlit windows, my jackal  
guard following with some trepidation, though he's used to me by now and doesn't  
mind my curious behavior. Good. My senseless instincts show me the world as it  
was, the night-time spectacle of plenty. None of the cats are to be seen, but  
for one fat Siamese who eats his meal with such a lack of sophistication that  
any relation beyond their species seems unlikely.   
  
Do you understand what's happening, my inadequate sweetheart? I call you  
sweetheart, of course, because I love you. Is joking the same as lying? If you  
know, send me a letter. What's happening is that the faint clues I  
subconsciously perceived - hairs on chairs, stains, wear-marks on the carpet and  
billions upon billions of scents - are being tabulated in my mind, weighed  
against one another and filtered to produce a digest of Dong Ma's recent  
history, showcasing its most significant events, all by my instincts' primitive  
judgment.  
  

  The number of males receiving oral sex from someone under their table is  
staggering. This of course doesn't mean all these males were being serviced  
simultaneously, as I explained, this tableau is a digest. Still, how can people  
be so unimaginative in their secret thrills? Where are the people carryiing  
body-parts of others in their pocket for the sheer excitement of it? Where are  
the bullies who stabbed a young streetlad in the stomach, bandaged and dressed  
him up nice and told him he had to resist the nausea and pain for an entire  
evening, and not call for help and not let anyone notice he was dying - or the  
bully would kill the boy's friends. These are secret pleeasures I could get  
behind, not the sad, tawdry blowjob-under-the-table.  
  
Fortunately not all Dong Ma's occupants are so unimaginative. Some merely eat  
their meals and converse, others - immediately, my thoughts shift track and  
everything I can see through the sense-memory of the Dong Ma's windows vanishes  
except one table-setting in the near corner, a large space reserved for a single  
table whose occupants enjoy a masure of privacy. Tiber Ferrum is among them, the  
only one eating his meal.  
  

  Tiber makes a point of eating meat when he eats out, even though his  
gastrointestinal system can't digest it and he has to take various medications  
afterward to keep from regurgitating it. I've always admired self-destructive  
principles, as opposed to addictions. I suppose it stems from the typically  
carnivore-dominated nature of the business-world, some signal Tiber wants to  
send or some type of understanding he wishes to foster. He fascinates me, Tiber.  
And he, just a horse! Time was when I made a point to kill just about every  
herbivore I came across, at least one of every species. Sure, I made plenty of  
forays into the stalking of predators - infinitely more interesting prey, let me  
tell you - but the purely basal, instinctual satisfaction of killing and eating  
a prey animal is something that fascinated me for many years.  
  
Until Tiber.   
  
He frightens me, and that makes me love him. I know I'm not alone in this, but I  
also know that it isn't a competition. I look into those eyes of his and I am  
satisfied that the purpose blazing behind those large, dark, gelatinous pupils  
is hidden at such a depth, between so many layers of plots and contingencies  
that I will never understand fully his designs. Merely the knowledge that there  
is a creature in this world whose intent, not merely his intelligence but his  
intent, surpasses mine, fills me with a hope I have experienced only since  
knowing Tiber.  
  

  Would you like to know how he slew me, way back when? I could dangle this morsel  
of information in front of you and you would follow me like a famished streetdog.  
I could deny you even the hope of hearing the story and you would be forever  
eager for it, so perhaps there is no greater disappointment I can give you than  
merely to tell you. Why, you may ask, do I wish to spoil your fun? I am  
displeased with you, dear reader. I suspect you haven't been following me  
lately, that you haven't been doing your best to understand. No, don't scan back  
up the page, stay with me now. Eat the scraps I feed you, and do better.  
  
Some years ago, in a city not Maranatha, I was killed. The manner of my murder  
caused me to lay myself at my murderer's hooves. Tiber had killed me, while I  
had never known him. I was living in his city, taking lives and exploring the  
ways that fear rippled through communities in response to the deaths, the way  
people hardened or shattered, utterly fascinating. For how long Tiber had me  
watched, and by whom, I honestly don't know. I never asked him, and I have  
punished myself on more than one occasion for failing to notice I was being  
observed.  
  

  But observe me he did, did Tiber, my beloved scourge, and somehow he, lacking  
the instincts I put to such good use, employed his intellect to understand me.  
He couldn't have known me beforehand and by his admission he didn't, merely he  
picked a victim at random. One morning he woke up and set himself the task of  
cornering and killing a murderer the police couldn't stop, all without  
interrupting his usual duties, making use of no more resources than normally  
were at his disposal. Often my victims are chosen for similarly trite reasons -  
I want to find out if the taste of liver changes over the years and then find a  
large multi-generational family to butcher and sample, for instance.  
  
Tiber scanned the papers and found reports of grisly murders which, he decided,  
were connected and sent out his private security detachment and employed private  
detectives, in the same manner he would if he were spying n a colleague or  
competitor. They tracked me circumspectly, reporting to him over months or  
weeks, I don't know, until Tiber had devised a strategy. Which he implemented,  
to my ruin.  
  

  I became aware of what was happening almost instantly. One morning, I was  
throttling someone and I felt the life slip from the old lady well before her  
pulse ceased. She died before I properly killed her. I was horrified and left  
her body behind and ran away like a young man after his very first kill, which  
was foolish because if I'd inspected the body I might have discovered what had  
happened. Some kind of poison in her bloodstream, perhaps introduced slowly,  
which caused her heart to fail in response to the severe level of stress she  
experienced when I strangled her right beside her dozing husband, letting her  
see the Wheel of Fortune on her black and white television all the while.  
  
The next day I was chasing a young streethustler through the warehouse district,  
howling like a hyena, following the trail of blood and terrified sweat he left  
as he ran. I loved the scent of panicked young flesh, I savored every second of  
it. Finally I cornered him, turning him into an alley between two large silos,  
with a fence at the end. Naturally he would jump up against the fence and  
naturally I would be faster, pulling him down and tearing him to shreds - but  
the fence was electrified to specifications vastly beyond the legal, and the boy  
was fried to a cinder before I could lay a hand on him. Week after week I was  
taunted at every turn, with unseen, unheard snipers or small spring-loaded  
shrapnel mines taking out my victims before I could get to them, Tiber  
successfully predicting every single target I would pick and killing them before  
I could until after two months of this torment I could take no more and decided  
privately to get one more night's sleep and then kill myself. Somehow Tiber  
anticipated even this.  
  

  And when I awoke, the final torment. My claws, my precious claws, had somehow  
been clipped and my house - or rather, the house of the recently deceased  
Davidson family - had been stripped of all implements of death. No stabbing  
weapon, no pen or nail-file, not even a slightly pointy spoon. For hours I  
screamed and shook and beat the walls until I broke my hands. And then I saw a  
gun on a chair, a gun, of all things, and while I normally would never have  
touched it I was so desperate for death that I didn't care, I had to have it,  
and with shaking hands I held it at my temple and pulled the trigger and a spray  
of confetti hit the side of my head and a little flag saying 'bang' came out of  
the barrel and I lost my mind and fell over.  
  
I awoke, naked, on the floor of an office. Tiber was standing at his  
window-wall, with his back to me and explained to me that there was no security,  
and that he'd had enough to drink that his reflexes were dulled enough that he'd  
pose no threat to me even if his reflexes had been a match to mine to begin  
with, and that there were knives of various shapes on the coffee-table between  
him and myself, and that he was behind my recent lack of success.  
  

  The rage in me swelled and ebbed like the tides of a world whose moon spins at  
any speed it fancies until the emotions in me melded, tears streamed from my  
eyes, I crawled over to Tiber's hooves, clung to the fabric of his trousers and  
sobbed against his thigh while he cupped my chin and told me everything would be  
all right. Never once, throughout all this, did the horse in his splendid suit  
look at me.  
  
And now, cutting this revelation short enough that hopefully it gives you less  
satisfaction than you'd hoped for, let's return to the issue at hand: Tiber, in  
my memory world, having dinner In the Dong Ma Eatery. Across from him sits a  
ferret in a black leather trench coat - literally, a trench coat that looks like  
it saw service in the Great War - and some other males in black bomber jackets,  
though it's the ferret I deem important and put to memory.  
  
"We're done here," I inform Ulrich and drop the bowl of fried pork, blowing my  
nose into my hands to get the sweet and sour sauce out of it. Having no  
immediate instinctual sens of direction, I decide the next name should be best  
looked up in a public directory and proceed in the direction I perceive to be  
most likely to feature an unvandalized phone booth, with Ulrich trotting behind.  
We're crossing the pedestrian walkway over the inner Maranatha ring road, a  
route which is either utterly pointless or so new as to be as yet largely  
undiscovered, because the traffic is so light, when I suddenly feel the urge to  
kill Ulrich, a very very strong urge that strikes me as so peculiar that I don't  
immediately satisfy it.   
  

  I look at him, walking behind me with grim determination, but also some honest  
acceptance of his fate and a steadily growing self-respect, which he takes from  
his service to me. He's grown on me, and I could tolerate having him around more  
than I've ever tolerated any assistant before, and I don't even feel the need to  
kill him because he's annoying, like all my other assistants were. But I still  
feel the need to kill him. I see a handsome grey fox sitting on the handrail of  
the walkway, and I recognise him as Jeremy, and when Jeremy nods to me I turn  
and grab Ulrich by the shoulders and before the poor jackal even has time to  
formulate the question in his mind why, suddenly, I thro him over the edge of  
the walkway and onto the highway below, I push him, and he falls, and before he  
hits the ground he himself is hit by a car - the only car to have passed under  
this walkway in the five minutes it's been in view as we walked up to it - and  
the car screeches to a halt. Jeremy stands up and lays his arm around my  
shoulders.  
  

  "I told you," he says as he kisses my cheek, and I giggle like a teenager.  
Jeremy is so sweet to me sometimes. "Maranatha is a place where things happen  
again. Where people don't learn from their mistakes. And it's also a place where  
brand new mistakes are made. Your friend Tiber understands this."  
  
Below, the sound of a door opening, running feet, searing, running feet and the  
static of a radio. "This is detective Lombardi, request immediate backup and  
medical assistance for a civilian at the second western pedestrian bridge over  
the Maranatha inner ring road." More footsteps, the pulling of a gun. "You up  
there! Show yourself! Police!"  
  
I look over the handrail, and I chuckle at what I see. "May I play with him?" I  
ask Jeremy, pointing at the police officer below. He's a black panther, with a  
face as uncharacteristically rough-hewn as mine, who could easily pass for me is  
he were wearing the face Tiber's surgeons removed from me before they gave me  
Claude's. It's a detail few normal people would notice on anything but an  
intuitive basis, but I can, even at this distance, see the skull under his skin  
and now I understand why Tiber wanted both me and Claude to come to Maranatha  
and felt so drawn to the yellow raincoat, which is identical to the yellow  
raincoat the policeman below is wearing.   
  

  "Play nice," says Jeremy and pats me on the shoulder as I leap over the  
handrail, making use of the policeman's hesitation at the sight of both that  
display of athleticism and the sight of me, and the striking similarity I bear  
to himself. I bat the gun out of his hand with ease and for a moment we circle  
each other, perfect mirror images.  
  
I will never understand the depth or the limit of Tiber's calculating predictive  
ability. How keenly he understnds some facets of my insanity that even I haven't  
begun to classify, and how elegantly he exploits them. It is a privilege to be  
his pawn and I decide, for the duration of this assignment, to make it my  
mission to spread this understanding. To find the players in Tiber's game, the  
pieces of his puzzle, and by hook or by crook to teach them what a privilege it  
is to be manipulated by a mind like Tiber's.  
  
Detective Lombardi's education begins with a left hook to the jaw and the  
binding of hands, feet and muzzle before I dump him in the trunk of his cop car  
and hop onto the severely dented hood, sitting next to Ulrich, whose head is  
turned in a direction opposite to his shoulders. He's alive, clearly, but for  
how much longer I can't really tell. I decide to wait for the ambulance to  
arrive and meanwhile to sate my curiosity, and simply watch my jackal guard to  
see if he sees me and to imagine what he's thinking.   
  

  Curious.

  
  

  

  

_To be continued._

  

  

**Available on paperback in 2005**

  

[  
Mail the author](%5C) for information  
or [  
join the mailing list](%5C)!

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/Wel7kYl1
Part of the series Maranatha
Previous: https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/5170-maranatha-chapter-xiii-as-told-by-sybrand-brubaker.md
Next: https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/5930-maranatha-chapter-xv-as-told-by-sybrand-brubaker.md