EXILIUM REX

Chapter 19

Alfredo Apostol quietly places the document folder on his side of the table. At least – Alfred surmises – on the table, the odds of losing the written report inside the folder looks dim. And now with the xenobots circulating in his system, he understands he merely has to let go and to accept that any moment from now it shall be taking over his body. And mind.

Since, with Alfred before, always, things have their way of stubbornly trying to lose themselves; more so with people who always try to get stubbornly intoxicated. Money, a set of keys, perhaps.

Many things. Even a reputation or two, in a way.

For Alfred, it appears he could be extremely gratified to reach this certain level of intoxicating inevitability. At least, Angelo del Mundo – his province mate as well as close friend since college days and, now, a beleaguered co-worker whose invaluable services as computer encoder in the employ of the archives of a highly-urbanized city – the same human being on the other flank of Alfred’s own beer bottle seems committed to become.

“Looks like a big transaction, pare, judging on the thickness of that folder. Tell me you're gonna take my picture, ha-ha-ha!” Angel slowly slides an open palm over one of his rough-skinned cheeks for comic emphasis. “More holiday trips for your wife and the three kids! That’s good, good…”

Angel telling Alfred to take his picture? And then slowly sliding an open palm over his cheek?

These are simply codes. Cryptic words and gestures for any outsider. It is their codified way of telling someone to give him or her a share of whatever transaction one is currently processing in their office. Particularly those transactions which needed to be processed under the table.

Ordinarily, Alfred would just brush off his friend’s insinuations of such sketchy dealings in the office. But, this time, it is different. The archives liaison officer, ever so subtly, pouts. The comment about his wife Lydia and the children may be warranted. But the last remark. The computer encoder’s “gonna take my picture” remark and the particular movement of the hand over the face are organizational cues only he and a fraction of senior officers at the Special Display Section of the National Archives and Museum recognize.

It readily means another one of those backdoor transactions completed.

It also implies that, within their inner clandestine circle, everybody should be happy.

Yes, happy. Alfred himself, along with his loyal housewife and his three highly-energetic and very smart teenage girls. Three girls and nary a boy yet! A chickboy’s veritable debt service to society – as Alfred’s community friends use to tease him.

More than ten, fifteen years ago, back in college, the last thing Alfred would do to Angel, two years younger than him, would be to frown on him in dismay. Why, the idealistic Angelo del Mundo was the reason Alfred graduated from college! – the man in polo exclaims to himself now with a rather strange remorse than an exaltation, then adds the blight – Poor genius! And he sacrificed himself to be honorably dismissed! Tangna!

Alfred nonchalantly picks up the folder from the table and then throws it haphazardly to Angel. The younger man first stares at his companion with guarded eyes, before he turns to act concerned by reading the title of the document. The cancelled hearing this morning must have triggered a bit of paranoia on the government clerk. A bit of dread on anything written. Like a case decision.

Upon closer inspection of the label on the folder, however, Angel stutters from his chair and smiles at Alfred with impish candor.

“You did not!”

“I did not what?”

“This!”

Angel apparently did not have to wait for any response. Alfred, on the other hand, crosses his arms; waiting, somehow, as if this would play out exactly as he had planned in his xenobotic mind, or exactly as what had been controlled, manipulated from inside someone else’s head. Like watching a clayen jar being moulded from inside the hellish kiln, the man in polo is in abeyance for the critical emergent point to stoke the blazing fire more, over an overdue and pent-up confession being oven temperature-cooked at the moment.

With a delicious bravado, Angel relishes in the slow recitation of the title of an undergraduate thesis he, Alfred and a third classmate submitted to their college dean more than ten, fifteen years ago.

“EXILIUM REX: The Suyo Islands of Palawan! The Panggadongs! The Suyonons! Ha-ha-ha! We sure stuck it out together in there, didn’t we?”

Alfred appears slightly entertained now and nods with a sullen simper. This time, he begins to uncross his arms to let his companion know he himself could be more than amicable also to share his own thing about their final years in the Colegio de Suyo. But before actual words could come flying out of Alfred’s mouth, his friend lets out a scream from out of nowhere.

“Namputsa! Do you remember our AC-DC Public Administration College Dean and hesis adviser then? Ah, Attorney Renato… Yes! Attorney Renato Ricablanca Baylon! I’ve heard the demonyo’s a judge now, or something. Well, his theories on victimology earned him in good stead for a fine promotion at the Judiciary. He should still be alive right now, in spite of his publicized stroke five, six years ago. The black cat’s surely got nine lives, and knows how to put his name on the newspaper. Yes, I remember now, how he quoted lines from some ancient scroll, or something. Like, ah," Angel flicks his fingers to try to remember, "ah, yes! TODAY IS A PICTURE OF TOMORROW TAKEN YESTERDAY!"

Again, the man in polo nods and, in clear agreement this time, puckers out his lips.

The younger character goes on. Angel’s chest feels like a stove top grill fully warmed up. He playfully apes his old College Dean's usual temperamental visage and exclaims.

"Here's another one! A classic! THE WORLD IS MADE OF MUSIC, THE WORLD IS MADE OF GAME; EVERYBODY'S GOT A PLAYLIST, EVERYBODY'S GOT RHYTHM!"

Alfred chuckles.

But Angel is merely starting. In the same Baylonic fashion, he stares at Alfred, gestures his hand in the air, and begins to mimic an old man's grumpy voice.

“Apostol! Stop laughing! I conclude that, up to this point of my lecture, you are still mindless as a boat without its rudder! Completely you have no plans for the future! And, class, what did I tell you about planning?”

Alfred takes the cue and replies.

“PLANNING IS NOT A MAJOR COURSE IN THIS UNIVERSITY! And this he got from a Spiderman movie! Ha-ha-ha!"

“Excelent, Mr. Apostol, a.k.a. Tony Parker, a.k.a. Boy Panggadong, a.k.a. Chickboy!

And, class, what did I tell you about responsibility?”

“WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY! Another Spiderman spiel!"

“Very good! You have done well not to destroy college education today, my protégé!”

Angel is visibly enjoying every second. Alfred feels, though, that this is the perfect time to

raise the stakes and go to the next level. With the xenobots fully kicked in to his brain.

With awkward frankness, the man in polo warily declaims.

“If we cannot change the unknown future…”