
Canto Thirty-Five – In the Control Center on the Moon Gundahl
Farbick and Starbright still had the two lizard-men in their force field trap, but they were definitely also surrounded and in big trouble. Thirty-four half-sized lizard men, or, rather, lizard-boys and lizard-girls were standing around them in a huge circle, looking at them with snaky eyes and holding things that looked distinctly like guns.
“You’re surrounded now,” warned Bahbahr from his prison, “and the kids have krahzhen-lachhers with them.”
“Krahzhen-lachhers?” asked Farbick.
“What they call tommy-guns in the language of the Untouchables starring Robert Stack and Walter Winchell… you know, automatically repeating slug-throwers.”
“Wait a second!” said Stabharh, “kids? Where is your handler?”
“We had a fight over who was going to die next to provide food for the others,” said one of the lizard-girls, “so we killed and ate him.”
“That showed good initiative,” said Stabharh. “Now kill these two Tellerons and we can eat them too.”
“Wait!” said Bahbahr. “We still need them to show us how the alien tech works!”
“Why? They will just try to trick us again. They might succeed in killing us the next time.”
“You can’t have them killed yet,” argued the fat lizard-man. “We’re still stuck in the invisible box. We have to get out of here before you have them killed.”
“Um, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Stabharh.
“Are you really, really hungry, kids?” asked Farbick of the lizard-kids.
“Oh, yes!” answered four or five of the lizard-kids at once.
“You see all this technology we have here,” said Farbick slyly. “We have a machine here that can make food out of thin air.”
The little lizard people all drew closer to the pile of Telleron tech with wide, questioning eyes.
“Don’t listen to them!” barked Stabharh. “They will trick you!”
“Aren’t you going to eventually kill us and eat us too?” asked a lizard-girl. “You did that with all the adults in the station after the Senator’s attack started the food shortage.”
“We kept you alive so we would have a next generation of our people,” said Bahbahr in a pleading voice that made Farbick shudder.
“But you would eat us before you let yourself starve to death, right?”
“She has you there,” sneered Stabharh at Bahbahr.
“We can leave them where they are,” said Starbright. “The material synthesizer can make food out of random atoms. It can feed you for long periods of time.”
“Food out of nothing?” asked a lizard-boy skeptically.
“Not out of nothing,” admitted Farbick. “We will have to find carbon and proteins and other molecular materials to put into the synthesizer when the current fuel runs out.”
“But we can make food out of garbage… or recycled dead bodies,” said Starbright.
Farbick hated the fact that for too many generations in space the Tellerons had used extra tadpoles and personnel for fuel for the synthesizers aboard the mother ship. Eating children was not a good thing, and their cultures both needed to stop doing such things.
“Well, can you make us some food?” asked a lizard-girl. “We are in no hurry to free Lord Bahbahr. He is a terrible ruler and we all hate him.”
“We might like him better with what the Earthers call ketchup all over him,” added a lizard boy.
“You cannot rebel against me!” shouted Bahbahr. “I own all of you! You must obey me!”
“He’s in a cage, right?” a lizard-girl asked Starbright.
“Yes. But let Farbick and I make you some nice meat sandwiches to eat. You can give us those heavy, nasty old krahzhen-lachhers and we can decide what to do about Stabharh and Bahbahr later.”
“Okay,” said several of the lizard-kids. The gun-things were handed over and Farbick made a food he had seen on Earth with the material synthesizers.
As one lizard-boy received a synthesized hot dog with a big, toothy smile, he turned and grinned at Bahbahr. “You do have an awful lot of meat on your bones,” the lizard-child said.
*****







If you are going to entertain a completely absurd notion like, “Shakespeare wasn’t really written by Shakespeare”, then you have to have some knowledge of the times and the context within which such a profoundly counter-intuitive thing could possibly be true. And it also helps to understand more precisely what the “writing of Shakespeare” actually means. Now, I know it is not particularly fair to confuse you, dear reader, right before I try to dazzle you with my complicated and over-thunk lackwit conspiracy theory, but that is, after all, what obfuscation actually means.










Special Snowflakes
When conservative cultural warriors, Twitter Trolls, or dyspeptic gasbags like Rush Limbaugh call you a “Special Snowflake”, I have discovered, to my chagrin, that they don’t mean it as a compliment. In their self-centered, egotistical world you have to be as emotionally tough and able to “take it” as they believe (somewhat erroneously to my way of thinking) they themselves are. They have no time for political correctness, safe spaces, or, apparently, manners polite enough not to get you killed on the mean streets where they never go. Being a retired school teacher who was once in charge of fragile young psyches trying to negotiate a cruel Darwinian world, I think I disagree with them.
Have you ever tried to draw a snowflake? Believe me, it is difficult. Snowflakes are hexagonal star-shapes with enough lace and filigrees in them to make it a nightmare to draw it with painfully arthritic hands. The one above took me an hour with ruler and compass and colored pencils, and it still doesn’t look as good as a first grader can create with scissors and folded paper. Much better to use a computer program to spit them out with mathematical precision and fractal beauty. That’s how all the tiny ones in the background were created. But even a computer can’t recreate the fragile, complicated beauty of real snowflakes.
You see how the fragile crystalline structures will break in spots, melt in spots, attach to others, and get warped or misshapen? That is the reason no two snowflakes are alike, even though they all come from the same basic mathematically precise patterns generated by ice crystals. Life changes each one in a different way.
And that, of course, is the reason this essay is really about people rather than mere physical artifacts of cold weather. Our fragilities and frailties are earned, and they make us who we are. I have a squinky eye like Popeye from playing baseball and getting hit by a pitch. I have a big toe that won’t bend from playing football. They both represent mistakes that I learned from the hard way.
As a teacher, I learned that bipolar disorder and anxiety disorders are very real things. I lost a job once to one of those. And I spent a long night talking someone out of suicide one horrible December. Forgive me, I had to take fifteen minutes just there to cry again. I guess I am just a “special snowflake”. But the point is, those things are real. People really are destroyed by them sometimes. And they deserve any effort I can make to protect them or help them make it through the night.
But people are like snowflakes. They are all complex. They are all beautiful in some way. They are all different. No two are exactly the same.
And I really think boorish bastards have no right to insist that we need to take safe spaces and sanctuaries away from them. Every snowflake has worth. Winter snow leaves moisture for seedlings to get their start every spring. If you are a farmer, you should know this and appreciate snowflakes. And snowflakes can be fascinating. Even goofy ones like me.
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