Murphy's Law - 1. Holy Orders

Hell is other people.
- Jean Paul Sartre

There ain’t no answer.
There ain’t going to be any answer.
There never was an answer.
That’s the answer.
- Gertrude Stein

Murphy brooding roots with grimy finger in his nose. Serenely he ignores the surrounding din of a million shrieks and screams. Black, stringy hair and beard, himself naked, he sits on the upraised rump of another naked man who supports himself on elbows and knees. Murphy is the Big Mahaf. "Ah," he cries as he extracts a hard, dark specimen with a slimy tail. He eyes his prize a moment proudly before depositing it in a bag proffered by the naked, admiring boy behind him. This bag, made from desiccated human skin, contains a quantity of such snotty treasures, and when full will be tossed as far from Murphy's clan as possible. Any and all proceeds of the sacred body of the Big Mahaf are taboo and catastrophic to the health and well-being of any mortal hapless enough to encounter them. This holds true, of course, for every Big Mahaf in the land and since each of the uncountable number of clans has a Big Mahaf busily producing snot, shit, urine, nails and hair, the air is often thick with these sacred grenades. Murphy turns from his perusal of the booger bag as a third naked man crawls toward him through the ankle-deep feces of which the ground is made and prostrates himself. Murphy stares down at the man and frowns, for this man is not the right man, this man is not the Priest but the Acolyte. How many nights now has Watt failed in this duty? Sighing, Murphy rises, turns around and, peering over his shoulder, thrusts out his hindquarters. Reverently the crawler leans forward and plants a delicate kiss thereon.

"Rise Pozzo," whispers the Mahaf. "We go."

Murphy whispers because one must take care not to let an outsider hear the name of any member of the clan since foul magic might by such means be devised. And since no point within a clan is ever more than a few feet from an adjoining clan, each clan has eavesdroppers for that very purpose. Pozzo springs to his feet and falls in behind his chief. The boy with the bag follows the Acolyte. Both these walk normally but The Big Mahaf shuffles along dragging his feet through the muck, the better to prevent undignified spills. To shield his sacred feet from exposure to profane ground the Big Mahaf wears human skin booties.

Before the Mahaf are the Mothers, a group of women numbering about a dozen, each bent so far forward at the waist she has to maintain balance with her knuckles in the slime. The Mothers form a circle, heads all pointed toward the center, a formation that presents to public view their emaciated rumps and backs, all bones and leathery skin smeared with excrement and acreep with the ubiquitous insects. At this very moment a few of the women are contributing to the marl, an enterprise accompanied by grunts and wheezes though productive of little more than a few black pellets. One woman however, in apparent ill-health, with knees quaking and clawing her scrawny rump with shitty nails, forcibly expels a watery brown stream that might have hit the Big Mahaf except that Pozzo alertly throws himself into the path of the odious discharge and intercepts it. The relief on the face of Pozzo is evident. He has not only shielded the Big Boss from contamination, but he has done so without touching him and would therefore not be required to cleanse himself with menstrual blood. Murphy nods in approval.

Some of the Mothers now before their lord and master wear, like him, booties. These are the ones who are menstrual, but whereas his footgear prevents the goo from contaminating him, theirs prevents them from contaminating the goo. Such women also wear skin bags over their heads to prevent them from poisoning the world with their corrupting glance.

In the circle of women cavort the clan's small fry, few in number, ranging from newly born to prepubescent. One young girl crawls amongst the women's legs and directs into a bowl fashioned from a human skull every drop of blood that runs down every menstrual leg. The oldest child is a boy who nervously avoids the eyes of the Big Mahaf who has stopped to study him.

"Mothers," Murphy intones. "Have you tidings?"

At once a number of voices issue dreamily from within the circle, in perfect chorus.

"When next a victory for our men, then shall a son be born again."

Though it is evident that many of the women have spoken, not a single one evinces any sign of having done so.

"I hear," cries Murphy, resuming his progress. "By the will of the Unnamable!"

Murphy turns away from the Mothers and faces one side of the square of reclining men that encloses the circle of women. These are the clan's warriors. All are mirasmic, with long, filthy hair, protruding shoulders, bulging elbows, and gaping ribcages. Their backs are all spine and shoulder blades, their legs thicken at the knees and ankles. Their skin is pocked with open sores, seeping infections, bruises and ulcers, all of which enjoy the wriggling ministrations of innumerable maggots. The men are naked, save for feces, flies and roaches, wearing only a shallow cup that hangs from the neck. The cups are made from human skulls, the necklaces that hold them from human hair. By each man's side lays his arsenal of blunt human thigh bones and sharpened human ribs. Thus are every clan's warriors arrayed, and Murphy's men, like all men, bear the hideous scars wrought by this weaponry. Murphy frowns at one man, the only one who does not gaze enraptured at his Boss's genitalia. This man instead lays curled up groaning with eyes like bolts of lightning staring into nothingness. So it's come to this, thinks Murphy. So much had crafty Watt done in his life with brains and brawn and now he cries when he should be happy, now he abuses nature and its gifts. The Mahaf shakes his head, then beams at the others. There he sees his dynamic duo, Molloy and Moran. Such warriors they! Molloy with his nose pruned back to the bridge and Moran with only one ear. It reminds him of Malone on another line, he with only one eye and a hole in his neck. These be men! Beaming upon the fearsome pair Murphy turns his back and, glancing invitingly over his shoulder, thrusts out his bum. Immediately the men crawl up one after another to kiss it. After a few minutes, Murphy turns around.

"That's enough for now," he says. The men still awaiting their turn murmur their disappointment. "Tomorrow," Murphy promises, and continues the inspection of his people.

In one corner of the square of men Murphy finds the clan's teenage boys lolling around using one another as pillows. At sight of their Chief they scramble to their knees and start kissing the air with loud smacking sounds. Murphy sighs.

"All right," he says. "You've done well this day."

Once more a line of crawling supplicants forms but this time Murphy doesn't turn around. This time each boy creeps up and gently lifts Murphy's flaccid penis in the palm of his hand, in order to kiss the glans.

As Murphy receives this homage he notices the Big Mahaf of a neighboring clan, a tall, bony man with a pointed red nose, watching him. The exact same ritual is being enacted in that clan and all the clans surrounding. The entire landscape is densely packed with squares of men similar in every respect to Murphy's. Each envelops its circle of women and its teenage boys. No tree or bush mars this landscape as far as eye can see, no grass or weed. But for the human gall bladder the color green would be beyond the experience of this multitude. No colors are there here but those of the sun, the sky, the people and the feces. Each clan, Murphy's included, calls itself the One True Clan, and each clan fervently declares that it and it alone lives in accordance with the Law as laid down by the Unnamable. All the rest are heretics or Other People. For a brief moment the eyes of the two Big Kahunas lock. Then the other Mahaf shouts, "Why is your greedy gaze on me instead of your little shites?" Murphy sneers and turning to face his counterpart emits a stream of piss, a gesture his own men and boys find supremely comical. As Murphy walks away Pozzo gestures to the boy who's been following them. The boy immediately scoops up in a human skin bag the bit of ground Murphy has anointed.

The Big Mahaf is pleased with himself as he returns to his spot and reclines on his human skin rug, but only for a moment. Then he frowns. Something must be done about Watt. Not only should it have been he who accompanied Murphy on his tour but he also completely ignored his Big Mahaf. As Murphy well knows lethargy is the first stage in Madness. Should he harvest Watt immediately? This he is loathe to do. Watt is, was, a great man, a mighty warrior who created many stratagems and maneuvers, then became Priest. It was Watt who chose and mentored Murphy, it was Watt who taught Murphy that sine qua non without which he could not have become Mahaf: how to fart on command. Murphy refuses to believe Watt is really Mad. Maybe he'll snap out of it, maybe he's just ill. Whatever the case he will bear watching. If Watt really is Mad and Runs the clan would lose the opportunity to commune with of one of its greatest heroes. As for his duties as Priest, as long as it was just accompanying Murphy on his daily rounds it didn't matter but now the Mothers have a new boy ready. Clearly, something would have to be done.

Come morning Murphy presides over Matins. Having slept in situ on their feet, the Mothers awake already positioned, but everyone else has to fall in. The men stand, take up arms, and face outward. The boys congregate in the corners of the square. Murphy stands behind one of the four ranks of men. There all wait until the sun stands upon the horizon. Every clan in the land waits thus, each formed into square and circle, each with its contingent of teenage boys, each with its Big Mahaf. Then, as though on cue, every person in this vast mob begins to shout.

Shoulder to shoulder,
Man to man,
All for one,
One for the Clan!

This thunderous acclamation would have been performed in perfect unison except that the clans all differ as to its exact formulation. Some replace the word "to" with "by"; some the first "to" only, others the second only; some clans say "on"; some chant "All are one" or "All in one". Every combination and permutation is employed by at least one clan, but since the number of clans heavily outweighs the number of possibilities, most clans chant exactly the same formulation as many others. Nevertheless, each clan not only claims its rendition is unique but that it is the only correct rendition.

Matins complete, the women commence their shuffling. As with matins, each clan believes that its shuffle is the sole proper shuffle. All shuffles consist of taking one or more steps in one direction followed by one or more in the opposite. Some clans begin the day stepping to the right, others to the left. The real test of uniqueness lies in how many steps in each direction. Some are simple, with the same number in both directions; others take so many in one and a different but fixed number in the opposite; most clans vary, following some progression or another: one right, two left, three right, four left, etc.; or perhaps two left, four right, eight left, etc. Another major difference is found in how high the number of steps goes before starting over again. While the shuffle, unlike Matins, offers real possibility of uniqueness, it is of course impossible to know one's shuffle is unique. Yet no clan evinces any doubt of their singularity and claim to perfection.

As soon as the women start their minuet, the teenage boys and children of every clan begin lobbing into the neighboring clans handfuls of muck that in most cases drop harmlessly to the ground. With, however, so many bombs aloft it is inevitable that many will land with a splat on some man, woman, or even Big Mahaf, and the hits invariably infuriate their victims. Thus is each day battle joined. In no time at all each clan's four ranks of men are mortally engaged with their opposites in the adjoining clans, clubbing one another with human thigh bones and stabbing one another with human ribs.

Having induced the combat the teenage boys cease their bombardment and begin to fondle their genitalia. Each boy warily eyes the men of the nearest clan while masturbating with one hand and covering his glans with the other. No boy ever indicates in any way when he might be nearing his crisis, but suddenly will turn and enter whichever woman happens to be stepping in front of him, so long as she is not menstruating, ejaculate, and within seconds resume his masturbation. The reason the boys hide their glandes, mask their faces, and keep their eyes on the alien men is that they, the boys, constitute the principal prey of all clans. The men will take what they can, of course, but the piece de resistance, the most highly sought delicacy, the ultimate coup, is a breeder, for not only is it a meal but it also deals the enemy the dread blow of lost seed.

The weather on this day is like the weather every day, warm but not hot, with a gentle breeze. A few stately clouds slide slowly across the bluest of skies. Around midday dark patches appear on the horizon. Throughout the early afternoon they slide beneath the white clouds and by mid afternoon have left them behind. Then the breeze picks up, the day darkens and smiles abound when the Unnamable tush-tootles on his throne and presently the first large raindrops fall, striking sporadically with a splat. At once the combat stops, the circles cease their constant shuffle, the teenage boys let loose their members. In a matter of moments all are pelted by a heavy thunderstorm which washes away the filth and pests. Men and boys raise their faces to the shower, mouths agape, drinking and wiping faces and hair free of dung and vermin. The ground becomes a fetid slush with roaches swimming for their lives, and for once the air is free of flies. Before long, though, the storm is spent and dwindling to a steady but dispirited rainfall and finally passes altogether. As the growl of thunder and flash of lightning move off with the storm clouds, the sky above resumes its placid persona. The air now seems cleaner and remains, for a few moments, free of pests. The ground turns to paste with small puddles gleaming in the sun. The serenity is short-lived however, as hostilities renew in the usual manner of lobbing fecal missiles.

And so the daily grind. The women shuffle, the teenage boys impregnate, the men thrust and parry with their opposites in the adjoining clan. The combat stops, however, the moment the sun reaches a certain point on the horizon. The circles grind to a halt, the men collapse, the din diminishes. In the remaining light the children finish butchering the day's catch, reducing it to fist-sized chunks of meat and viscera. The teenage boys collect the skullcups of the men and place them on the women's rumps where small hands take them and return them a moment later filled with blood. With each cup is also a chunk of meat. The boys deliver this meal to the men, then get their own allotment. Once the warriors and breeders have been served the women and children have their turn. The food is quickly consumed, the meat wolfed down, the skullcups drained. Another day is done. The men lay down in ranks, the boys collapse atop each other, the Mothers ready the children for sleep, and the Big Boss tends to his administrative duties, which this night includes a talk with Watt and Pozzo. Murphy has been planning. A new boy is ready, there must be a feast and a naming ceremony and for that a Priest is required. Accordingly, he sends Pozzo to fetch Watt and a few moments later both men are prostrated before him as he sits upon his human throne.

"Sit," he commands them, then stares at Watt. Both Watt and Pozzo await his pleasure with downcast eyes.

"Watt," says Murphy. "A new boy is ready."

Watt shows no sign of having heard his Mahaf.

"You have nothing to say?" asks Murphy.

Watt continues to stare at the ground.

"Watt," says Murphy. "You are the Priest. Why have you not come to me the past several evenings to walk with me?"

Watt looks up briefly. Murphy is stunned by the ineffable sadness in his erstwhile mentor's eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "What is the matter with you?"

Watt looks away and mumbles something Murphy doesn't hear, but Pozzo does and he looks up sharply at Watt.

"What did you say?" asks Murphy. "I didn't hear you."

But Watt merely shrugs.

"What did he say?" Murphy asks Pozzo.

Looking first at Watt then at Murphy, Pozzo says, "He said he is just one who weeps."

"What?" cries Murphy. "Weeps? What does that mean? What is there to weep about?"

But Watt does not respond.

"Watt," says Murphy. "Think why you were created, man. To breed and make shit. And you have. You have bred prolifically, you have been warrior, even Priest. Why, you it was who made me chief. And now look at you, moping around, curling up into a ball, picking at your food, barely holding your place in line, failing in your duties as Priest. What am I to do with you?"

Still Watt does not reply.

Murphy sighs.

"There will be a Birth and I need a Priest," he says. "What am I to do? Will you preside?"

Watt continues to stare at the ground.

"Well," says Murphy. "I am Mahaf. I must see to the needs of my clan and my clan needs a Priest. So I will ordain Pozzo and he will preside. What say you to that?"

Watt simply shrugs.

Murphy shakes his head.

"Return to ranks," he says, and Watt slowly gets to his feet and shuffles away. Murphy looks at Pozzo.

"Look at me Acolyte," he says. "Your time has come. Tomorrow you will be ordained."

Pozzo looks up quizzically.

"Speak," says Murphy.

"He still lives," says Pozzo nodding after Watt.

"Yes," says Murphy. "He lives, so what?"

"Shouldn't he be harvested?"

"Pozzo, you little shite" says Murphy between his teeth. "That was a great man. You can only hope to be half the man he was. Yes, something is amiss with him but he's not yet dead nor does sin haul him to torture. You shall be Priest and he shall be ex-Priest. Now go."

And so, next day, Murphy finds himself presiding over a rite he has never before performed nor expects ever to perform again. It is a rite that is both joyous and sad: joyous for the new Priest, Pozzo, sad for the former Priest, Watt. Of course, the former Priest should not be present at the ordination of his successor but Murphy ignores the anomaly and tells himself that Pozzo is deserving and that Watt will come around sooner or later. What else can he do? He needs a Priest and he's not ready to harvest Watt. This evening, therefore, immediately after all the clans ground arms Murphy and Pozzo stand side by side facing away from the Mothers. All the men turn to face them. Slowly turning Murphy scans each grubby face, taking care to meet each pair of eyes. When his gaze comes to Watt he encounters a blank stare. Watt is looking in his direction but it is not at all clear to Murphy that Watt sees him. Whatever Watt is seeing seems to be inside his own head. But at least, thinks Murphy as he completes his staring at each man, he hasn't Run. Returned to where he started, Murphy mutters inaudibly for several minutes, his lips moving quickly but producing only a buzzing sound. Pozzo stands with bowed head, hands crossed over his genitalia, as Murphy turns to face the circle of women.

"Mothers," he calls. "I would make this man our Priest. Do you object?"

No response.

Murphy looks over the backs of the Mothers to the men on the other side of the square.

"And you, my warriors," he asks, "do you object to this Acolyte?"

These men make no verbal response, instead shaking their heads "no".

Murphy repeats this procedure with each of the three remaining lines of men, noting that Watt is now staring off into the horizon. From each line the Big Mahaf garners the same response: no objection. Clearly Murphy is not the only one to notice Watt's condition. Satisfied, Murphy turns back to Pozzo who drops to his knees. Murphy looks down and asks if Pozzo is prepared to be the Priest, to carry out all the sacerdotal duties to the best of his ability.

"I am," the Acolyte murmurs.

Murphy turns to a boy a bit behind him who is holding a bag. The Big Mahaf digs into the bag with both hands and brings out two handfuls of Holy Shit. He then raises both his arms dramatically, looks up at the darkening sky and begins the Litany to the Unnamable.

Oh Lord of mercy give us a break!
Cut us some slack!
Have a heart!
You know we love you!
Then all the men join in and wind up with a joyous shout:
Holy Shit!

Whereupon Murphy sweeps both arms down in a great arc and thunder claps Pozzo upside both his ears. Murphy then carefully pushes bits of Holy Shit into Pozzo's ears, stopping them up.

"Hear not the voice of Doubt!" he bellows. "Hear only the voice of the Lord!"

Pozzo, his head smeared now with shit, reels from the blow but manages to keep to his knees, head bowed, hands crossed over his genitalia. Then all the men and boys grab their scrotums as Murphy turns away from Pozzo and blasts a tremendous fart in his face. Finally, Murphy retires to his human throne and sits down legs spread, hands on knees.

"Rise Priest!" he shouts, and Pozzo stands.

Murphy smiles and waves his hand and the men approach Pozzo one by one and kiss him on the left butt cheek, the right of course being reserved for the Big Mahaf.