The Downfall Of Manifesto The Great

3. Jack and John

Chapter Three

Jack and John

“It is no-nonsense bossing that is the making of a ruler.”—Scribed at the feet of a headless statue

A few months later . . .

Jack and John were pondering their future in the laundry of the institute, a noisy place where few ventured.

While toying with out-of-date sandwiches, they stared out of the shoebox of a window.

Jack sniffed his milky tea then stirred in sugar while John, pulling gristle from his “meat” sandwich, moaned about the drop in quality.

“You’d never get this on the other side,” he said.

“Can’t remember the other side; it’s so long,” said Jack.

He sipped his tea, then pulled a “stewed to buggery” face.

“On the other side was filet meat and crispy rolls,” said John.

“Pfff, may as well ask for a gold-plated mirror as a crispy roll in this dump,” said Jack. “Or a shag.”

John choked on his tea.

Jack and John were the only two men from the city who had ventured past the trading post into the outlands, albeit masked and drugged.

Memories of their seed extraction in the shed kept them awake at night. A heady mixture of pain, pleasure, and knock-knock jokes flitted in and out of their dreams like a black-and-white noir thirties film.

At first, they tried to tell of their ordeal but found being laughed at as painful as the thought of seed extraction with no numbing hemp tea. It seemed the Aliens’ idea of having any idea of technology was as plausible to the institute as a headless statue receiving flowers.

After all, the Aliens ate with their hands, and they were women—sort of.

Jack peered out the window at the backside of the courtyard of greatness; a mechanical bird flitted onto the headless statue, depositing a watery dropping, followed by a squawk.

Jack watched as the dark fluid slid down the side of the statue’s muscular arm. “If only they knew,” he sighed.

“Knew what?” said John with a disgusted toss of his sandwich.

The bird jumped out of the way of the bread torpedo.

“The truth about the shed,” said Jack.

“We don’t know about the truth of the shed,” said John.

“We know they took our seed,” said Jack.

“Yes, but why?” said John.

Silence . . .

This was the part they always stopped at—the “why.”

In the good old days, before they were incarcerated for being “nut jobs,” Jack and John had been caretakers of the turtle, in charge of its to-ing and fro-ing.

The turtle collected hormones. For what, they had no idea, let alone how it collected the stuff, but once the turtle escaped under their watch, they had to find, follow, and cover up.

Which was a great plan until kidnapped by the women from the outlands.

The so-called Aliens . . .

Now, years later, John wondered what actually happened and if he knew it could lead to something better, or at least to their old life of decent caffeine and gristle-free sandwiches.

The two watched a mechanical bird leaving more droppings on the headless statue.

They spent several years in the institute answering to such names as “looney” and “fruit loop.”

Ignored as losers and useless, they could wander the garden, the corridors, and the kitchen eavesdropping to their hearts’ content.

It seemed that women were as discontented as they were.

Manifesto the Great, inspired by She Done Him Wrong, a Mae West film that had many a man on the edge of his seat, had come up with the Mae West prototype robot.

The idea of voluptuous mechanical beings bending over, washing baskets while cracking jokes appealed to men, apart from the Librarian, but no one listened to him.

What would a man in a wheelchair and an absurd amount of old fashion wigs know about women?

The women, however, took one look at a robot that could saunter better than they could fluff a cushion and drew up the drawbridge. She hardly inspired “shagging,” especially when she made more mess than cleared.

How could any woman worth a soybean “bed-dive” when the robot designed for bed-making made it messier than an orgy?

Bed diving, like fishing, barbecuing, and a good old-fashioned hen-chasing, was off the table.

Men had as much chance of “a good seeing to” as a robot had a day off.

“Do you remember the good old days?” said John.

“Good old days? I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast,” said Jack. “My memory is as buggered as this so-called tea.”

“You say that every time,” said John.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what comes of taking tablets,” said Jack.

“We’re not on any,” said John.

“We’re not?” said Jack.

“No,” said John.

“Maybe we should be,” laughed Jack.