Octavius the 1st

Chapter 3

35 Gaylord Brewer Chapter 3 If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe. —Carl Sagan Octavius stood bound in the rain-qua-sleet, water in his eyes, wishing for death. Not his own death, of course, although a temporary cessation of sentience and tactile misery would be well-timed and welcome, but rather the painful and protracted death of the runt-Usurper. Actually, he was not a mean man, he thought, at least did not consider himself so in his expansive moments, and a painless death for the beast would serve just as well, and, upon reflection, quicker was definitely better. Perhaps just a mild, unavoidable blockage of the central artery, a cough, a stutter, a heart-blink, then the tiny lid’s quiver, the bulbous eye closed, no time for an ambulance, and the rest, and the rest as the princely fellow once opined, was pug silence. The Marauder, in some spastic, sliding, circular, clockwise run, had pulled its wet leash taut around the legs of its companion 36 Octavius the 1st and the creature now stood, anus-proud, staring back over a shoulder at its beloved “brother.” It retracted most of its glistening tongue, seemingly bulged dark and glistening orbs yet another millimeter beyond their straining sockets, and exploded into a loping, slipping, counter-clockwise assault. For a moment, at the terminal point, the apex as it were, of the reversal, Octavius was in theory unrestricted, the leash an actual theoretical walking and leading apparatus, but he made no resistance as the leather wrapped and bound him again, this time in the opposed direction. He continued his self-program of freeing the mind of extraneous and demeaning excursions, freeing it also from all distracting signifiers of the body’s suffering deficiencies. But how to do it, there was the rub. Already, the primary, exacting impulse of this contained moment of his solitary living-breathing existence, the acute point of all meaning and focus, was a growing, disappointed awareness of the linguistic chasm between the “water-proof” and the merely “water-resistant,” nay, not linguistic but rather practical chasm as currently articulated by his new 3-in-1™ nylon outerwear in designer complements of aubergine and ash, which could be worn with or without its fleece lining—said lining also attractive separately on those brisk and bracing spring mornings of an unknown universe, and which lining in question could now be 37 Gaylord Brewer distinguished, moreover, rain-wet and sleet-cold over his arms and dribbling beneath his ample breasts—and a similar disparity inherent, seemingly, in the phraseology “Gore-Tex™-inspired” as evidenced by his new and darkening sneakers. Even bound, he managed to wiggle a single big toe to corroborate the icy, squishy truth of the foot’s sock-shroud tomb. Only his head remained dry and clear, warm as blintzes beneath an onion dome of Cossack fur, worn even by the Czar himself—one or the other—in historic display of solidarity and hegemony. Or so the catalog had insinuated. Perhaps, mused Octavius, it was time to step from the concrete porch—christened the “patio” by the QM—to attempt the sidewalk and even, in a mad possibility, the street beyond. By carefully —and slowly, so as not to reveal his motive—corkscrewing (or was it counter-corkscrewing?) his body in an admittedly graceless , albeit sensible, pirouette, the captive loosened his restrictions and stood suddenly free, a limp noose of leather clenched in one hand, opposite clasp fixed firmly to the jewel-encrusted collar surrounding the necklessness of the shocked Marauder. “Ah-ha!” the man was tempted to shout, but etiquette required, aplomb suggested, and numb limbs applauded the decision that his victory need not be announced. But who the leader now, he smiled, and who the led? Who the aborted Alpha and who the 38 Octavius the 1st Monarch, restored to glorious power? Did not the matter speak for itself? He felt that it did. This reversal in fortunes did not, unfortunately, have the effect of breaking the Marauder’s spirit. To the contrary. The change rung, this new act in the melodrama served merely to exacerbate the “poor litter feller’s” endless reserve of punishing energy, as it, the beast, lunged for the sidewalk, Octavius shuffling , arms flailing, in uncertain tow. After a few dangerous feet, the creature stopped to sniff a small bush...