3. Planet Hy Man’s National Geographic
786 Words
Chapter Three
Planet Hy Man’s National Geographic
“Manifesto the Great had a heart as big as his appetite and a memory as short as his height. He forgot everything . . . including where he put his underpants.”—Beryl
When Bette heard of the name tag destruction, she was livid—who did Beryl think she was?
Beryl was taken to task, which sent her into an intense huffing that could only be done in the dark room where the ex-leader now stayed.
Many women wanted to send him to the Art Centre “along with the other men,” but Bette chose to keep him close.
“We need to separate the leader from his subjects,” she argued, holding him up in Fanny’s old basement along with the “open on command” file cabinets.
It took him a while to stop saying “open”—not an easy thing to do when imprisoned with bugger-all to do.
Beryl stomped into “the dungeon,” as the ex-leader liked to call it.
“Don’t talk to me of name tags,” she snapped.
Silence . . .
She flicked on the light with the impatience of a parent who had spent the last hour looking for her child.
She stared into the half-light of the lamp and sighed. Manifesto the Great’s ability to react was on par with a statue.
“I mean who do they think they’re talking to?” she said. “Even my hair bow knows more than those pickling cleaners.”
“A leader never destroys,” he said from a dark corner, “she delegates destruction.”
Beryl peered at the silhouette of the ex-leader.
“Have you lost weight?”
“Then,” said the ex-leader, “she tells the destroyer what they did wrong.”
“You do look smaller,” said Beryl.
She stared at the ex-leader’s Knee High shadow.
Was he writing?
“If you want to take charge, then forget the name tags and find a comrade,” he said.
“You sound like the Librarian,” said Beryl, grasping at another lamp.
The ex-leader shouted “open” with a fluster.
She heard a shuffle, fumbled for the switch.
“What are you up to?” she said.
“Nothing?” he said.
“You sound busy,” she said.
“Not really just . . . you know . . .”
He rustled.
Beryl flicked on another lamp.
Manifesto the Great, caught like a cat burglar, looked up.
Beryl stared at the book he was clutching suspended over an open drawer.
It was the size of a suitcase—albeit a small one.
He made to slide the book into the drawer like it wasn’t there.
He clattered.
The drawer was way too small.
“Here, let me,” said Beryl
“I’ve got it,” snapped the ex-leader, trying another drawer.
He pushed the drawer shut.
It sprang open.
Beryl stared at the title: Planet Hy Man’s National Geographic.
“First edition,” he muttered.
“Where did you get it from?” she snapped.
“I have my contacts,” he huffed.
“As if,” said Beryl.
“Apparently our history is in need of an update.”
She looked at him. “But you can’t remember what you’ve had for breakfast.”
He glared at her. “I can too.”
She flicked a few pages.
“It’s all coming back.” He grabbed the book.
Beryl eyed him with a really? look.
“Yes,” he snapped, attempting another futile drawer closing.
He huffed.
Manifesto the Great, now on a meatless diet, was like a recovering alcoholic struggling with his past—wasted years high on meat and cocktails.
It was not a pleasant experience.
His memory had bounced back to bite him like the proverbial terrier, and he had come to the strong conclusion that he was indeed a “tosser.”
A tosser who well didn’t want to be remembered as one. Who didn’t want to think the downfall of men was his fault.
He spent hours editing earlier publications . . . trying to feel better. And when that didn’t work, he decided to teach future generations the real truth of men.
Beryl flicked through the pages. “History is written by the victors,” she said.
❖
He shrugged, then looked at his reflection in the blacked-out window. All those years . . . what a tosser.
❖
Beryl waited until Manifesto the Great fell asleep, then eased the drawer open and stared at the book . . .
❖
Manifesto the Great, or “just call me great,” was a man who ruled without favor.
❖
What? thought Beryl. He was a man who didn’t listen. W
hen she wrote him a memo, he hurled it at the fireplace. She turned a page.
❖
Fairness was his middle name . . .
❖
More like arsehole, thought Beryl.
❖
Women with power were not to be trusted, but squashed, defrocked, or at least put behind a hoover.
❖
Credit is fluid, Beryl told herself and, with the rub of an eraser, changed “women” to “men”—and, with the flick of a pen, a “Jack” to “Jacklyn.”
She smiled.
That’s better. Didn’t the masses deserve the real thing?
She made a few changes.
She made a few more.
She turned a page . . . laughed, rewrote more, then really went to town . . .
Before she knew it, it was dawn, her hand was sore, and Manifesto the Great was snoring like a walrus.
- Writer
