Classic Dis-Direction

“Here, he’s your problem now.”

Released from the iron grip of my captors, the guard shoved me into the arms of the nearest patient unfortunate enough to be within my vicinity. I unsteadily wobbled towards the nearest raised surface to lean against, doing my utmost best in putting on an air of dignity.

“I can handle myself just fine,” I responded, standing on my two feet before collapsing under my own light weight.

“Clearly you can’t,” the patient said pulling me back up, carrying me over to a machine with multiple buttons. A series of rapid pushings of buttons in deliberate sequence were executed, culminating with the press of my hand and face against two flat surfaces. The ensuing result was a slot opening, revealing a familiar-smelling mesh in a bowl. I was left on my own while the patient went to pick up the order, then after a moment’s thought, came back to carry me and the plate over to a table where the food was awaiting.

With trembling hands, I stabbed the sludgy meal before me and brought the concoction to my lips. It tasted less enriching than I’d remembered. Even though I hadn’t eaten much, I chewed methodically, finding it difficult to ingest a single bite of soft food that had already been reduced to slush. It was as if after having been deprived of nourishment for so long, I’d forgotten how to swallow. After several failed attempts to absorb the mushy food that stubbornly refused to go down, the patient who’d carried me looked at my remaining leftovers remarked,

“If you’re not going to finish that, can I have it?”

“Mine,” I retorted through the most intimidating squeak I could manage.

“Fine with me. The sooner you can eat on your own, the sooner I can leave.”

Gradually over the next few days, I regained my strength, and had to keep my wits up to prevent what little portions I got from being stolen. The patient grudgingly looked after me, looking for any opportunity to snatch away any uneaten portions, so I had to constantly remain on guard.

Considering these conditions, it was a relief to be in a friendlier environment compared to where I was before. I could sleep and be embraced in welcoming darkness, not having persistent light shining through from every possible reflected angle, unable to block the invasive illumination even through shut eyes, never allowing me the slightest semblance of rest.

Even in this new location, I found it hard to concentrate properly. There was a persistent strange background noise of someone singing nonsensical lyrics that went something like,

My life was all Fine and Dandy
With tales of long ago.
I was once a Tristan Shandy,
Now I’m a Dorohedoro.

It was a haunting melody that sounded vaguely familiar, and it wasn’t the only one. I had the sinking sensation that there was something important I was struggling to remember, but couldn’t quite recall what it was I forgot.

After several meals where I gradually relearned the sensation of stuffing tasteless portions in my mouth, I had a minor mishap and wound up spilling the contents on the table. The patient went off to avoid wiping the mess up, while I was left to deal with the splattered remains. I stared at the gelagating liquid that had dribbled out, triggering a formative response in my subconscious thought patterns. I poked a finger in the hardening substance, leaving a trail behind. My hand traced over the leftovers and gradually, these fingerpaint strokes formed rudimentary pictures that later formed letters that I recalled could bridge into words. Seeing these thoughts jotted down brought back memories that had been lying dormant in the recesses of my mind. But they only lasted as long as the courses did. With practice, I was able to recall certain incidents longer, making connections between past events.

I made it a point to remove these impermanent outlines to avoid detection, but my execution procedure was sloppy, for my erasure methods of the sloppy mealtime messes were eventually noticed by the patient. I was accosted by an unexpected response.

“Have you been taking notes?”

“Just idly doodling.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t rat you out. Us writers need to stick together.”

I regarded the patient with skepticism. “You write too?”

“I dabble when I have the time, and ironically, I have too much free time, and not enough safe places to do so. I’m actually deep undercover here, hoping to document the horrific treatments and going-ons occurring here. You can call me ‘J’.”

“What kind of writings have you done?”

“Nothing you’d be familiar with. I’m very knowledgeable about the going-ons of the outside world.”

‘J’ regaled me about the far-reaching accomplishments from my not-a-lawyer’s lawyer’s actions, and his threats to alert the media hadn’t gone unnoticed. This was far-reaching news. The Accountant had wider connections than I knew.

“You’re going to need multiple stashes to hide your writings. Cracks in the walls. The backs of mirrors. And always carry a dummy notebook with you so the guards feel like they’ve accomplished something.”

In the midsts of etching my consumable writings, I recalled something I’d been struggling to remember. My partner, the first person who befriended me should been here . If I knew him, he’d be creating a stink somewhere.

“I’m looking for someone who’ll... help me with my questions.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Not you, an acquaintance of mine. Somebody with a boisterous personality.”

“If you want to talk to memorable characters, you’re spoiled for choice. There’s no shortage of that here. Right over there, that’s the (Wo)Man, who had the wrong gender written down on h(er)is profile, having been switched with h(er)is wife. This was an oversight that could’ve been easily corrected in a few seconds, but only a male could make the request; and apart from h(er)is wife who’d mysteriously disappeared, no one was willing to make the change.”

---

“I’m telling you, I’m a man!”

“Your document says otherwise.”

“Well then, the document is wrong! You can see the proof for yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter what *I* think. It doesn’t matter what *You* think. What matters is what the *Document* thinks. And the document is never wrong.”

---

“As a result, strangers would greet h(er)im cordially until they found out h(er)is determined gender, then treated h(er)im very differently. ‘Hey! How’s it going?... oh, you’re a Woman? Well... you shouldn’t be parading around like that.’ I have to admit to counting myself among their number, and I was only reassured when the (Wo)Man told me I wasn’t h(er)is type.”

Just then there was another haunting melody emphasized in a slow melodic tone, lingering over the last stanza.

A sense of apprehension that leaves you
Feeling queasy.
Anything that’s well worth doing
Don’t come easy.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“I swear I’ve been hearing strange songs being sung.”

“You didn’t hear anything.”

Before I could question my selective tinnitus, ‘J’ expounded off onto another memorable character in our sights.

“Because of this mishap, (s)he was constantly given feminine products that (s)he couldn’t use, and was constantly berated about how ungrateful women were, given how much was thrown their way. With so much product (s)he couldn’t use, s(he) used it for bargaining with the female inmates here. Over there is a woman who changes personalities every time she sneezes. When she goes ‘F’nzeene!’, she becomes an innocent plump brunette. When she goes ‘Katchoo!’, she becomes a violent lesbian blonde. Trouble is, we don’t know which is the dominant personality. The Brunette is needy and clingy, but the Blonde pushes everyone away. This gets especially problematic around hay fever season, and both of them resist taking any allergy medication.”

Before I could even react, the Sneezing Woman was upon me, and the following exchange occurred:

“Do you have a tissue I could - ”
Katchoo!
“Get away from me!”
F’nzeene!
“No, come back!”
Katchoo!
“I never want to see you again!”
F’nzeene!
“What’d I do wrong?”
Katchoo!

And so on. I would’ve been trapped in that holding pattern had it not occurred to me, “I think the (Wo)Man has some.” The Sneezing Woman went off, doubtless to get the same product at double the rates.

“She’d save us a bunch of headache pills if she didn’t try to tough it out.”

This was a lot to take in for someone still trying to regain one’s mental capabilities. There were a lot more patients here than I expected.

Surrounded by two,
it is a mystery who
has designated me for a spat.
Chosen to torment,
and left to ferment,
treated little more than a gnat.
Nothing remarkable,
only identifiable,
wearing twin bowler hats.
Acting like clowns,
they wear me down
and lay me on a straw mat.
In my heart, they will knife,
and twist it twice,
And that will be the end of that.

“Okay, you had to have heard that.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“It’s not my imagination! I’ve noticed other people reacting, covering their ears!”

“So, are we any closer in finding your friend?” ‘J’ asked clearly dodging the subject.

“Sorry, neither of them are who I’m looking for.”

“You got a name?”

“I... don’t know. It never came up.”

“If that’s the case, I might know a guy who might know your guy. Anybody who comes through here is shunted through a value system designated to his needs. The Director of the Jail, NOT to be confused with the Director of the Jail.”

“I’m confused.”

“It’s very simple. There’s a Director who oversees the mad prisoners in the Jail, one of whom is the Director who oversees the mad prisoners in the Jail.”

“...are we talking about two different Directors here?”

“Yes, was that not clear? Truth be told, I’m reluctant to introduce you. The Director was in charge of a play that drove him mad. The backstory behind it is wild. I hope to tell it someday.”

It figured. In this place of madness, I was bound to come across people with lofty ambitions wrapped in self-delusions to cover for their shortcomings. And a Director was the last kind of person I wanted to get involved with. Someone with an inflated sense of self-worth who constantly sought approval to boost their fragile egos. Pompous blowhards who were little more than insincere status seekers.

But I couldn’t afford to be picky. I needed the whereabouts of my friend, even if that meant being under the thumb of a control freak.

‘J’ lead the way, winding through a path of standing unstable bodies that were doing their utmost best to keep their sanity intact despite being surrounded by lunacy. They all seemed to be playing their part.

I came face-to-face to the Director, and all intents of dismissing his profession faded away. His massive physique alone would’ve been intimidating enough, but there was an intense magnetic charismatic look in his eyes that lured you in despite all attempts to resist.

There were two people standing behind the Director. They didn’t look like security detail, their haunted gaunts looking more traumatized than anything. One was dressed in white and slumped down, leaning against the wall, the other was dressed in brown and hunched over, bent at the hip. Despite the contrasting colour scheme and unusual body positions, there was something about their stance that rang familiar. Before I could even question their presence, the Director answered for me, practically reading my mind.

“These are my chorus. These muses produce music to inspire me.”

All at once, the two of them sang out conflicting lyrics,

To boldly go and vaunt a path
Upon the naked refrain.
It is a sight, the likes of which
We shall not see again.

The acoustics of this room must’ve been immense, being able to reach across all the rooms while being selective according to what pitch was being emitted. Against all logic, I made my request.

“Hello, I’m looking for a friend of mine. I heard you could help me out - ”

The Director wrapped his meaty hands around my head, feeling the interior seams.

“Do you have quality head bones? I only accept quality head bones.”

“I love ‘em, preferably inside my skull.”

“The curvature of a bell can determine the intellectual worth of an individual. You wouldn’t happen to have a separated-at-birth smarter twin around, would you?”

I looked around to ‘J’ for help, but he’d bailed out on me. “If I had an unknown long-lost twin, how would I know about it?”

“Failure of imagination,” the Director disgustedly threw off my head off like last week’s rubbish. “I’m surrounded by inferiors who send me their incompetent understudies all in a vain attempt for me to bring their rubbish into being. None of them can capture a fraction of my innovative vision of what I’m trying to achieve. What makes you so qualified?”

I wanted nothing to do with this screening process. I just wanted to find out the whereabouts of my friend, but evidently I wasn’t going to get out of this unwarranted job interview unscathed. The only thing I could think of was to appeal to his vanity, but he’d doubtlessly see through that.

And then I recognized what the people besides him reminded me of. They looked and acted exactly like the obscure side characters out of Werkor & Leech; an Albino Doggie and a Dodo who constantly bemoaned their fate with some variation of the following nonsensical lyrics:

The Albino Doggie would sing bemoaning poems about being constantly taxed down on life:

That miserable taxing man
is stuffed full of bereft.
Wrings money from me
In all ways quite deft.
Sends all kinds of bills
That leaves me into debt.
Just keeps following me
Down to my dying breth.
Then sends someone to pick up
What little I’ve got left.
That implacable taxing man
Will hound me unto deth.

In comparison, the Dodo would spontaneously bring up shorter lyrics, talking mainly about himself regardless of the suitability of the situation, though this time, the verses were slightly mangled.

Aghee, agho,
Long long ago,
Going to and fro,
Ado, Adieu,
Dai Dai Daynu,
Go Dorohedoro.

That was what the background lyrics I’d been hearing all this time. I don’t know how my mind works sometimes.

I was on the verge of being thrown clear across the room when I blurted out, “I always thought the Albino Doggie looked like a Monkey!” The Director halted mid-swing and gently set me down, his expression changed into something I couldn’t identify.

“You know your literary references,” he spoke in a lucid tone.

“Just enough to get by,” I modestly replied, even though I should’ve been expounding my expertise, I was worried I might be called out on trivia I’d be ignorant about.

“You ever done any stories of your own?”

“Just a few random flowing narratives, along the likes of Sweet Sick Teen, A Vow of Science - ”

“The Smelly Girl stories? I love those! I think A Nutty Story is my personal fave.”

“You know my stuff?”

The Director punched a section of the wall above where the Albino Monkey/Doggie was slumping, revealing a panel of bounded documents. “I read everything everybody writes down, no matter how inconsequential. You never know where inspiration may strike. And there’s not much new material being printed these days, so I take what I can get. It has always been a dream of mine to combine the highbrow and lowbrow together, a masterful conjunction of media that’ll appeal to the masses. Philosophical discussions with pratfalls thrown in, informing the public even as they’re being entertained against their will.”

“That kind of lofty ambition is what I strive for too!”

“Obscure references and in-jokes that only a smattering of the public will appreciate, much less understand!”

“Well, maybe not that obscure.”

“So you decide to rebel against me,” his jovial mood suddenly taking a dark tone.

“No no, I’m just saying your audience would be more receptive if they knew the source of your inspiration.”

The Director leaned in closer until all I could see was the contours of his face, his features obscuring all other sources of visual stimuli. “You don’t get to dictate what I leave in or out. The references STAY.”

Having successfully instilled the fear of deities (i.e. Directors) into me, the Director stepped back.

“People need entertainment to make sense of their sad pathetic lives. I could use someone like you to write up morality plays that’ll lend craft to my prowess. I have that pull.”

“I don’t know. My stories aren’t meant for mass consumption. They’re personal interpretations of how I see the outer world, not typically intended for typical audiences.”

“That’s fine. None of us are typical people here. Even the highly reputed writers of the past had to do mainstream work to feed their stomachs. I’m sure you can come up with something that’ll appeal to the masses.”

“I have to confess, I’m a little out of practice.”

“It’s like a muscle. You just need to work at it. Write down everything, no matter how small or insignificant. Write about your night, write about your day. Write about the irritation on your little toe that’s been bothering you all week. Write about the pills you take that get stuck in your throat no matter how much water you drink, so you take a dollop of food to gulp them down, only to have an annoying small one still escape. Write outrageous summaries of stories you’re familiar with. Once you get started, you can move on to larger things. Make miniature conversations out of everyday arguments, then piece them together in order and make stories out of those.”

“I don’t know if I can - ”

“Have something ready for me by tomorrow, or I’ll turn your kneecaps inside out.”

There’s nothing like the threat of a looming deadline to inspire you. “If I’m doing this for you, could you do something for me?”

“Asking for favors already?”

“I’m looking for someone here.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I have hundreds of motivated actors falling all over themselves to be part of my productions. Any potential actors who want to take part in my plays will be lining up to join, and the ones who don’t will want to.”

“The person I’m looking for may not be the kind of actor you’re used to. You may have to broaden your audition reception to others you wouldn’t typically give. Trust me, once he reads your stuff, you’ll want to have him on.”

The Director regarded me with guarded curiosity as his muses sung in the background.

A man wandered a field all alone,
His heart was all asunder.
He ‘rounded and turner around the corner -
Toot toot! Pleated Puncher.

“...Write something for me first, then we’ll talk.”