《Grand Almanac of Short and Unfinished Tales》 Short Story: Johnny Was the Man! Johnny is torn from a deep, dreamless sleep by a sharp jolt of pain that tears through his nervous system violently, provoking involuntary spasms in the upper half of his body¡ªhe can¡¯t feel or move his legs. He tries to retract his arms, but thick leather restraints fastened to the sides of the bed limit his movement. He¡¯s weak; he¡¯s blind! Colored mandalas collapsing into themselves and pulsing in sync with his racing heart cover his vision. He feels hot, although cold sweat drenches his skin. He is afraid: it''s impossible to organize his groggy thoughts between the stabs of a rhythmic screech assaulting his ears. ¡ª Jo?o? He is overcome by a powerful d¨¦j¨¤-vu, as if he had lived his entire life like this, swinging between a coma as silent and unshakable as death and the sudden uproar of these agonizing awakenings like dying. But that¡¯s not true. Where was he before this? An eternity separates him from his home, his car, the nightclub. He remembers the noise of his friends, the samba, buying a drink for a stunning blonde¡ªwhat a mouth, what an ass, what thighs! The pain again, like lightning! Johnny wants to scream, but the deep tube in his throat won¡¯t allow it. His chest inflates and collapses like a mechanical bellows, beyond his control. ¡ª Call the nurse, Mar¨ªlia! Your brother is waking up! Johnny wants to cling to the moment, he has a million questions, but the intense suffering has already consumed the little strength he gathered since the last time he surfaced from lethargy. His consciousness melts like the last ice cube in the bottom of a glass of whiskey, energy drink, and ketamine. *** The awakening is gentler this time, but no less unpleasant¡ªany mention of movement sends a wave of searing pain across his body, seeming to originate from the pit of his stomach. Johnny opens his eyes and scans the sterile hospital room. ¡°It¡¯s Fant¨¢stico!¡± exclaims the jingle from the television suspended directly in front of his bed. Monitors to his right track his vitals, and to the left, an old, uncomfortable sofa waits for the next visiting hour. At least he¡¯s no longer intubated, and his hands are free now, but he still can¡¯t move his legs, which are spread and suspended by padded leg supports. There¡¯s something like a beach ball between them, but he can¡¯t identify it under the hot, white sheet he¡¯s too weak to move. Johnny struggles to stretch his arm toward the nurse call button. Only now does he realize the muscles he¡¯d spent countless hours building at the gym are loose and atrophied. After a short delay, a doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck and a man with a police badge hanging from a chain around his neck enter the room. ¡ª Jo?o, can you hear me? Are you fully conscious? ¡ª the doctor asks. ¡ª Yes... I think so... ¡ª Excellent. That¡¯s truly remarkable; we didn¡¯t expect to have you back this soon. How are you feeling? ¡ª she asks, approaching to inspect the machines beside the bed. ¡ª Everything hurts. A lot. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡ª I don''t doubt it. ¡ª What happened to me!? The doctor turns to the policeman, signaling it¡¯s his cue. Johnny notices the officer¡¯s pale, bug-eyed face marked by deep discomfort and trembling speech. ¡ª Excuse me, Mr. Jo?o. What¡¯s your last memory? ¡ª I... I don¡¯t know. I feel like I¡¯ve been asleep for a year. ¡ª That¡¯s precisely what happened. We rescued you from captivity about a month ago, where we found you sedated in an improvised hospital bed. You had gone missing a year earlier after being seen leaving a club accompanied by an unidentified woman. ¡ª the officer continues. ¡ª I think I remember that. ¡ª Good. It¡¯s important that you tell us everything you can recall. We still haven¡¯t captured the person responsible for your abduction; she fled the site before our team arrived. ¡ª But... What happened!? What did they do to me? ¡ª Please, don¡¯t agitate yourself. Try to stay calm. ¡ª the doctor interjects. ¡ª Mr. Jo?o, your situation is highly unusual and delicate. I¡¯ll explain, but I ask that you don¡¯t interrupt. As I said, you were abducted a year ago at Club 7 by an unidentified woman. A month ago, we found you thanks to an anonymous tip about a clandestine medical facility. It was an investigation unrelated to your disappearance, but luckily we found you. The place was a kind of... maternity ward. ¡ª What do you mean!? ¡ª Mr. Jo?o, I don¡¯t know how else to say this. You are pregnant. After a brief moment of disorientation, Johnny bursts out laughing. It¡¯s the only reaction he can muster to the detective¡¯s absurd claim. Gradually, however, terror begins to take over his mind. ¡ª Jo?o, the facility where you were found was a testing ground for extremely dangerous experimental procedures. ¡ª the doctor explains. ¡ª How is something like that even possible!? ¡ª Well, every embryo starts as female. That is, as the fetus develops, the reproductive system either continues in that direction or adapts into male organs. In very crude terms, a penis is essentially an inside-out vagina, understand? Whoever conducted this experiment on you discovered a way to turn your testicles into ovaries. ¡ª Oh my God... Then this¡­! ¡ª Johnny panics, staring again at the large bulge between his legs. ¡ª It¡¯s a baby. ¡ª You¡¯re insane! Why is that still there!? Get it out! Get it out now!! Get it out!!! ¡ª It¡¯s not that simple, Mr. Jo?o. The law changed since you were abducted. Abortion is now prohibited under any circumstance. ¡ª the officer states. ¡ª Unfortunately, Jo?o, we¡¯ll have to wait for natural childbirth, whenever that may be. ¡ª No! No!! I refuse!! Get me out of here, I¡¯ll go to another hospital! I¡¯ll go abroad if I have to!! ¡ª Please, calm down. I can¡¯t even authorize a room change, Jo?o. I¡¯m sorry, your condition is too fragile. Look: this procedure is unprecedented, we have no idea what its natural course even looks like. ¡ª No!! No!! ¡ª Jo?o, we have to wait. The situation is complicated and unpredictable. This pregnancy has already reached forty-eight weeks! Short Story: The Jurassic Coup ¡°¡­the Military Police¡¯s press office stated that the officers caught on video have been suspended while internal affairs investigates possible misconduct,¡± says a robotic little voice with journalistic cadence over the speakers of the TV mounted above the diner¡¯s entrance, competing for the attention of staff and customers with the sizzle and pops of the griddle, the blender churning juices, and the wet clatter of dirty dishes in the sink. Anderson, in suit and tie, remains oblivious to the lunchtime bustle: his head is plugged into his phone by a pair of earbuds like an umbilical cord, eagerly consuming the stream of voice messages pouring into the work group chat on WhatsApp. ¡°Forecast: dry air and the heatwave continue this week across the Federal District,¡± the news broadcast continues. Anderson sees message notifications from his boyfriend and glances quickly to check it¡¯s not an emergency¡ªbut no time to reply now¡ªhe¡¯ll understand. It¡¯s the third (and hopefully final!) day of the federal budget vote in Congress, and Anderson needs to keep his head in the game to assist the congressman he works for. In times of indiscriminate budget cuts across every government office, the fight for public funding has drawn diverse interest groups into the chamber and corridors of the legislature: Indigenous people and land-grabbers; landless peasants and oligarchs; unionists and corporate lobbyists; youth and retirees; the upper crust and the underclass, left and right, progressive and conservative¡ªthe entire political fauna of the nation in one great thunder dome, from which, if the Ministry of the Economy has its way, no one will make it out with anything. ¡°Today¡¯s the day: asteroid DR-6420 passes close to our planet. NASA scientists say the rocky body, with a surface area of thirty square kilometers and expected to pass between Earth and the Moon, will be the brightest object in the night sky throughout the Southern Hemisphere until dawn. But don¡¯t worry: according to specialists, there¡¯s no risk of collision. DR-6420 has an exotic orbit and is estimated to pass by Earth once every hundred thousand years¡ªso don¡¯t miss this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see it, with the naked eye or through a telescope,¡± the anchorwoman continues, as Anderson hurriedly pays the bill and orders an Uber back to the monumental axis. Lunch only took twenty minutes, but he¡¯ll still have to cross the crowds surrounding the National Congress, caught in a cacophony of opposing chants barely contained by the National Guard. *** ¡°Close the door! Close the door, quick!¡± pleads Congressman Luiz Franco, overtaken by panic. They''ve managed to take shelter in his office¡ªbesides him, there¡¯s his aide Anderson, a team of Canadian documentarians making a film about Brazil¡¯s chaotic political moment, three delegates from the Brazilian Academy of Sciences and two from the National Student Union; also nine congressional staffers and, lastly, Congressman Pastor Emiliano with five of his church¡¯s faithful. There¡¯s not much space for so many refugees, who grouped together while fleeing in desperation through the underground tunnels linking the chamber to Annex II¡ªfarther from the epicenter of violence and apparently safe, at least for now. ¡°What the hell was that!? What¡¯s going on!?¡± Franco continues, trying to clean himself with a handkerchief, rubbing and slapping in fear at his once-white shirt, now soaked in blood. Pastor Emiliano gathers his followers and launches into a loud prayer circle, oblivious to the movements of others in the room. They call upon the Lord with all the strength in their lungs¡ªbut even then, they cannot drown out the warzone uproar that has taken over the government plaza. Gunfire, bombs, armored vehicles¡ªeven tanks¡ªspeeding in all directions; helicopters flooding the ground with light and air force jets screaming overhead; the desperate screams of people in the congressional hallways. But nothing chills the survivors¡¯ spines more than the primitive roars now joining the surreal symphony engulfing the Capital. ¡°Kid, did you get that on tape!?¡± Franco asks one of the documentarians, who doesn¡¯t speak Portuguese. Anderson translates. ¡°Yes, I did! Let¡¯s see this, I still can¡¯t believe it!¡± pants the cameraman, opening the side screen of his digital camera and selecting the file. The first attack in the chamber happened around 11 PM, when a morbidly obese congressman was mid-speech, spewing spittle and slurs from the podium. ¡°And so, dear colleagues, in defense of the traditional Brazilian family¡ª¡± he was saying, when a deafening scream like a siren bird silenced the heated mutterings. With a leap, a massive bird-like creature with a lizard¡¯s face landed on the Speaker¡¯s table and bit into the president of the house, yanking him from his chair and shaking its long, muscular neck to tear him clean in half, showering guts onto the stunned deputies below. Other similar beasts, with Cristiano Ronaldo legs and Horacio arms, immediately burst into the galleries, kicking off a frantic stampede for survival. ¡°No way... it¡¯s a Santanaraptor!¡± stammers one of the scientists, an archaeologist attending the session to advocate for the reinstatement of frozen public research grants. He couldn¡¯t identify the feathers, but years of research had etched the proportions of that extinct creature into his memory. Watching the footage calmly, he becomes convinced he knows the bones beneath those rainbow-feathered flanks and behind those golden eyes. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°A dinosaur!?¡± another scientist exclaims, stunned. ¡°Eddie, come here! Film this!¡± says one of the Canadians to the cameraman, cracking open the blinds for a view of the plaza. Outside, the night sky glows with a soft pink hue radiating from the crimson dot streaking across the heavens, erasing all constellations. The scene through the window is unbelievable: Massive mastodons charge police tanks, flipping them with ease; Terror Birds scatter riot troops with zero effort, impervious to the hail of bullets; Saber-Toothed Tigers chase civilians across the lawn, unfazed by whether they wear green, yellow, or red; flocks of Anhangueras soar through the air, challenging helicopters, taking out military drones with pinpoint wing strikes. ¡°This makes no sense, these species aren¡¯t even from the same epoch...!¡± the archaeologist mutters, still watching. ¡°That¡¯s what doesn¡¯t make sense to you!?¡± Franco snaps back. ¡°I have a theory,¡± declares the third scientist, a physicist from Unicamp. Everyone turns to him, craving explanation. ¡°See, there are some theorists who believe the universe is a holonomic structure. That is, any part of it¡ªregardless of size or makeup¡ªcontains all the information of the whole system.¡± ¡°Speak Portuguese, man!¡± interrupts the congressman. ¡°Well, it¡¯s complex. But let me show you...¡± the scientist says, suddenly reaching into a trash bin and setting something on the table. ¡°What do you see here?¡± ¡°A can of Fanta,¡± says Anderson, confused. ¡°I see six million dead Jews,¡± the doctor replies. ¡°What!?¡± gasps one of the protocol staffers. ¡°When the U.S. joined the war against the Nazis, they embargoed the Reich. As a result, German soda factories couldn¡¯t get the ingredients to make Coca-Cola, so they used orange pulp to make a new drink¡ªFanta. It was such a hit that, after the war, it was kept in production and launched worldwide. So that name, that formula, this particular construct of mass and energy, exists only because of that historical context; that¡¯s why this can is here, in this physical-chemical form, in front of us. This item contains all that information.¡± ¡°And what does that have to do with anything!?¡± Franco demands. ¡°Look, I¡¯ll keep it simple. What I think might be happening is some unknown quantum interaction between the asteroid and the Earth, which is retrieving and somehow reactivating the informational structure of these extinct animals that once roamed Brazil. That¡¯s why nothing can hurt them: they don¡¯t exist in the present, physically¡ªthey¡¯re just the informational imprint of those bodies, occupying roughly the same space.¡± ¡°Prehistoric ghosts?¡± Anderson sums up. ¡°Yeah¡­ in a way,¡± the scientist concedes. ¡°Then how are they hurting us?¡± the aide counters. ¡°I never said I knew everything about the phenomenon. It¡¯s even possible none of this is permanent. That everything resets once this entanglement ends. Or not.¡± ¡°Enough heresy!¡± Pastor Emiliano shouts, waving a Bible in the air. ¡°These are lies from Satan! People of God, come with me! The power of the Word will cast out these demons!¡± ¡°Are you nuts?¡± Franco retorts. ¡°Nuts for my Lord Jesus Christ! And you¡ªbragging about your guerrilla days but cowering like a dog!?¡± ¡°Watch your mouth, bastard! If you knew anything about guerrilla warfare, you¡¯d know that surviving means hiding real good. And didn¡¯t you vote to arm the population? Where¡¯s your gun now?¡± ¡°Right here!¡± the pastor says, thrusting the Bible toward the congressman. Emiliano gathers his faithful and opens the office door. His group begins chanting in unison: ¡°Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death¡­¡± but don¡¯t get to finish before being mowed down by a stampede of Toxodonts thundering through the hallway. *** In the underground bunker beneath the presidential palace, the President of the Republic, his Vice, and the Head of Institutional Security¡ªflanked by armed guards¡ªscramble for information on the situation. ¡°Goddammit, Mariano! Those ABIN assholes don¡¯t know shit!¡± the head of state barks. ¡°Mr. President, things are bad out there. There¡¯s no way to gather intelligence. Best we can do is keep striking. The Supreme Court and Congress have already fallen!¡± ¡°Well, good riddance! Serves ¡®em right! But enough¡ªwe¡¯re ending this crap now, Mariano! My sons are still out there!¡± ¡°We¡¯re trying, sir! But honestly, it¡¯s unlikely they¡¯ve survived this long¡­¡± ¡°They¡¯re armed, goddammit! They know how to handle themselves!¡± ¡°The problem is nothing seems to harm these monsters!¡± ¡°Then fuck it! Burn it all! Authorize the Air Force¡ªI¡¯m ordering it! Bomb the whole damn thing! We¡¯ll survive in here, right? So that¡¯s it. This is a commie plot from China to take me down, that¡¯s what it is! First that virus, now this!¡± ¡°So this is how the New World Order begins¡­¡± whispers the pale Vice President. Their conversation is cut short by a massive impact that shakes the bunker with a thunderous boom. Before anyone can speak again, another violent blow crashes against the shelter, and the warped surface of the heavy door reveals something is trying to cut through the steel. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Mr. President! Nothing can break into this silo!¡± Mariano assures¡ªjust as a third strike smashes through the metal, crushing him into a splatter of red paste. Blocking the only exit, a massive Megatherium bellows with deep resonance, placing four tons of muscle onto its long, lethal claws. It advances slowly into the presidential bunker. ¡°Holy hell¡­ it¡¯s the Mapinguari¡­¡± the Vice mutters, tears flooding his face, as he recognizes the folkloric beast of his homeland. Short Story: Report â„–740-E2 UNITED STATES OF THE SOUTH ATLANTIC MINISTRY OF CULTURE, JUSTICE, AND INSTITUTIONAL SECURITY SPECIAL SECRETARIAT FOR REPARATIVE LABOR SUBJECT: Transcript of interview with Worker 212/VWD/P1.SP-SP by the Deutsche Welle broadcasting team (hereinafter DW), related to case 2032.0009.376.32-TRT 2nd Region/ECAD ¡ª 1st Instance, conducted on November 21, 2032, from approximately 9:37 PM to 11:09 PM, in his lodging (Liberdade III Building, N2 Ave., SHC 303¨C313, Lot 15, South-Central Wing) ORIGIN: Standard Monitoring Operation CLASSIFICATION: A-1 DISSEMINATION: AOI / General Staff Section 2 ATTACHMENTS: Present: Mr. HERMANN SCHMIDT ¡ª DW producer Mr. PAUL MEYER ¡ª DW cameraman Ms. HANNAH LINDT ¡ª DW reporter WORKER 212/VWD/P1.SP-SP SUPERVISOR 302/VWD/P1.SP-SP /// NOTE: Selected for relevance (...) LINDT H.: Ok, are we ready? MEYER P.: I¡¯m finishing white balance. You can start talking so I can check the audio. LINDT H.: Alright. First of all, how should I address you? SUP. 302: His designation is Worker 212. LINDT H.: No. Excuse me. We agreed that you would accompany the interview as a company representative, but all questions are directed to the interviewee. Are we clear? SUP. 302: [unintelligible] LINDT H.: Well, I apologize for that. Worker 212 is your designation in a legal or professional context, correct? Don¡¯t you have a name? WORKER 212: Not anymore. Members of the Rehabilitation Program waive their right to ownership. LINDT H.: But how does that include your name? WORKER 212: The law of the USSA considers a given name to be intellectual property subject to the General Law on Copyright and Corporate Ownership. MEYER P.: Ok, all set. We¡¯re recording. LINDT H.: Alright. Please, tell us how we should identify you in the report. WORKER 212: Worker 212, lathe operator assigned to Plant 1 of Volkswagen-Disney S?o Paulo. LINDT H.: Very well. Let¡¯s start with the basics. Explain the nature of your relationship with Volkswagen-Disney. WORKER 212: I¡¯m a voluntary worker in the Rehabilitation Program for those convicted in Operation Blackbeard. LINDT H.: By voluntary, you mean you don¡¯t receive a salary, correct? The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. WORKER 212: Yes. The principle of the Rehabilitation Program is that the labor value of my activities on the assembly line belongs entirely to Volkswagen-Disney as a form of damage reparation. LINDT H.: What is the Rehabilitation Program about? Could you explain it in the simplest possible terms for our audience in Germany? WORKER 212: I think that to really be clear, I¡¯d need to explain a bit about how the United States of the South Atlantic works. From what I know, it¡¯s quite different from an Old World democracy like Germany. LINDT H.: Please, go ahead. WORKER 212: Well, the USSA is a Federation of Market Territories where the Rule of Law is constituted by three branches: Economic, Administrative, and Military. The central figure of our Constitution is property, and our laws deal exclusively with how to guarantee and protect it. But here¡¯s the big difference your audience needs to understand: for us, legally, everything is some form of property. The body is property; the name is property; families are property. LINDT H.: Even families? Who do they belong to? WORKER 212: They are corporations. Each relative is a shareholder of the surname. LINDT H.: Quite exotic! WORKER 212: Also, all forms of thought are property. That¡¯s the key to understanding Operation Blackbeard and the Rehabilitation Program. Blackbeard was a mega-operation launched by the Administrative Police to crack down on the illegal consumption of intellectual property via the internet¡ªthat is, movies, books, music, TV series, comics, and video games downloaded for free from clandestine platforms. Millions were identified as violators of the Copyright Act, myself included. We were tried and convicted. LINDT H.: So the Rehabilitation Program is a way of paying back with labor for what was illegally consumed, is that it? WORKER 212: That¡¯s basically it, but there¡¯s a specific detail to our conviction, which is the basis of the case I¡¯m bringing forward. LINDT H.: Yes, that¡¯s what we came to talk to you about, but I confess I don¡¯t see the connection. WORKER 212: Well, we¡¯ll get there. Our conviction is not just about what we consumed, but what we came to produce based on what we consumed¡ªin terms of thought¡ªwhich is also property, and which the court ruled also belongs to the companies. LINDT H.: I don¡¯t understand. WORKER 212: See, our personalities¡ªeverything we are subjectively¡ªwhat is it but the sum of all the information we consume? And in our case, consumed illegally. So the court ruled that mental activity after our crimes also belongs to the companies and, therefore, could be used by them in their operations. LINDT H.: But that¡¯s absurd! WORKER 212: Not at all. It¡¯s entirely in accordance with our law, which I fully support! I cannot stress that enough to all who are listening! LINDT H.: Sir, I don¡¯t get it. Look, here¡¯s a copy of the BBC report that prompted this interview: ¡®South Atlantic Worker Wants to Be Legally Recognized as the Buddha¡¯. We came to do a story on something unusual, a curious case. WORKER 212: And isn¡¯t it curious? Six months ago, right here in my lodging, I attained enlightenment. And I must say, in a way, it happened by accident; I was simply striving each day to think of Nothing. Woke up at five a.m.: Nothing. Eighteen hours standing in the factory: Nothing. Fifteen minutes for lunch and dinner: Nothing. Crushed on my feet in overcrowded transport: Nothing. Opening the door to this one-room lodging: Nothing. Eventually, I succeeded. [laughs] But now, see, although there¡¯s no dispute over the sentence, there is effectively no longer a convict to serve it: I don¡¯t exist! Unfinished Tale: Bakudan (Part 1) 1. When Guard No-Belt arrived at the Castle of his province¡ªa tall rectangular tower in the Valley of Ancestral Ruins¡ªthe sky had just turned to the 8th day of the 1st month of that year. He had left his village a week earlier, alongside a dozen other youths identical to himself, none older than sixteen; they were leading a convoy of ox carts laden with tributes for the governor. He was called "Guard" by the old custom of creating surnames or nicknames from professions, for his family had earned fame and fortune through institutional violence. No-Belt, however, was nothing more than the heir of outdated property and stale legends, and had never wielded a weapon except for sport. But now, under the light drizzle of a cloudy afternoon, he received from the army quartermaster a set of uniform, weapons, and flags of the Party and the Homeland. In the next tent, a clerk wrote down his name and asked whether he could read and write¡ª"yes, sir!"; whether he could interpret a map¡ª"yes, sir!"; whether he carried the sword of his clan¡ª"yes, sir!"; whether he was skilled with the spear¡ª"yes, sir!"; whether he had been taught archery¡ª"yes, sir!"; whether he was a good rider¡ª"yes, sir!" Alongside No-Belt and his neighbors, thousands of other youths from the province''s various villages lined up to go through the exact same ritual. They gathered among the tents of the military camp at the base of the Castle, greeting each other loudly and celebrating as if it were New Year, stirred by the rhythm of drums and the rehearsal of maneuver commands with bugles. They had been brought together because the warlord above would no longer tolerate the outrageous existence of the warlord below. They were being prepared for total war against the enemy. The last official smiled with satisfaction and handed No-Belt a medallion inscribed "Second Class" before dismissing him to the barracks. It was expected that recruits immediately report to their commanding officers, but No-Belt preferred to spend his time in the Stables. He would speak to no one, spending the afternoon avoiding gazes, studying the perimeter and the movement of the patrols. Late into the night, he would skillfully avoid the parents of his cousins¡ªthose who follow orders without question to one day also earn the surname "Guard"¡ªand leave the barracks with the best mare in the cavalry¡ªhe named her Honda. By the time the next day lit up, No-Belt was already at the first inn of the neighboring province, fifteen leagues away from any battlefield. 2. Guard Jonmon, father of No-Belt and sole culprit of his unfortunate naming, had summoned his son for a formal briefing days before the heir''s departure in compliance with the army''s call. On that occasion, he did not grant the firstborn permission to speak at any point. Slowly and ceremoniously, he inspected the tea hall, replaced the incense, lit two thick candles and, without making any move to serve drinks, said only: ¡°My son¡­¡± For ten minutes they stared at each other, holding their breath. No-Belt was about to break the silence when the old man continued the monologue he had prepared. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°In the old Regime, when our family became Guard, it was forbidden for a samurai to take lives with his sword until he had proven he possessed the heart of a poet. Are you capable of understanding this?¡± It had always been like that in No-Belt¡¯s life: he was a complete stranger to his father, except when Jonmon captured him for a long and tedious moralistic performance. ¡°This is the end of your formal instruction. Forgive this tired old man for his failings! I suffer, for I too am responsible for the decline of these times: I was surely incapable of raising either a poet or a samurai! I suffer! Because, despite everything, I hold you in absolute esteem and do not wish to lose you!¡± ¡°Listen, my son, and do not trouble yourself with notions of dishonor, for all the faults are mine and no one else¡¯s!¡± the old man went on, producing a solitary crocodile tear. Guard Jonmon was a proud sophist, fond of a particular style of self-deprecation, false humility, and fatalism, a master of expressing himself with magnificent passive-aggressiveness. ¡°When you present yourself to the army, and they ask about your skills, answer positively to everything so that they won¡¯t enroll you in any training. Do not report to any officer! Make free time for yourself!¡± The patriarch also had the habit of over-talking and often getting lost in details irrelevant to his ideas. ¡°Inspect the stables and find a short, slender animal, whose shoulders and back are level, with very straight legs and concave hooves! Use the changing of the guards at dawn and flee eastward, where there is peace and young widows! Flee, my son!¡± Thus, the dramatic appeal was meant to do nothing more than offend No-Belt¡¯s pride so that he would do the opposite. No doubt a glowing praise of firstborns who, instead, answer the call of patriotic duty without hesitation would follow. ¡°Unless your spirit recoils from infamy, and your destiny is to bring honor to our house! In that case, ignore the weakness of your old father and accept the Family Arms,¡± he began, as expected¡ªbut No-Belt was no longer paying attention. The escape plan, laid out for mere dramatic effect, seemed to him in fact an excellent idea. 3. Though the mount bore the brunt of the physical exertion in a furious flight through a moonless night, the journey was not without anguish for the rider. Firstly, because the volleys of shots fired blindly from the watchtowers whistled far too close to Honda''s and No-Belt¡¯s ears. Secondly, because the entire time he sensed apparitions along the roadside: drawn by the wickedness of men, enormous four-tailed foxes sliced through the darkness with glowing red and blue eyes. No-Belt shouted frantic commands and nudged Honda¡¯s ribs with his heels to gallop straight and true, evading any risk of interception. But he could not outrun the foxes¡¯ ominous howls, which filled the air with supernatural menace. He tore off the badge marked ¡°Second Class¡± and, with a disdainful gesture, flung it behind to distract the demons¡ªfor it is known that foxes find small symbols of authority irresistible. He almost threw his sword as well, but restrained himself at the last moment. Wherever fate would take him, he figured, he might still need to defend himself. By the time he finally outpaced the hungry phantoms, they had already devoured his surname. It was the Survivor No-Belt¡ªnot the Guard¡ªwho emerged from the darkness at full gallop. Many leagues ahead, under the diffuse light that precedes morning, No-Belt once again saw silhouettes on the road¡ªbut this time, they belonged to this world. Dozens of women in cold-weather cloaks and headscarves held lit lanterns on the tips of long poles. They waved in No-Belt¡¯s direction, calling out to him. They were the widows of Hope Village, waiting near the provincial border to welcome deserters from the war in neighboring lands and guide them straight to the inns. ¡°Are there others?¡± asked No-Belt, dismounting from Honda and giving the life-saving animal a grateful pat. ¡°They arrive by the dozens every day!¡± replied Naomi with a smile, handing the foreigner a flask of cool water. Unfinished Tale: Bakudan (Part 2) 4. The province where No-Belt had taken refuge lived under a ceasefire between two exiled warlords, whose bitter stalemate on the battlefield had resulted in the absence of government and the rise of various associations of unemployed samurai living off banditry. The lack of a State was barely noticeable. The villages¡¯ self-management provided shelter and food for all, and even superfluous or luxury goods in relative abundance, since the region was crossed by a major trade route. But because it prospered, the threat of bandits was ever-present. They would appear on irregular dates, in large numbers, with heavy weaponry, and levy arbitrary taxes on the people, punishing with great violence those who refused. Therefore, say the widows, Hope Village extends an enthusiastic welcome to deserters from all Nations¡ªon one condition: only the foreigner willing to take up arms against the domestic enemies is invited to stay. No-Belt adapted quickly. He began living in an add-on room at a boarding house along with Honda, despite the landlady¡¯s endless protests. He considered his loyal steed a member of his new family, refusing to offer the mare anything less than a private room, two long brushing sessions per day, and all the fresh grass she wished to chew. During the day, he moved goods at the trading post, organizing the cargo for the passing merchant caravans. The porters were almost all deserters from neighboring provinces. They never spoke of it. When there wasn¡¯t much work, No-Belt and his friends played finger-guessing games and drank warm beer, ate fried pastries, and counted the hours until nightfall, when they would swarm into the brothels to enjoy the company of the women and down liters of cacha?a with lime. Not even in the provincial capitals could a mere logistics worker afford such a lifestyle, but the refugees of Hope Village were in fact being paid as reserve soldiers. An excellent deal¡ªdepending on the likelihood that truly ruthless bandits would ever appear, demanding a duel to the death. 5. The rainy season passed without ceremony, and No-Belt discovered that Hope Village, oasis of gentle pleasures, was also seasonally struck by a strange kind of malaria. A hellish fever swept through the village after particularly hot nights, when everyone would sit on the sidewalks drinking iced tea and fanning off mosquitoes with paper fans. The afflicted were plunged into a deep state of delirium, victims of bizarre nightmares at night and terrifying hallucinations during the day. They also suffered from weakness and muscle spasms. The episodes lasted for weeks. No-Belt had the chance to meet the Hope Sickness, as the immigrants nicknamed the outbreak, during the very first season of contagion he witnessed. The corners of his mouth foamed, and he babbled instead of speaking. He spent most of those days in his room, drenched in sweat on the straw mattress beside Honda, who was irritable and restless from the lack of care for them both. Ghostly objects and monstrous creatures loomed at the edges of his vision constantly, but most of all, No-Belt lost himself in reveries and imagined being at war beside his father. In his delirium, soldiers from both sides clashed around them, but No-Belt and Jonmon took no part in the fighting; the patriarch simply spoke and spoke and spoke, pompously, about the most irrelevant things. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. The young deserter found some relief only when the film in his mind changed to the escape, and then to the arrival at the village¡ªthe day he met Naomi. He had tied the widow¡¯s face to the hope he harbored for the new life he was building, and with such intensity that, from then on, he could no longer conceive of not being by her side. A burning obsession, perhaps inflamed by the early spark of love¡ªvery fragile, and in need of care¡ªhad taken root in his soul. Above all, they were complete strangers to one another. No-Belt didn¡¯t even know her name¡ªthey¡¯d only seen each other once, in the early dawn when he arrived in the village. Since then, never again. And so, he wandered endlessly through the slopes of Hope Village hoping to find Naomi browsing the markets or on her way to the stream to fetch water, praying at the Shrine or attending the neighborhood council meetings. Once, while ill, No-Belt wandered down the road late at night, carried by nightmares, chasing the ghost of Naomi. He had enough strength to stumble nearly halfway back to his home province. He was stopped by traveling merchants who took him in by their fire. They gave him food and drink, and let him listen. They exchanged useful news about the provinces¡ªthe ferry routes, the condition of the roads, the prices of commodities, the conflicts in progress. It was thus that No-Belt discovered the governor of his province had suffered an utter defeat, and the army of his nation had been completely annihilated in the battle he had fled. He experienced a brief, superficial kind of grief¡ªa kind of nausea¡ªfor the restless ghost of his father, likely executed after the seizure of his manor, but soon returned to his fevered obsession with Naomi. Now that No-Belt knew it was truly impossible to return to his former life, he had no choice but to secure a new one. 6. They drew sticks, and No-Belt lost: he would have to lead a patrol in the Marsh of Tears to search for a straw hat that had been repeatedly spotted circling the outskirts of Hope Village. ¡°From the reports, it¡¯s from the clan of the Bear-Hand Monk,¡± lamented one of those called for the mission, using his whole body to string an old bow retrieved from the village¡¯s general armory. To No-Belt¡¯s unfortunate surprise, his old armor was still there, and since it was fitted to his size, it was his best equipment option. ¡°The colors of an annihilated State certainly don¡¯t add value to a commodity,¡± he mused silently as he suited up for the mission. ¡°A monk leads a crime gang?¡± asked another makeshift patrolman, a newcomer who had arrived less than a month earlier. By that point, No-Belt had been living in Hope Village for over half a year, but he too knew little about the Bear-Hand Monk. He listened intently to the murmuring of his companions. ¡°No! They call him ¡®Monk¡¯ because of how many people he¡¯s sent to the grave!¡± explained a third, practicing thrusts in the air with a spear. ¡°And ¡®Bear-Hand¡¯ because he¡¯s missing the thumb on his right hand, which makes it look like a claw,¡± added the last, pretending to stretch. ¡°But how can someone with that kind of mutilation be a fearsome samurai?¡± ¡°Well, because of that defect, Bear-Hand wields his sword with a reversed grip, and that¡¯s why he¡¯s so dangerous: his counterattacks come from the opposite direction.¡± No-Belt slid his sword through his belt and adjusted the hilt¡¯s position, aligning the decorated pommel at the proper angle for a quick draw¡ªpointlessly. The ancestral weapon of his clan was nothing more than a trinket. A few days earlier, when he tried to draw the sword for the first time since leaving home, he couldn¡¯t. The blade seemed glued inside the scabbard, perhaps from years of neglect or lack of maintenance. Perhaps it had never been anything more than a ceremonial ornament. Silent and somber, No-Belt thought of his father, so full of bravado, ready to send his only son to the front with a toy weapon. ¡°Is it possible for a man to live surrounded by his own lies, and no longer be able to tell the difference?¡± he reflected, isolated, leaning against a tree. So says the Buddha. No-Belt¡¯s companions watched him from afar, envying the polished weapon of a traditional Guard family. They mistook his introspection for fearlessness in the face of danger and imagined they were witnessing a raw gem of the martial arts. Unfinished Tale: Bakudan (Part 3) 7. Everything seemed quiet in the most isolated lot of Hope Village, a cluster of ruins hidden beneath tall, sharp grass that had taken over after the Guards of the former warlord demolished the shacks that once stood there. No-Belt and his half-platoon of ragged conscripts descended the Hill of Saints, where countless decapitated clay statues kept watch along the path, and reached the spot where a straw hat had reportedly been sighted. They found him alone, in a makeshift camp. He was jotting notes in a notebook with a mason¡¯s pencil while waiting for a tra¨ªra fish, wrapped in banana leaves, to cook over a fire suspended in the middle of the deserted street. A cast-iron pot near the coals was boiling a portion of yellow rice. They exchanged few and terse words, and then an unexpected bloodbath spilled over the uneven cobblestones, pooling in thick, dark mud that reeked of hot rust. The events happened in rapid succession: The outsider blew a signal on a whistle, and immediately a dozen mounted samurai surged forth from a mass of brush and rubble at the back of the lot, shouting obscenities and raising spears toward No-Belt¡¯s group. At that exact moment, a thick carpet of tall grass stirred with a rushing wind, and at the cry of a command¡ª¡°Hai!¡±¡ªdozens of arrows erupted from the green blades, arcing toward both the bandit cavalry and everyone in the makeshift camp without distinction. They were screwed. In a flash, No-Belt struck the straw hat¡¯s jaw with the hilt of his sword and threw himself into the blade-grass, searching for the remains of a wall to hide behind. Curled among bricks exploding under gunfire left and right, he saw nothing that followed. The rest of his group had no such reflex and were all dead by the second volley of arrows. No-Belt did, however, recognize the voices shouting commands before each arrow storm¡ªthey were women he knew. That was when he finally understood his role in the operation. Bait. He used the final chaos of the ambush to flee into the forest, following the whispers of the creek through the noise of woodland spirits. 8. No-Belt had never heard of tracking dogs in Hope Village, but, considering the vastness of what he didn¡¯t know, he chose to keep fleeing along the creek¡¯s edge. It didn¡¯t seem like the archers or bandits were chasing him. The young samurai couldn¡¯t help but admire the ingenuity of the widows¡¯ plan, which in a single maneuver rid them of the roaming bandits and reduced the refugee population in their village. Still, as one of the targeted population, No-Belt was determined to survive¡ªand for that, he needed a plan. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The first step was to find a way out of the eucalyptus labyrinth he had plunged into, and then figure out how to return to the village completely unnoticed before vanishing for good. He could leave immediately, but he refused to abandon Honda. Besides, he still held onto the hope of seeing Naomi again, confronting the truth, and confirming that she had nothing to do with the conspiracies of her community. He could then rescue her from a life of lies, and they would flee together to the next province: the end, everything perfect, in eternal harmony under the sky. He was drenched in sweat beneath his armor. The helmet wouldn¡¯t stay in place, slipping over his eyes with each unsure step on the treacherous ground, disturbing his focus. So he couldn¡¯t retrace the path that led him to the clearing behind the trees, where a wooden shack with cardboard-colored doors sat surrounded by blooming white rhododendrons. A woman sat on a small stool by the door, gazing at the flowered fields, sucking on a pipe. ¡°A widow!¡± thought No-Belt, but he had no choice but to approach. He was lost. He braced himself to fight for his life. But she turned out to be a person of completely gentle manners, kind speech, and soft eyes; and so No-Belt, finding no echo for violence in her spirit, lowered his guard. ¡°I can¡¯t say I agree, but I don¡¯t disagree with what we do, either. The matter was discussed in assembly and approved by the majority,¡± explained the lady after offering No-Belt several cups of tea. ¡°I produce the Hope Sickness here. The honey from the bees that feed on these flowers is highly hallucinogenic, and it¡¯s what we use to sweeten the tea we serve the boys. It makes them gentler, in the long run,¡± she confessed, candidly. ¡°In your case, it seems to have had the opposite effect¡ªmade you sharper! Isn¡¯t that a good thing?¡± 9. As soon as the tea hit hard, No-Belt took off running. Was he dying? He suspected it, but didn¡¯t know. He had heart palpitations, lost his balance, was hearing things, seeing shapes¡ªbut he managed to grab hold of a memory: he once heard from a retired general that the roaming bandits often camp in the Grand Temples. Perhaps he could meet Bear-Hand there and forge an alliance against a common enemy. During his stay in Hope Village, No-Belt had surely learned all the information that the straw hat¡ªstruck down in the Marsh of Tears¡ªhad spent the last few weeks gathering; that is, the strategic survey for an invasion and looting of the village. He would only need to ensure, in his deal with the bandits, that no harm would come to Naomi¡ªthat would be the delicate part. Could one trust wild Guards who roamed the wilderness and lived by banditry? No-Belt¡¯s legs moved on their own, inventing the path, for he now saw clearly whatever he imagined, conversed with the wind, and laughed at jokes he hadn¡¯t yet heard. And so he stumbled to the forest¡¯s edge, reaching the hills of tall grass that opened into valleys of broken asphalt¡ªsurely by pure luck, he was on the right path. There were various Shrines in the villages, each with its own preachers and cults¡ªto the God of War or the God of Peace, to the God of Prosperity or the God of Law, among others; but there were also the Grand Temples, reserved for the most important holidays and festivals of all cults. Because they served as spaces of interfaith unity, they were empty most of the time. Hope Village¡¯s Grand Temple was a large stone structure from the old country, with many floors and rows of stained glass that still gleamed on the facade, now overtaken by weeds and vines that not even an army of monk-gardeners could tame. The ruin housed a newer structure within its rotting walls: a church nave and altar, built by the grandparents of Hope Village using eucalyptus wood and a clever joinery technique that required no nails. The wide hall was lined with cushions for the people to rest, and it was here No-Belt hoped to find resting bandits. Instead, he found only Naomi¡ªwhom he now discovered was the Bishop responsible for this Grand Temple¡ªbowed in prostration before the sacred images at the altar. Unfinished Tale: Bakudan (Final) 10. Carved into the wooden columns of the inner temple, No-Belt recognized the commandments of the samurai code¡ªthough interpreted in the unique fashion of that province, slightly different from what he had learned since childhood. Kneeling before the altar, Bishop Naomi fixed her gaze and extended her hand toward each inscription as she passed judgment on the foreigner''s conduct. Think little of yourself and much of the world. ¡°You came to us in need of care, food, and shelter, hoping to claim a wife, a name, and a piece of land. It never occurred to you what that would cost our community,¡± Naomi said coldly. Never make decisions based on partial impressions. ¡°Upon finding a village of widows, you immediately assumed them to be fragile, foolish, and dependent, and thus saw no risk,¡± the priestess continued. Do not cultivate arbitrary preferences, and do not act out of habit, tradition, or instinct. ¡°You accepted without question everything that was offered, exactly as it was offered, completely lowering your guard in exchange for small comforts,¡± she reminded him. Practice detachment from things and superficial sensations. ¡°What¡¯s more, you proved to have great appetite and lust. I should gift you the bar tab under your name at the cellar. Even you might be surprised,¡± she mocked. Hold no regrets, but always correct yourself. ¡°As for the terrible nightmares you experienced¡ªthey merely reveal your corrupted nature, since rhododendron honey opens pathways to memory but carries no content of its own,¡± she went on. Resentment is inappropriate behavior. ¡°Today you came here looking for someone. Perhaps the bandit Bear-Hand? Those types often seek shelter in temples they think are abandoned,¡± the priestess mused. ¡°This one, as you can see, is very well protected.¡± Do not hoard weapons or tools beyond what is necessary. ¡°You never surrendered your sword. Why do you live always ready to commit violence arbitrarily?¡± she asked, stepping away from the cushion in front of the altar and approaching a column that read: Meditate. ¡°Tell me, samurai: what kind of treatment do you deserve in our village?¡± Throughout the speech, No-Belt¡¯s ashamed eyes darted between the polished wooden floor and the words carved into the columns, always avoiding Naomi¡¯s stern gaze. Then he turned to the final inscription of the temple, pleading for ancestral wisdom: Respect all Buddhas, but rely on none. ¡°I challenge you to a duel to the death¡ªfor Honda, and for my freedom,¡± he finally replied. 11. With a swift gesture, Bishop Naomi reached a wooden rack by the wall and drew a naginata¡ªa pole weapon with a blade like a sword, and thus with twice the reach of No-Belt¡¯s katana, which, besides everything else, could not be unsheathed. She spun the shaft around her body with great skill and assumed an impenetrable guard before her. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. A little more than ten paces separated the samurai from the priestess. The temple hall before the altar, filled with lit candles and many golden statues of the fat, smiling Buddha, awaited solemnly for the sudden clash of two lives against death. HAIAH! Naomi¡¯s heels thundered against the wooden floor as she rushed at No-Belt, executing several frontal thrusts and slashes with the blade to pierce and slice flesh. The samurai dodged as best he could and used the scabbard of his sword as a defensive staff, striking the naginata to deflect the blows. NYAH! You¡¯re the leader of the widows! No-Belt thought, euphoric, narrowly avoiding several fatal injuries. You tried to kill me! You lied to me! his mind screamed, collapsing even in the face of a far more immediate and real threat. You¡­ I¡­ I don¡¯t know you! KIAH! Naomi leapt back to reassess her opponent and catch her breath. She had already deciphered No-Belt¡¯s movements and was convinced that the next torrent of attacks could not be avoided. What a terrible spirit! You fight without accepting the possibility of defeat! You fight for all the people you love¡­ That¡¯s why you fight far better than I do, the young man pondered, deciding to adopt an extreme strategy. The samurai dropped his guard and released the sword¡¯s hilt, letting it fall to the floor with a thud; he removed his helmet and loosened the knots securing the breastplate, slipping his arms free from the pauldrons like a cat escaping a collar. He threw everything to the ground with a loud clatter and stood shirtless. ¡°What is this!? You think I¡¯ll accept a surrender?¡± Naomi asked, wary of a hidden trap in the unexpected gesture. No-Belt said nothing¡ªhe simply charged at Naomi. The Bishop aimed and swept the naginata¡¯s blade across the side of his chest with firm momentum, tearing off a strip of flesh and a spray of blood, exposing the outer curves of his ribs. He did not stop. Once inside the weapon¡¯s range, he grabbed the shaft of Naomi¡¯s weapon with all the strength he had left, preventing further blows and locking her in place. ¡°Your sword¡­ with a spear¡¯s handle¡­ has long reach,¡± said No-Belt through gritted teeth, breathing deeply to keep from collapsing. ¡°But no elbows,¡± he concluded, a provocative smile curling on the edge of his mouth. He stood a step from Naomi, close enough to touch her hair. But his knees buckled, his vision dimmed, and he dropped to the ground. 12. In the end, Naomi took pity on the defeated No-Belt¡ªbut it is hard to explain how she got to that point. At first, she remained in shock at the obvious fragility in her defensive position and at the sight of the young man unconscious in a pool of his own blood. Never, since being elected spiritual leader and protector of Hope Village, had she seen a samurai voluntarily surrender himself to certain death in such a way¡ªa decision certainly foolish, made for foolish reasons, yet one that nevertheless contained, at its core, a venerable gesture of surrender and sacrifice. Could she take the life of a defenseless person¡ªsomeone who had just taken a step toward enlightenment? What would that make her? To the Bishop, herself far too young for such responsibility on her shoulders, deserters and bandits were the ones who behaved that way¡ªravenous, violent, disloyal. It was her duty to be better. So, that day, she bandaged the samurai¡¯s bloody torso at the very spot where he had fallen, then returned to kneel on the cushion before the Buddha¡¯s statue to contemplate the impermanence of all things. After that, for five weeks, she cared for No-Belt¡¯s health. In the first week, she moved him to a mattress at the back of the Temple, changed his bandages often, and moistened her fingertips to drip cool water onto his lips. Once, curiosity got the better of her, and she tried to draw the blade that had remained sheathed during their duel. When she couldn¡¯t, no matter what she tried, she understood her patient¡¯s burden. Is it possible for a man to live surrounded by his own lies, and no longer be able to perceive the difference? she reflected in the temple¡¯s silent solitude. So says the Buddha. In the second week, No-Belt awoke. In the third, he suffered a high fever and seemed on the verge of death¡ªbut eventually recovered. In the fourth, he began to speak, and finally had the chance to truly meet Naomi. They reached an agreement: he would be allowed to leave Hope Village in peace with his horse, as long as he never returned, and never uttered a word about the village or its widows¡ªomitting entirely the time he had lived there and everything he had learned. One day, once he had recovered sufficiently, he leapt onto Honda¡¯s back before sunrise and disappeared over the horizon without a word. He left behind a battered samurai armor, the useless family sword¡ªand a seed in Naomi¡¯s womb.