Echoes scatter in every which direction, leaving no traces of themselves.
“We all have to step out of our comfort zones, now and again.” the Coach now sighed to himself facetiously as he looked in the direction of the yellowed tents. He turned to Bunnu, who had been standing next to him quietly in an awkward stance. “Even when they aren’t so comfortable. I have to admire them, though: The Drawans. You do call them Drawans where you’re from, yes?”
“Mumta.” Bunnu responded quietly.
“Mumta...?” Ottoman-13 reacted from behind them. “Actually, Mr. Bunnu, the Mumta are not quite the same thing. The Mumta were composed of the dissident tribes who broke off from the main group of Melic migrants to roam the lands neighboring Kaiiba. Eventually, they created their own series of settlements bordering the outskirts of Bahlia and, by King Bunnu-5’s reign, their population had grown large enough for them to form their own kingdom. When Charismatic K took to the throne, trade relationships were forged between Kaiiba and the Kingdom of Mumtaz. Apparently, the Mumta were a good deal more scientifically and culturally advanced than the Kaiibans had been at the time, to the surprise of many. But they remained weaker militarily and were, thus, at the whims of their Kaiiban overlords. When the Republic annexed the countries of Kaiiba and Mumtaz, years later, apparently a lot of their historians dedicated their studies to tracing the origins of both cultures. According to what I’ve read, it seems that both Kaiibans and Mumta were originally descendants of the ancient Melic—the people of that country right there across the river. Actually, Bahlians, Vasallans, Karasujimans, Saruyamans and Mumta alike are all distant relatives of the ancients who occupied the floodplains right here along Placenta-C. They each split off from the main group to form their own story, but they all descended, as we do, from the same Drawan vine. So, actually, it wouldn’t necessarily be accurate to equate the modern Mumta with these half-breed Melic blokes here any more than it would be accurate to equate either of the two cultures with the modern Kaiibans, regardless of our common Drawan heritage. But of course I’m basing all my assertions on the historical accounts of the Republic. Hard to say if their assessments have been accurate.”
“My, oh my…” The Coach said, seemingly ignoring Ottoman altogether. “My dear Bunnu…” His voice had a wistful tone to it, giving Bunnu this feeling that the Coach was suddenly distant, perhaps adrift in his own memories and speaking to him from another time.
“Have we met?” Bunnu asked, inhaling sharply and then slowly exhaling in the silence that pervaded in lieu of a response. It occurred to him that the Coach may not have known how to respond to such a question. The Coach’s head was oblong with tiny slits that served as eyes, which drifted in tides slowly inward, as though the face itself were the sea or, in fact, a soup of macromolecules through which objects might drift, leaving in their wake, ripples of nothingness. The eyes—they floated adrift like land masses before locking in symmetrically at seemingly prescribed positions off-center, while managing to be so closely drawn into the very middle of the face section that it might have seemed unnecessary for there to have been two eyes when, quite likely, one would easily have sufficed. These aimless, floating eyes were not the Coach’s only distinctive feature—for, in fact, connected to the interior of each eyelid by a web-like layer of rubbery pink tissue was a kind of snout which, unlike the eyes, remained fixed in its position among the tides of the face, arcing narrowly inward at the edges of its sharp extremities into a serrated beak-like projection that hooked downward at its tip, in a fashion similar to that of a falcon’s beak. This snout—or beak, rather—was, in fact, so long and came to such a fine point that as the eyes swirled through the soup of macromolecules that comprised the man’s face, it almost appeared—due to the seeming thinness of the pink tissue—that the eyes functioned as kinds of optical tether balls that moved synchronously across the face like mirror images of one another.
“I wore my lizard mask as I entered the tram, last evening, and people found me fearless,” the Coach remarked, enunciating each word carefully through the hollow clack-clacking sound of his beak, as its edges clapped together. “I might have exchanged it for that of an ox and then thought better. A lizard goes best with scales, don’t you think?” Bunnu nodded as he quietly wondered how the Coach could manage to fit that phallic monstrosity of a beak into any kind of mask, unless, in fact, this disguise of which he spoke, had been specially designed for his face and divided into sections in such a way that they could be readily attached to different areas—as though one were assembling a new face—in overlapping layers, so as to veil, or perhaps even amplify certain distinguishable features. All the same, in doing so, one could only imagine this lizard mask to be enormous to the extent that it would be disproportionate with the rest of the Coach’s body. But then, there were ways to mask space, as well—to bend light, perhaps, to create the illusion that something was perceptibly larger or smaller, wider or narrower, rounder or more linear than it was in actuality. That is to say, any form of prosthesis designed for the purposes of affecting remedial space might, for example, have had the capability of creating the appearance of a gap of void in occupied space. An ornament hangs from the chin, let’s say, as an accessory meant to contour smoothly inward what might otherwise appear to be hanging jowls. This surely wouldn’t be the exact use that the Coach would have for such a device—as he had no jowls to speak of—though he could certainly see the benefit of the accessory’s ingenuity. This being said, the lizard mask might have appeared natural rather than disproportionate given the right set of circumstances. Whatever the case, there was no way of even knowing if the Coach wasn’t, in fact, already wearing a mask, at this very moment, rendering Bunnu’s initial appraisal of his character—as determined by a rudimentary physiognomic analysis of his features—a matter now subject to doubt. And thus, any conjecture that could be made with respect to the dimensions or components of a lizard mask—not to speak of the motives of its wearer—seemed not only impractical, but also irrelevant at this point in time.
“This mask…” Bunnu said contemplatively, “it allowed you to escape your comfort zone?” He was uncertain about whether the Coach expected him to acknowledge the lizard mask or not, though he most certainly preferred to get straight to the point. Nonetheless, there was some kind of otherworldly aspect about this bizarre creature that wouldn’t allow him to change the subject without, first, investigating the matter thoroughly. It was within the realm of possibility that the mask carried some kind of significance with respect to whatever business the Coach may have had with him. The rest of the Coach’s outfit was equally mismatched. He wore a red football jersey and shorts; around his neck hung a whistle. His garb was actually pretty typical for a coach from the Greater Kaiiba-8 Football Association, which led Bunnu to the assumption that the Coach was here to speak to him on the League’s behalf. However, over top of this uniform, he wore a long black silk robe that hung lazily over the football uniform and seemed to clash almost humorously with the pasty white toothpick legs that shone like twin beacons from below his shorts. The buttons on the robe were of what appeared to be some kind of animal bone and were round and white with black hexagonal spots. From the sleeves of the robe projected thin, bony hands with long, needlelike digits that seemed abnormally long for a man of the Coach’s proportions, but still not as unusual as his beak.
Bunnu paused, wondering if the Coach hadn’t heard him the first time. He opened his mouth again to repeat his query, only to be met with a cold, unforgiving sneer—not really from the Coach, so much as from his beak. It seemed odd to distinguish between the two, and yet at the moment, it would have been stranger not to do so, since it appeared as though the Coach had remained indifferent to Bunnu’s statement, while the ire of his beak had somehow been raised—perhaps it was a mask. The beak, in fact, seemed rather annoyed by Bunnu’s assertion, as though perhaps it were being mocked, though Bunnu couldn’t quite figure out what might have led it to this reasonin
g. And yet, he found himself mildly relieved at the beak’s reaction, as though it revealed a weakness—a lack of control, perhaps—on the part of the Coach that hadn’t previously manifested itself in his heretofore stoic demeanor. Regardless, it certainly hadn’t been his intention to offend the Coach’s beak.
There was a long silence and, somewhere in its midst, the Coach clacked his beak together again rapidly, as though chattering his teeth. Bunnu remained quiet, though silently admonishing himself for not doing otherwise. His silence implied compliance with the circumstances, when, in fact, he should have been protesting them and demanding to be told why he’d been brought here. He was about to open his mouth to say something—anything to protest—when the Coach started speaking again, “Do you smell that in the air?” His eyes had surfaced again from that soupy face of his and, this time, they were not looking at Bunnu, but back in the direction of Ottoman-13.
Ottoman, too, appeared to be slightly taken aback at having been addressed by the Coach as it seemed that their implicit understanding had been that they were not connected directly to one another, but rather, in actuality, through the existence of Bunnu, who had somehow come to be the common living denominator of their respective vested interests. Ottoman presumably had no affiliation with the Coach, but had only brought Bunnu here because his superiors had ordered him to do so, and thus he had probably done so out of duty. Yet now it appeared that he was just as mystified as Bunnu as to the nature of this odd creature. In particular, he seemed unsure about how he was to regard it. Was he to maintain his air of authority, or was he to feign compliance to this being for the sake of satisfying his superiors? It didn’t matter what sort of individual this Coach was, so much as the power dynamic that was expected to exist between the two of them. How indeed was he to carry himself in the face of this new player? With a tone of supplication? With commanding and uncompromising austerity? What was a man in this role expected to do? The quandaries of an actor were many! “Er…” Ottoman now stammered awkwardly, as he sniffed at the air, “Well…no…I don’t suppose I do. What am I-?”
“Of course you can. You just don’t know what it is specifically that I’m asking about.” The Coach said disapprovingly, “How can you answer my question without, at least, asking me what smell I was referring to?”
“Well I-“
“Your answer is unimportant,” the Coach said with a wave of his hand. “I know for a fact that you can smell it, but I also know that you fail to notice what it is because you’ve grown accustomed to the aroma and have, perhaps, lost the ability to distinguish its presence from its absence. This, of course, is a natural consequence of adaptation. Why would the brain process a given stimulus as something distinguishable, when the stimulus is, in fact, all-pervading and ever-present?”
“Like a repetitive sound?” Ottoman responded.
“Let’s not confuse the matter any further,” Bunnu snapped. He turned to the Coach. “What are we getting at here, exactly? Where are you going with this?” He felt strange for insisting that the Coach continue, but at the same time, eager to see the logic behind his assertions.
“You’ll notice the smell more when it’s gone,” the Coach said dryly. He pointed again in the direction of the tents. “Residing safely among the Melic half-breeds across the river are the Hentai Chefs. They labor ceremoniously over pots and pans piled high with food. Typically, common sense would dictate that there should be no flaw in doing so…yet, deep in their soul, they harbor this secret perverse desire. You see, in Melic society, it is strictly forbidden to eat in public. To the point that the average Melic is absolutely repulsed by even the very thought of it. In fact, eating in public carries such a heavy taboo that one is ultimately left with no choice but to eat one’s food in a private stall. The penalties for doing otherwise are, as you can imagine, quite harsh. However, these Hentai Chefs knew that by mixing with the half-breeds, they could indulge in any unconventional practices they sought to, since the government gives the half-breeds special permission to engage in their rituals unabated.”
“People can’t eat in public?” Bunnu responded in disbelief.
“Across the river is Melic-ruled territory,” Ottoman interjected. “Their laws don’t apply here in the Morellan Intercultural Settlement. Eating in public is strictly forbidden by the Melic and those who violate the law are subject to imprisonment or hefty fines. On the other hand, public defecation, despite whatever health hazards it seems to pose, is not at all regulated as there are no teachings of Morell that have dealt specifically with the subject.” He pointed across the river to a middle-aged businessman who was squatting in the crosswalk of a paved street with his pants around his ankles, as pedestrians passed on either side of him unaffected.
“So, these Hentai Chefs,” the Coach continued after some silence, “they watch people eat the food they'd prepared for them through peepholes in the food stalls. With each bite, chew, swallow, and burp, they feel a flood of nervous excitement surging through them. They shudder and hyperventilate with two palms flat against the outside wall of the stalls, their eyes struggling to get wider as though this might somehow improve the acuity of their vision. They want their eyes to process every molecule of flavor that beckons to the taste buds. In their voyeuristic zeal, they seek to light up the same centers of the brain visually that are being stimulated by the food they’ve prepared. And those who can’t even bear to leave the more subtle and insignificant tastes to the imagination often go so far as to use a special telescopic lens that allows them to get a close-up look at the mouths of the people who are eating the food they’ve prepared. To compound the matter even further, we have, what have generally come to be known as masticating exhibitionists—and I assure you that the practice is certainly every bit as lewd and depraved as the name suggests. These people, who seem to know they’re being watched, and perhaps have even come to crave it, make an intentional effort to exaggerate the motions of the mouth and the tongue as they chew their food, at times smacking their lips and making these distinct noises of appreciation with each bite they delicately place in their mouths. And so, the chefs and the exhibitionists have a sort of symbiotic relationship, similar to other creatures who share the same ecosystem. But how did this come about? Were they biologically predisposed to be this way? Was it a process of mutual evolution over the course of generations? Surely, there can be no clear answer to that.
“However, in order to shed whatever light we can upon these circumstances, we are forced to analyze the psychology of The Chefs. What is at work, here, is conceivably some kind of an addiction to taboos. The concept of violating a social code for one’s personal satisfaction, which in and of itself, serves to be emotionally—and thus, physiologically—gratifying. And then we have a community of enablers, which includes not only the Hentai Chefs, but also the masticating exhibitionists, as well as the Melic half-breeds: all of them seeming to encourage this behavior through their lack of condemnation and, at the same time, confirming one another’s participation in a social faction that gives them a highly-specialized identity—and abidingly, a kind of license to see themselves as better than the norm. And yet, the Hentai Chefs themselves: they understand the ignominious nature of their actions. In fact, they feel terribly guilty for the act itself and for their encroachment upon the privacy of the eater, but the guilt serves to turn them on even more. Their collective guilt is, in fact, a binding force of their social faction. And yet, in a very peculiar way, their psychology and behaviors seem almost frighteningly similar to those of some of the most pious clerics among the Melic community. They are bound as a congregation by their collective fear and shame: a fear of unattainable ideals, a fear of untold repercussions, a shame at…well, I suppose nothing in particular. A general pervading, indefinable shame that need not be specific or well-understood, but is nonetheless, essential to their struggle for a collective meaning. In this regard, the act of voyeurism is almost cleansing. Highly individua
l, yet retaining elements of commonality with a group. One might say that the Hentai Chefs aren’t at all any different from the holy rollers who bathe here in the sacred waters of Placenta-C.
“And herein lies the mystery, though I don’t see it as a mystery at all: they seek to light up the same centers of the brain as those who are subject to their voyeurism. They could eat the food themselves and experience the same sensations physiologically. Why take the extra care and preparation, just to watch someone else eat it? More importantly, why is the person they choose to eat it so important? I ask this because your average Hentai Chef is very particular about choosing the person that he cooks for. Mostly we are talking about moderately plump females who can’t help but salivate at the mere smell of the food. They’re the most common target as the anticipation that gives way to their salivating seems to be a kind of digestive foreplay for the Chefs, who seem to envision the saliva oozing in bursts from the glands to penetrate the morsels and break them down to smaller and smaller pieces until each sensation upon the tongue comes to be separate and independent from all the others. In fact, the salivation of the female subjects infuses the air with these pheromones that serve to enhance the experience for the Chefs greatly. And yet, we’re still talking about the moderates. These Chefs are a bit on the conservative side, but then on the fringes of the Hentai Chef community, we have these real genuinely decadent individuals who are looking for something a little more extreme. Chefs who cook for children, getting their kicks by cooking up something extra messy just to watch the kids lick the sauce from their fingers. And then there are those who even have it in for the sweaty business types—Men, slightly overweight with a questionable sense of hygiene and low self-esteem; men who’ve taken on the trades of their fathers, without a clear direction in terms of their own identity, despite being the pride of their family. I’m told these men are particularly sloppy eaters, because—though repressed among the masses of everyday society—in the privacy of a food stall, they lose their sense of social anxiety and regress to the uninhibited days of their babyhood, becoming flatulent, slobbering messes.
“Decadent…maybe. And yet, illuminating. What I’m getting at here is that to the Chefs all of this unattainable fantasy. Unattainable ideal, but on a deeper level, it’s something more. It’s a misdirected attempt at empathy, a secret yearning to re-establish a lost connection; a connection lost in the formation of a society with rules and strict religious norms.”
“So, their actions are rooted in the same desires as those of the Melic clerics?” Ottoman posited.
“A lost connection…” Bunnu uttered slowly.
A gust of wind blew dust down over the steps and through the riverbank from the streets of the Dowa District. At the top of the stairs, a group of Untouchable children gathered pieces of broken glass, rusty cans, discarded razors, syringes, and old shit-stained newspapers swirling about in the breeze. Bunnu couldn’t figure out if they were planning to use these objects for play or if they’d been made to come out here and do this.
The Coach turned to Bunnu and said, “You must understand now and once and for all, that there is, in fact, a smell in the air, because when it’s gone, you just might try to seek it out without really understanding why.”
One of the children screamed as blood poured down from the palm of his hand.
Nectar-13