Musk (Jose Garcia Edit)
CASSIUS CROON HEAVED HIMSELF OVER THE OBSTACLE WALL AND SCALED DOWN THE HEMPY MESH. Panting heavily, he jogged to a row of monkey bars, leapt to the first rung and (maintaining his kinetic energy) swung himself to the end. He then tracked a muddy trail which for some time rambled through the russet Vermont hills, clouds of breath trailing autumnal in his wake, grey tracksuit dark with at least three triangles of sweat. He karate-chopped the air as he ran.
Freshly changed into a baggy suit and anointed with the latest
Spice Girls stench,
agent Croon stood patiently in his superior's office sometime later that morning.
Gerald McCumbie put on his spectacles, activated a projector, and one wall of his office was instantly splattered with newspaper headlines.
McCumbie sniffed.
<<What's that you're wearing?
>>
<<Sir?
>>
Croon said.
<<I'm wearing the scent of
musk.
>>
<<Hmmmph. Engineered from the glands
of a synthetic platypus?
>> McCumbie
laughed wistfully, to himself. As he didn't have a clue what was going on, Croon studied the
headlines on the wall. Most of them had to do with nature habitats, smuggling,
aphrodisiacs and genetic manipulation. And there were lots of photos of gorillas.
Cued to his voice, the projector flashed up a new image: a grainy close-up of a
mountain gorilla. Cued to the image, McCumbie said,
<<Scientists estimate there are approximately 2000 wild eastern gorillas on the African continent, inhabiting the lowlands of
Cameroon to the central highlands of Congo and Uganda, as well as the Virunga Mountains. 2000 specimens! That's not much biodiversity! This population has to contend with a declining habitat, disease and
occasional tribal war.
>>
A short film-clip was projected on the wall: poachers chasing startled gorillas through the bush, the discharge of an ancient rifle, then cut to a butcher slicing lumps of heavily veined meat in what looked like an Asian wet market. When it stopped McCumbie said:
<<Lately gorillas have had to contend with a new threat: poachers. Chinese medical practitioners have developed a strange new taste for a certain part of the gorilla anatomy: specifically, the testicles.
>>
<<Eeek.
>>
<<They got this funny idea that
eating ape nuts will keep their genetic codes intact and safe from all the modified food in their diet these days.
By munching on the loins of the world's last mountain gorillas, they think they can preserve and even enhance their own racial prowess.
>>
<<Ahhh
>> Croon said. Which of course meant:
That's what this is about, a political thing. As if reading his mind McCumbie negated:
<<If this fad continues wild gorillas could be extinct by the end of the decade. The Chinese government claims to be clamping down on the trade, but it's not enough. The CIA's getting involved.
>>
<<I'm not
>>
Croon insisted
<<going to the Africa without a
stopover in Morocco!
>>
<<You're going to China first.
I want you to pay a visit to the man they call the Castrator of Canton.
>>
Croon remembered the name from a recent CNN report -
<<The
guy who neutered all those peasant boys? Sir...
>>
<<We think he was framed. It might
be a long bow to draw, but maybe there's a link with these monkey nuts. Check him
out.
>>
McCUMBIE HAD CLEVERLY CLOAKED the operation in the venerable veil of wildlife conservation. While carbon sequestration initiatives were gradually easing the most challenging problems of Climate Change, and bioengineering advances had given humanity mastery over the very building blocks of life, a powerful pang still reverberated whenever one of the more spectacular species went extinct. Naomi Campbell's traipse down the catwalk in an authentic fur coat in 1999 had set the world off in a particular philosophical direction, that so much is fact. But overall, most people were still fond regard for the pre-human kingdoms. To put it in layman terms: gorillas were politically correct.
Nonetheless, Cassius Croon knew this wasn't about saving gorillas. Obviously it was a political stunt, and the aim was to embarrass the Chinese government. In this age of east/west trade wars and Chinese companies muscling into every field from textiles to robotics, in this time of Taiwanese Tension... to expose the hideous exploitation of animals in the Middle Kingdom, to trace this exploitation to the top of the Communist Party: well, it would be excellent PR for the vested interests of the White House. Anyway, everyone was into animal exploitation these days - you couldn't just pin this on the Chinks. Even Croon had a pet wallaby... and a girlfriend called Thelma T.
Thelma was cuddled with the wallaby on the mink bedspread when he arrived home. He stripped out of his shredded leather suit and strode across the apartment bare ass - two bullet scars on his abdomen flexing, large Māori tattoo rippling over his shoulderblades. Thelma smiled at this development, curled as she was on the purring bed, but Cassius just walked right past her to a wardrobe where he began putting on an outfit which was half spider silk, half imported yak hair.
Croon lit a Cuban cigar, sniggered.
<<Hell
baby, I ain't got the time for jumping about. I got a fucking job to do.
>>
And he started packing a suitcase with binoculars, mosquito repellent and at least three safari suits.
<<Don't expect me to be waiting here when you get back
>> Thelma warned.
GUANGZHOU, SOUTH CHINA SPECIAL ECONOMIC ZONE: It seemed like everyone was serenading spider silk in the teeming streets and elevated walkways of New Canton. They should have been, because spider silk was the third most important force driving the economy here. Dulled into the respectable Calvin Klein blues and greys of the businessmen in their suits at the Metro stops, or dazzling with its native sheen in the strobe lights of the inner-city nightclubs... spider silk was the wonder fabric of the 00s, and Guangzhou processed about 90 per cent of the global trade. It permeated the very structure of the supercity, its profits stringing out miles of monorails and fiber optics and eight-lane motorways into the countryside, and from above Guangzhou had begun to look a spider's web: delicate but strong, beautiful but a crueler peasant trap that ever was.
Even Wong Ka-Fai, the Castrator of Canton, was wrapped in silk in his glass cell
at Guangzhou's number six prison. He should have been, because Wong spent all day making
the shit in the prison's factories. He was toying with a massive arthropod in a shimmering
spider's web when Croon arrived to visit him.
Croon stopped outside the cell's observation window, gaped in mock awe at the size of the creature.
<<Man, that thing must sure spin some thread
>> he said, in street Cantonese.
<<It's our finest work-horse
>>
Wong replied, following the script dutifully.
<<Five years of selective breeding went into the creation of this monster. It produces up to 60 per cent more silk than our earlier models, and that silk is 50 per cent stronger, and the spiders require 40 per cent less
upkeep. That translates into an 80 per cent increase in profit for this organization. We're
now working on a new pedigree for lingerie.
>>
Croon was playing Trent Perkins, an alias he had spun for this infiltration. Perkins was a senior executive for Hugo Boss, and he was in China to secure about 7,000 meters of silk for the North American market. He was touring the prison factory as part of the deal and this naturally included a glimpse of its most notorious inmate. Wong was used to such propaganda and looked suitably bored, seated on a stool and toying with his spider.
<<It's our finest workhorse
>> Wong replied.
<<Five years of selective
breeding went into the creation of this monster. It produces up to 60 per cent more silk than our earlier models, and that silk is 50 per cent stronger, and the spiders require 40 per cent less upkeep. That translates into an 80 per cent increase in profit for this organization. We're now working on a new pedigree for lingerie.
>>
<<Wah!
>>
Croon said.
<<Who could have imagined
hairy-legged arachnids and women being bed partners!
>>
<<The eastern mind
>> Wong explained
<<doesn't seem to suffer the right-hemispherical restrictions which inhibit your growth in the west. We think laterally here,
our imaginations range across parameters you would find obscene.
>>
Wong made a scoffing noise, as if to dismiss this barbarian. Sensing it was make or break, Croon went all out:
<<What about gorilla testicles, huh? Ever chomped on one of them? They protect your DNA, apparently!
>>
Croon noticed something unusual in the delivery in these lines, some kind of method in his madness.
<<All you
can say, or all you will say?
>>
Wong glanced at the three heavily armed prison guards who were flanking Croon, and switched back to Cantonese.
<<Goodbye, Mr Perkins. I suggest you stay
out of prisons; Guangzhou has so much more to offer. There's a good club several streets
from here: more your scene.
>>
KARAOKE BARS HAD DIVERSIFIED in China, and they now enabled their guests to embarrass themselves in a multiverse of mediums. When Croon arrived at the
Flying Carp (as recommended by the Castrator of Canton) there was a guy on stage acting out the lead role from
Enter the Dragon. He was fitted into a VR suit which superimposed his movements on to footage of Bruce Lee's seminal work. Croon settled into a corner by himself, bought a packet of cigarettes, ordered a
Moutai27.
Defend your essence. That's all I can say. Hmmm, if that wasn't a tip-off, then Croon didn't know what was. He was beginning to think the whole point of the Guangzhou stopover was to be delivered those words. Obviously, the
Flying Carp disguised the next piece of the jigsaw. So he sat, and he waited.
Presently an outbreak of applause rattled Croon out of his thoughts and forced him to return his attention to the stage. The Bruce Lee impersonator was gone, his
kung fu soundtrack replaced by a MIDI of
When the Saints Go Marching In. This was obviously the major floorshow for the evening. Women in silver lycra danced through puffs of sparkling smoke. Then, hooting tremendously, a massive pink elephant ambled out on stage. It
scooped up one of the girls with its trunk and tossed her on to its back.
And the agent thought:
Defend your essence. What was going on here?
KINSHASA, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO: So Croon jumped on a China Airways flight and fled dawn all night long to the hibiscus blooms and open sewers of the Congo Republic. He ditched the Trent Prune alias on the
way, returning it to its owner; Croon now appropriated the guise of Jose Garcia, a
Filipino film-maker who had just been licensed to shoot a nature doco on the endangered
mountain gorilla. The alias was brilliant because it enabled the CIA to get high quality
film of any poaching activities the party stumbled upon.
Croon was of course no stranger to the Dark Continent, and had messed about in a number of its civil wars, on one side or another (really, did it matter these days what team you picked??? truth was as reversible as fashion.) He was conversant in numerous African languages, the most important of which was
baksheesh - that was the one which opened the most doors. He had even become a folk hero of sorts, during the murderous reign of the Zombie Apocalypse, back in the early 00s when a Doomsday sect set West Africa ablaze. A Mansonesque esoteric named Dr John Omotayo had arisen from the slums of Lagos and proclaimed that the world had indeed ended in 1999, and passed into an eternal Hell. Given the living conditions in the Nigerian capital at the time, this wasn't such a fantastic claim. Before long Dr John was being worshipped by throngs of gun-toting death squads, who christened him the 'Satanic Majesty of the Underworld'.
<<The world is collapsing, as if there was a black hole at its very heart
>> the Just Satan announced.
<<We are that Black Hole which devours everything, including the Light - especially the Light. Let us build in the jungle the Capital of Hell, a Black Rome to mock that White Rome which lies beyond the sea.
>>
It was Black versus White, Darkness against Light, and as everybody knows, Darkness always prevails. Johnist cults were imploding much of West Africa, creating civic unrest and even disrupting the global oil supply. As an agent of the White Rome (Washington DC), Croon was dispatched to teach the Devil a lesson. Even at that early age he was exhibiting an intuitive understanding of
Voodoo science and an embrace of Armageddon. More importantly, his skin tone was dark enough to convince even the most paranoid parishioners that he was the local Yoruba drifter that he pretended to be. He was airdropped into the 221st chapter in Lagos, where his skills proselytizing and with the AK-47 ensured his rapid promotion through the ranks. Before too long, he was providing security for the Just Satan Himself, in the Capital of Hell. He could have gunned him down right there or called in an airstrike, but that went against his instructions. To deal the Zombies a mortal blow, a more public display was needed. Under the Zombies Easter had become the most important date in the calendar, and Dr John delivered an annual sermon at the National Stadium in Surulere. Tens of thousands of pilgrims were there, from all over Nigeria and beyond, their normally colorful attire muted for the occasion (it was Good Friday). Dr John stood on the muddy stage wearing a black
cassock instead of a usual vestment, and his mood was apoplectic:
<<We gather this Rapturous Day to celebrate the betrayal and crucifixion of the Son of Man, the Lord Jesus Christ. Christ was the first Zombie, and His Resurrection marked the triumph of the Undead, over ordinary Death...
>> The Just Satan slumped to the stage, blood soaking his cassock. A splitsecond later the sound of a gunshot thundered outwards, starting the pilgrims, and ricocheting off the stadium walls. Cassius Croon scanned the melee from his position in the wings, looking for an escape route. He hadn't aimed execution style, but rather fired a shot to the stomach -- to ensure a long and bloody death.
How can you kill the undead? zombies never died? But here Zombie King lay dying, proof that Light can indeed penetrate Dark, and, well, light it up!
Dr John's cult quickly imploded, and the Zombie Apocalypse was dead in a matter of weeks.
The view of the thick rainforest on the approach path to Kinshasha Airport brought it all back, and suddenly the cabin of the plane was reeking with malaria and the corrosive ambience of depleted uranium. Croon gripped his armrest involuntarily, started fumbling for the sickbag, a silent
<<NOOOO!
>> forming on his pursed and puckered lips. What the hell was he doing back in this accursed and brutal continent?
ONCE THE PANIC HAD SUBSIDED, they left Kinshasa and made for the highlands near Goma, accompanied by guides and
several dozen Tutsi soldiers. After two days of hiking, they stumbled upon a known gorilla nest... only to find it abandoned. Gorilla hair strung compelling from crumpled undergrowth, along with patches of dried blood and bullet cartridges.
<<Poachers
>>
Razor said. He had been one himself, and so he understood their
modus operandi.
Another day later, in a copse of mutilated trees, the party saw their first gorilla:
dead and castrated. The guides stood over the noble carcass, waving fists at the
savages who could commit such an atrocity. The ape's tag denoted it one of the last nine living
in the park.
They moved on. Croon began to feel (as he usually did after three days of pulling leaches from his boots) that this was all a bit of a needle in the haystack situation, and that there might not be a pot of gold waiting at the end of this particular rainbow. To complicate matters, someone had lost the booze. He kept replaying the scant leads that he had, over and over again in his mind: the serial butcher in his prison cell, the mutated elephant in the karaoke club, fragments of McCumbie's headlines. The zombies and the
antiglobalists. It just didn't make any sense.
It was around about this time that Croon blew his top:
<<All
right, this is bullshit. I'm sick of this snooping around; I want a fair fight. Let's
track these bastards, and then let's nail them.
>>
Trouble was, the track led more or less directly towards the President's summer palace at Goma. The guides got a little nervous; the Tutsis were more battlehardended after decade of genocidal war.
<<I don't give a damn about the president
>> Croon said.
<<Geopolitics don't concern me. For
God's sake, I'm a nature documentary maker!
>>
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE occupied a enormous clearing which had
been hacked meticulously from the sweltering jungle. The estate was an incredibly
ambitious replica of a provincial French chateau, complete with fountains, avenues lined with linden trees,
peacocks fanning their tails on reticulated fields. Somewhat bemused, the party
approached the high fence perimeter, rang a buzzer, asked if they could go inside.
Croon was invited to dine with the president later that day. His Excellency was apparently a keen fan of nature documentaries (who wasn't?). A week bumming around the tropical undergrowth had taken its toll on the agent's godliness, however, so he was pampered to an afternoon in the baths. Several members of the presidential harem were dispatched to scrub his back, pluck his nostril hair and offer him tray after tray of musk essence (he settled on a wildebeest/jaguar combination).
The bells were rung, and it was time for dinner. Croon was led to the dining hall, the doors were flung open, and he beheld a long teak table covered by a splayed hippopotamus. The president was at the far end, hippopotomus-faced himself, tucking into a generous slab of gristle.
<<My friend, sit please, and
eat!
>> His Excellency instructed. He dropped a lettuce leaf to some creature beneath the table... presumably it was his pet? Croon sat down and despite himself sliced a steak from the purple bulk with a large carving knife.
<<Good meat, eh?
>> the president inquired.
<<Good, juicy steak. It's our finest workhorse, this. Five years of selective breeding went into the creation of this monster. It produces up to 40 per cent more meat than our earlier models, and that meat is 50 per cent more tender, and it tastes about 60 per cent better. We're working on a pygmy pedigree for the Euro market.
>>
The president handed his pet another lettuce leaf and lifted it to rummage over his plate. Croon gagged, fork frozen literally midair. For the president's pet was a poodle-sized sky-blue elephant.
<<I'd like you to meet our chef
>>
the president said.
<<All the way from
China...
>>
Wong Ka-Fai sauntered out of the kitchen wearing a floppy chef's hat and holding a silver tray. He smiled at Croon, lifted the lid from the tray and offered him a pile of steaming scrota.
BON APPETIT!
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