4.2

It is not. And our brave Felipe will not make it to 7:30. I won't even really have to pester him all that much. In the game of persuasion, pacing is everything. I stagger my harassment, breaking it up across five minute intervals, allowing the conversation to taper naturally to a lull, then reiterating my demand after a brief silence.

In the interim, I try to get my thoughts organized. Could these harmonious comas be the work of Toxic Megacolon? They certainly could, though this sleepy-time sonata seems a touch understated for those bombardier beetles. Where's the pomp? The pyrotechnics? The problematic body count? This is a band that makes rhythm tracks out of fine-tuned IEDs. Snatching up the saps in a merry musical dreamland is not quite the modus operandi of Tox Abbott, the arsonist architect of Toxic Megacolon. No, he prefers the craters, calderas, and charred skeletons of the charnel ground. This is a man who once fashioned a fully functioning kalimba from the bones of his greatest enemy. And yet, this sleepy hex that is vexing me now is a marvelous melding of malignance and melody – an alchemy few would consider, much less be capable of. Toxic Megacolon are definitely prime suspects in this grim endeavor.

“Lipe!” I say, rousing him from the slump into which he is slouching. “I'd say yer eyes are bloodshot, but I'd be understatin' the situation. They're ablaze, Lipe. Incendiary, like the glowin' slow burn dribblin' out of a leaky volcano. I look into yer eyes and I see the molten core of the planet peekin' back. Lipe, this goes beyond wisdom wisps and eyedrops. You've made a career outta burnin' the candle at both ends, and now you're all outta earwax.”

“Dawg, yer always wirin' up at Candy's Chokehouse and runnin' 'round barefoot all night rather than gettin' yer seven hours. Don't you yap at me 'bout sleep,” Lipe counters.

“The proof is in the puddin', Lipe, and I am that puddin'. Standin' here before you now in my puddin'ness, I offer you the proof: as the more fully awakened of the two of us, I am prepared to drive you home, without incident, purely to ensure yer continued and sustained welfare. Ya do good things for this world, Lipe. Malkiss needs ya.”

“I ain't cuttin' my shift, Mujo.”

But what about The Laryngeal Phalanges? This ferocious female five-piece is known for their multi-tiered vocal harmonies, their shimmering vibrato, and their unbridled righteous fury. And they are more than entitled to their scorn, when each of the Phalanges' life stories reads like an agonizing allegory of the pyramid of vertically integrated toilet stalls that is the patriarchy. Downtrodden but never outclassed, this stiletto-clad pentad of raging lady-pagans have channeled their collective loss of innocence into a deeply relatable songbook and a famously impassioned live show (and then, of course, there is Amphibian Mary Vertheron, without a doubt the most beautiful, inspiring and entrancing of all Hashtonian – nay, Merkaban – nay, Malkissian women. Oh sleek slippery Mary, how I loathe to accuse you of any misdeed. And yet I know you, Very Cherry Mary. Not well, I must confess, but well enough to know better than to ever cross your name from my list of suspects. What ratio of intoxicating flagons to peer pressure bandwagons have led you astray, I can only guess. But know this, my Amphibian Queen, wherever you are: if you've wandered into the wrong swamp and gotten sucked down too deep, this noble satyr is on his way to save you from the sludge). That the Phalanges have finally released an album at all is a small miracle. Obviously, they had more than enough material to make an official release twice over. But they had to talk themselves into it first, had to negotiate their threatened defense mechanisms, had to make sure that nothing they made was ever going to be co-opted by the proverbial Man. In the interim, they've channeled their excesses into random acts of vandalism, sabotage, and improvisational public theater: trapping aspiring politicians in transudate honeypots, stealing the identities of unrepentant sex offenders, spray-painting inconvenient truths and disconcerting lies in twelve-foot high yellow letters. No one in town has ever been able to pin any of it on the Phalanges for certain. But gather up the clues and triangulate the data, and any observant mind can spot the footprint they've left behind. Escalation is inevitable. The only unknown is what shape it will take.

“Homie, you had breakfast yet?” I ask.

“Oof,” Lipe winces.

“I'll take that as a no. Whaddaya got back at yer place?” I ask. When he doesn't respond right away, I press the issue. “Do ya still get those little griddle sausages? The patties? Man, you know what I haven't had in a minute? Breakfast steak.”

“Mujo, please... Have mercy,” he says, running his hand over his face and into the greasy thicket of his hair.

Which brings us to Jonn Bender, perhaps the odd man out, in that of the three he seems by far the least inclined towards acts of audio terrorism. Charming and benevolent, Bender the gentle eccentric uses his local celebrity status not as a fulcrum for egocentric drama (as is the prerogative of so many lesser geniuses) but as a platform to amplify his well-intentioned-albeit-wildly-impractical utopian vision for humanity. Including such classics as 'Raise All Your Children To Swim Bravely In Lakes Of Grief' and 'To Make Love Last, You Must Cast Magick With These Tears', these artful recipes for Homo sapiens' salvation have yet to penetrate the blanket cynicism of the Merkaban mainstream. Typically, I'd dismiss the brilliant yet futile gestures of such a man as exactly that, but the secrecy around his new album's release arches my eyebrow. Under any other circumstances, I'd chalk it up to novel hype-building strategies in a Dada-capitalist hellscape. But on a morning as mysterious as this one, Jonn Bender's veil of intrigue is practically an admission of guilt.

“Toilets backed up,” I announce, nonchalantly. Remarkably, this is not my doing. But perhaps it is not so remarkable at all. Perhaps the gods themselves are aligned with my noble mission.

“Yeah,” says Lipe. “That happens like twice a week. The plumbin' is crap pretty much 'cross the whole buildin'.”

“And you've been drinkin' mate all mornin',” I remind him. “Mouse, would you say that's a recipe for disaster?”

“Slippery whiz master,” says Mouse.

“Oof, wow, yes indeedy. That's trouble on the horizon for sure. Listen, man. I'll take care of you. I will drive you home, like, right now.”

“I'd toss ya my keys, but I'm worried they'd fall into yer big ol' pupils and never be seen again,” says Lipe.

“You're asleep on yer feet, dawg,” I say. “I don't want you asleep behind the wheel.”

“Naw,” says Lipe. “What you want's to borrow my car.”

He's right. I do. “I'm on a time crunch, Lipe. Honestly, I'm worried that we all are. Who knows where this thing is goin'. All I know is... it's big.”

“If it's that big, it ain't gonna fit into my Ahimsa,” says Lipe.

“You drive an Ahimsa?” I ask, surprised. “What kinda cattle rustler drives an Ahimsa? What happened to you, dude?”

“I sobered up,” says Lipe, wisping a little more wisdom. “Why don'cha borrow yer partner's ride?” he asks, nodding his head in Mouse's direction.

“Harness try,” says Mouse.

“He crashed his, uh, vehicle a couple hours ago,” I say. “We're legless and stranded, Lipe, adrift in the strip mall. The fates have abandoned us upon yer doorstep. But will you rise to destiny's ding dong ditch? Or will ya exile us to the highway on-ramp, our thumbs mournfully outstretched, our tear-stained faces beggin' for a stranger's charity?”

Felipe groans. But he's getting his briefcase, and now he's putting eyedrops in, and spritzing himself with eucalyptus oil to pare back the dank-stank, which means we're leaving, which is great, but it also means that he's driving, which complicates my grand ambitions for the day.

As we enter the parking lot, I get visual confirmation of Lipe's steed, hunched there on the asphalt and vibing inauspiciously. The car is old trombone yellow and looks as though it were deliberately designed to resist airflow. But that's not my main complaint.

“Lipe, is that thing safe?” I ask. “I mean, I'm not anti-Ahimsa. It's just that I'm seein' a disturbin' lack of hood-mounted weaponry upon this particular road warrior.”

“I made a personal choice,” Lipe assures me.

“So, it's a spiritual thing, drivin' a toothless electric Summer of Love reboot through a twenty-first century war-zone,” I say.

“Mujo, I ain't mean to preach at ya, but ya know how I feel 'bout this. Every Malkissian's jus' an unlucky prisoner of the Parasol. You, me, and everybody else: we're all jus' reincarnated souls, split from our spiritual brothers and sisters and pitted against each other, over and over again, until we give up the ghost once and for all. We're comrades in arms, and our common enemies are the Parasol that traps us on this planet, the anvil-hurlin' Demiurge that keeps us livin' in fear, and this slippery ego skin that separates you from me. So who am I to make war with my human family? We're all jus' fingertips stickin' offa the same captured hand, hermano.”

“Yer polydactyl philosophy's not wrong,” I concede. “Still, wouldn't it be nice to have a little armor platin'? Or maybe a few spikes on the rear bumper, just to discourage tailgaters.”

“A man of peace leads quietly by example,” Lipe counters. “It's jus' what Yeswell Crushluck would do.”

“Alright, fine,” I say, approaching the driver's side door. “Would ya quietly toss me the keys, then?”

“It's keyless entry,” Lipe says, nudging me gently aside and pushing a button on his keyfob to unlock the car. “And keyless ignition,” he says, taking my seat behind the driver's wheel. “And driverless steerin',” he adds, as the car begins to move of its own accord.

“Whoa,” says Mouse.