I decided not to submit the story of e, my parody on the presidential campaigns last year, to Dean's spec fic anthology. Changing the characters' names a bit would lose its mood, retaining them would invite libel cases for me and everybody else involved. No matter how I dress it in beads and sequins my heart is not sold to the idea of suiting it up and stepping into the political circus ring.

Its first appearance was more than a year ago in an inactive blog, so technically it can't be included. When I got hold of Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicles, I got the consolation that the elements of my story are legal. Only engineers can have their licenses revoked.

This is the unfinished dressed-up version:


To be a victim of the Cassandra Complex is to see misfortune coming and yet be unable to stop it. Because no one would believe me even if my arguments were real. Yes, there were lapses, but these are far outweighed by what could have been missteps in our young republic. I could have been a disgruntled engineer until now, braving half-meant jokes from foreigners in a Pu Dong hotel sauna. Perspiration would cover my tears like a transparent umbrella braving the rain.

A year later and my impression was confirmed. She will find every means to win, even in the strangest ways possible. My dream talked to me like a phone call from outer space, very much away, but eerily vivid as yesterday's photograph.

1.

Error detected: please enter a body.

Body identified.

I fell asleep while browsing through Food Magazine's Step-by-Step cookbook. Bummer, the last time I fell asleep was on a vintage 1976 copy of Penthouse after three rounds of masturbation. I just don't know why it occurs on such an interesting read. A fatigue that's fundamental perhaps, that shuts my brain like a pawnshop vault at 7 pm.

The tiles hummed as my mobile on the floor in silent mode, vibrated to the incoming call. No other name registered, except "e."

"Who's this?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter, Castro. I need to ask you a favor. Walk to the sari-sari store in front of your house right now and get the envelope. Make sure that nobody sees you." said the female voice, with a thick southern accent akin to that of the famous seer to the stars Madam Soraya reading my fortune for the day.

"Mmph mm, mm mph mm." I buried my face into the pillow. "Can't it wait until daylight?" She hung up.

Bitch, I mumbled as I piled myself out of bed. I'm risking life and limb from drag racers and drug users at this unholy hour. I dressed to my boxers not knowing why I had to and what is in store for me.

The neighborhood videoke bar is still open as I made my way across the street, and some drunk is having his pharynx ripped wide open to the tune of Kastilyong Buhangin. Surprisingly, the street is empty except for the streetlamp highlighting the sari-sari store like a neon-yellow marker.

In the distance I saw the drunk's score flash on the video screen. 98. Damn videoke brains. I'll make a perfect score just by shouting and gobbling the mike like an oral sex performance. I reached for the envelope with a blue lining. A metallic sound sliced the night like a sword on a captor about to be beheaded.

Like it came not from my hand reaching the envelope, but from a hindsight, where my eyes turn blind and my ears tune to the exact frequency.

I went back to the house and opened the envelope. Numbers and an address. 7112252. 7268543. Joe Kerr Entertainment, Espana. In front of a Catholic university. Like I was some fool to believe that there really exists a Joe Kerr stand-up comedy bar in that address. A phony phone number with an equally phony address.

Ha ha. This is just a dream. Maybe I can permutate the numbers to bet on this morning's lotto.

"Whatever happens, don't give that envelope to anybody." It was Daddy. He was awake the whole time and has been observing me as I got back home. Mom was beside Daddy in her robe, still groggy. It was 3 am.

Swoosh. Somebody knocked on the door. "Quick! Out of the house!" Daddy hushed me as I jumped from the kitchen upwards into the empty sky. My heart instantly switched to a techno throb. In a snap I saw who was coming.

It was her. The Candidate.

What the f...she was wearing a Men-in-Black costume, slick as a devil in Prada. Funny thing was, it's just past 3 am and she's wearing signature Dior sunglasses.

I couldn't contain my laughter as I flew upwards. And it was then that I realized I was flying. No, I jumped fantastically, reminding me of Eternity: A Chinese Ghost Story. Dry leaves, a cigarette stump and a dead cat collected at my feet.

So I was skimming the stratosphere with nothing on but my boxers and the envelope. This is not a matrix dream, I suppose. I'll drop by Ninno and wake him up.



The first version of the story of e is available upon request.

This entry was posted by sky, on Thursday, August 18, 2005. You can leave your response.