Kafka's Uncle: The Unfortunate Sequel, and Other Insults to the Morally Perfect

Chapter 1

Anslenot In Ruptureland: Choosing not to choose

Beyond the ice mountains, into the regions . . . beyond the ice, Anslenot sails high, high over a vast, white plateau. Slowly the bucket begins to descend and finally, and unceremoniously, hits the ice, skids, topples. Anslenot is dumped out onto the frozen surface. He rolls, then coming to rest on his back, he opens his eyes. White, he thinks, everything is white. The sky is white, my breath is white.

Glancing over to the bucket, he watches as it becomes covered in a thick coating of hoar frost. Everything is white, he thinks again. He pauses to wonder why he isn’t cold. Maybe I’m dead, he thinks, maybe I’m too numb to care. He hears a distant buzz, then sees something entering his field of vision from the extreme right. He stares. A giant dirigible comes into view. Painted red, white and blue, it slows down, and putters about overhead as if Anslenot has become an object of intense scrutiny, curiosity and interest. Anslenot continues to stare at the dirigible and is somehow reminded of the 1930’s German airships, the Graf Zeppelin and the Graf Hindenburg. Abruptly, he sees a window slide open in the gondola and someone dumping out garbage and leaflets. Between apple cores, styrofoam cups, feces, orange peelings, rotten carrots, he also sees flyers fluttering about him with simple, declarative sentences: You are with us or you are agin’ us, Ignorance is strength, Juden Go Home, Only good Injun is a dead Injun, Freedom is slavery, Freedom is on the march, Liberty and Justice For All, Coloreds Only, Slant eyes, War is Peace. The garbage and flyers snow down on Anslenot and soon he is literally buried beneath a pile of rubbish. He holds his breath; the stench is overwhelming and he desperately and simultaneously wants to breathe and throw up. Wildly, he thrashes about and manages to get out from beneath the trash, and looking up to the sky again sees the dirigible puttering away, continuing to dump out flyers and garbage as if having a bad case of existential diarrhea.

Whoo, messy.

Anslenot, now in a sitting position, turns around. The tarantula is back.

What a mess, eh pardner? says the spider.

Anslenot, stupefied, just stares, and finally is able to say, Wh—what are you doing here?

The tarantula comes closer, squats and regards Anslenot with its eight eyes. Got lonely, it says.

Where are we?

My guess, says the tarantula, is that we’re in the regions beyond the ice mountains.

Anslenot is suddenly aware that the numbness has abruptly left and he does indeed feel the cold. He blows on his hands. Where’s that?

The tarantula doesn’t say anything for a minute, but then finally says, You can guess. You can guess or I can tell you and you can have your worst fears confirmed immediately.

I have a choice?

Of course you have a choice.

What choice do I really have?

What choice do you really want?

Anslenot shrugs. I guess the best choice.

What if there is no best choice?

Then there is no best choice. Then what?

So you choose given the choices you have. All eight of the spider’s eyes focus on Anslenot.

What if I choose not to choose?

Your choice. The tarantula’s voice is matter of fact, as if talking about the stock market or socks and underwear for sale.

Anslenot blows on his hands again. So I can choose to guess where we are or I can choose to have my worst fears confirmed. That’s it.

That’s it. As if to emphasize, the tarantula spits. But, the tarantula continues, there may be another choice after all.

Anslenot stares at the spider, to the eight eyes, and cannot fathom what he sees. At last he says, You said there weren’t any other choices.

Did I say that? says the spider.

You did. Are you choosing not to remember?

The tarantula continues to squat there, saying nothing for a few minutes.

Finally it says, I’m choosing to say nothing.

That’s impossible, says Anslenot, you just said something.

It’s how you choose to interpret it. Your fault. But that’s beside the point. The tarantula lowers itself as if sharing a guilty secret. "You may have a choice in how you think about all of this."

What’s that? says Anslenot, looking warily at the spider.

You can choose to be unaware and unconscious.

Anslenot nods. I like that.

So be it, says the spider.

And I can always come back to where I am right now by choosing to become conscious and aware of the choices I can make and no harm will be done.

Never said that, says the tarantula.

I choose not to hear that, says Anslenot, getting to his feet. He picks off the worst of the garbage but the flyers are sticky on one side and he cannot peel them off so easily. Looking like a walking poster board, Anslenot surveys the scene.

Like a ride? says the tarantula.

Anslenot says, Sure, and he climbs aboard his existential horror pony and they start off. Where are we going? he asks.

Your choice, says the arachnid.

Go, says Anslenot.

Where? asks the tarantula.

Don’t know, says Anslenot, just go. He manages a smile. Your choice.

Without saying another word, the tarantula starts walking.

Chapter 2

The Dreamscape

Anslenot realizes that he is tired. The undulating movement of the tarantula makes him tired. So tired, so sleepy.

You should probably go to sleep, says the tarantula. You must be tired.

Yes, says Anslenot, I must be tired.

You are very tired, says the spider.

Yes, says Anslenot, I am very, very tired.

Sleepy.

Very sleepy. The undulation of the spider, the bland whiteness of the snowscape, and for some incomprehensible reason, Anslenot feels a warmth.

I bet you’re feeling warm, says the tarantula.

I do feel warm, says Anslenot. He looks down to his stained trousers, his dirty, threadbare jacket. He shouldn’t be warm. But he is.

I can’t be making you warm, says the spider We arachnids are cold blooded. And, after a pause, it adds, Cold—blooded indeed.

Drifting into a deeper sleep, Anslenot says, I know this. I don’t know why I am warm. And sleepy.

And sleepy, says the spider. Very sleepy.

Anslenot feels his chin suddenly touch his chest and—he’s gone. He hears the spider as if from a place a long, long way away from where he is: . . . choose carefully, choose so carefully. Choose a dream but choose carefully . . .

. . . all the ways to choose, thinks Anslenot. All the freedom to choose yet how do you choose given that you can’t know all the choices available, what the consequences at any given time—the gentle undulation of the spider, the warmth, and he goes deeper.

. . . deeper, says the tarantula, . . . just—go deeper. The rocking of the ride, the sound of my voice . . . "

Anslenot thinks, . . . since when could spiders hypnotize? How can I trust this—but he helped before . . . suddenly a scene comes to him, a scene of himself on a bluff overlooking an ocean. The flowers around him are red, the sun, white, the sky, the ocean, blue. And as he looks around, those are the only colors he sees. He senses movement, and turning, sees the spider, wearing a floppy hat with alternating red, white and blue vertical bands of color. He hears the spider sigh, We have met the enemy and he is us.

Pogo, says Anslenot. Walt Kelly.

Correct, says the tarantula. And can you guess who said this? ‘Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it’?

Santayana, says Anslenot.

You’re doing well.

Thank you, says Anslenot. He turns away. e, but seated upon it, dressed in red, the blue eyes calculating, the hair so white—

Stalin— says Anslenot.

Yes, says Stalin, yes, I said that.Then he hears, And who said this? ‘Those who cast the votes decide nothing. Those who count the votes decide everything’.

Anslenot glances back. The spider is still there. But seated upon it, dressed in red, the blue eyes calculating, the hair so white——

Stalin—— says Anslenot.

Yes, says Stalin, yes, I said that.

Then he hears, Sleep. Sleep. Just sleep. And forget. Forget it all.

The vision vanishes and Anslenot, in his sleep, asks, Wh—why are you having me remember this—know this if you want me to forget it?

. . . fun. . . comes the voice of the spider. . . . fun . . . how much are you willing to give up your perceptions to listen to the perceptions of others so that their opinion becomes yours?

Anslenot drifts and asks in his sleep, . . . why. . . why would I want to do that . . .

. . . don’t have to think. Don’t have to know. Don’t have to take responsibility. All you have to do is . . . sleep. . .

. . . sleep, whispers Anslenot. . . . sleep. How do I—sleep.

Apparently quite well.

Yes, says Anslenot, yes—I— He goes deeper asleep. Then he has a scene open before him. He sees a chorus line of men, dressed in pink ballerina tutus; some of them are bearded, some balding, one on the end has a bottle of Moosedrool beer in his hand; they dance to the music from the musical, A Chorus Line and as they kick out, their booted feet connect with boys and girls, children, dressed the same way. Some of the children cry, others turn about in rage and the fathers look to each other, with surprise, like they just can’t figure out why the kids are crying. And suddenly, in Anslenot’s mind he can hear them: What’s wrong with Billy? I don’t know. I don’t know why Samantha is upset. Kids. God knows. Treatin’ ‘em no different than I was treated.

The chorus line of males turn and, facing a chorus line of women, some dressed as men, some women, obviously having been beaten up or God knows what else, dressed in straitjackets, the chorus lines, facing each other, kick the crap out of each other. And Anslenot can hear the women: He’s just like that. He’s just had a bad day. He didn’t mean it, and then Anslenot hears the men: Must be her period. What a bitch. Just like her mother. Don’t know what her problem is. And then he sees the children run into the middle of the melee and he can hear their voices, Mommy, Daddy, don’t fight! I’ll be good. Don’t leave me! and I know it’s my fault! Please stop hitting each other.

Anslenot stands back and watches children being kicked and flying through the air, hears the smack of fists against faces, feet into ribs, the cracking of bones, the tearing of clothing—and soon—all that’s left are two rows of raw and bloody hamburger, mingled with shreds of clothing and small blobs of shuddering flesh over here, over there.

In horror, Anslenot steps back. Distantly he hears, . . . just sleep deeply—

In the dreamscape, Anslenot says, How can I sleep, seeing this?

Everyone else sleeps seeing this. Why not you?

How can I sleep knowing this? says Anslenot.

Everyone else sleeps knowing this, comes the reply, why not you? A pause. Just relax. This is normal. Just go deeper, deeper asleep.

Anslenot fights the urge, but succumbs—

Chapter 3

Dreamscape 2

—and so succumbing, Anslenot goes deeper and wonders distantly about the strangeness of sitting on a tarantula, in the middle of a featureless and icy world, going into a spider—induced hypnotic trance. He remembers, distantly, about false memories but knows that these are coming from him, and he’s at once assailed by the disappointment that these aren’t false memories, yet he has a strange sense of freedom that he knows that what he sees does come from him yet he’s frightened that if it does come from him, what does it mean?

As if able to read Anslenot’s mind, the tarantula muses, "What does it mean, indeed? Indeed, indeed, what does it all mean? Such a mys—hiss—tory."

—I don’t want to— whispers Anslenot. Something black and vile moves within him. I—I don’t want to—

You don’t have to . . . comes the voice. Your choice.

I can’t— whispers Anslenot.

You can, says the tarantula.

I want to come out—

Then come out.

I can’t—choose—

Maybe something is choosing for you, comes the silky whisper of the spider.

Anslenot sits on the tarantula, the sky is white, the white snows stretch level and far away and Anslenot sits, chin to chest, there, but everywhere, still, but moving, conscious but so unconscious, courageous but so afraid, wanting to come back out but so needing to go deeper in. He whispers, What part is choosing for me—

Don’t know, comes the voice, what part chooses for you—

Suddenly, Anslenot drops onto a chess board. He looks about. Then, kneeling, he places a hand on the black square on which he kneels. It’s cool to the touch. Marble, he thinks, black and white marble squares. He stands, looks around. A black king is checkmated in a corner by a gleaming white bishop and knight. The king looks beseechingly at Anslenot. Can’t help you, son, I’m stuck. Victim of bad choices, bad moves.

The bishop and king look at Anslenot. We can’t help either. We have to stop this Black Menace—or is it Yellow Peril? We don’t know, nor do we know why we are doing this. We just must. Duty and obligation over conscious choice and free will, though on some level, we did choose what we are. Now we’re stuck, however conscious or unconscious that may be.

Anslenot is about to ask what it is he needs help from and then he sees Something. The blue sky above abruptly clouds over, the sunlight grows dim and a cold wind blows and a twilight comes on. In the distance, funnel clouds drop, lightning rips the sky and Something steps onto the chessboard. Anslenot feels his hair rise on his neck, his heart racing and a feeling of lightheadedness. His mouth becomes dry and he hears, I am your nemesis. I am your nightmare.

The Something slowly approaches Anslenot. It has penetrating, silver eyes, almost looking like those of a cat’s reflecting light. It appears almost as if a black tornadic cloud, a squat, black whirlwind. I am your worst fear—

Anslenot screams, Oh, my God I don’t want to look, take me away from this, lead me—lead me—!

The Something continues to approach. I am your nemesis. The voice is that of wind over ice, over ancient graves of those who died too soon for no worthy cause, for useless wars and causes beneath contempt. I am your reckoning and I will tear your flesh from your bones, your brains from your skull, your tongue from your mouth, your soul from your heart, for I have come to destroy you—

Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God— Anslenot hears himself scream. Someone take me from this—

Suddenly he’s back; his head snaps up, his eyes open. Shaking, dazed, he looks around. Beneath him, the coarse, black hairs and skin of the tarantula and around him, the ice, the white sky.

Why did you take me there? Anslenot finally says. Why did you take me there?

No, whispers the tarantula, why did you take yourself there?

I didn’t choose to go there.

Anslenot isn’t sure how spiders can do it but he hears a laugh.

Whatever you say, it says. But I really didn’t make you do anything.

Let’s go, says Anslenot.

To where? says the spider.

Anywhere but here.

You forget, says the tarantula, wherever you go, there you are.

"I don’t care. Anywhere but here."

Of course. Then, after a pause, Your choice.

And with that, they continue on, while Anslenot, riding, tries to make sense of, yet tries to forget, what it was that he saw.

Chapter 4

Help Is On The Way. Sort of.

After a while Anslenot says, Where are the distractions? Where are the distractions? There is nothing to distract me from wanting to know but not wanting to know. Can’t you help divert my attention?

He looks around to the sameness of the world, the ice—white sky, the snows.

You sound so plaintive, the tarantula finally says. You want to know but you don’t want to know. This is going to be one long fuck of a journey.

Where are we journeying to? asks Anslenot.

Good question, the spider replies.

Aren’t there any distractions anywhere?

Is that the purpose of the journey? asks the spider. To be distracted?

I don’t know, says Anslenot. He feels the spider move beneath him, sees the endless cold and ice. The sameness. The sameness. God, he says, what I’d give for a good video game.

How about endless sales at shopping malls? says the spider. Would that help? Maybe endless and bottomless sacks of Dum—Dum Chocolate Anesthesia Wafers. Would that help?

Sure, says Anslenot, a lot.

I was joking, says his companion.

Were you? asks Anslenot. A shame.

The tarantula then says, You really don’t know what it is you wish to be distracted from, do you?

Oh, God, says Anslenot, "I could use a good Playboy centerfold right about now."

The spider says nothing, but sighs. Then stops.

What? says Anslenot.

Ahead.

A shape, somehow like a bird, but not quite, comes flapping toward them and sedately and delicately lands between two of the tarantula’s eight eyes. Anslenot stares. It resembles a turkey vulture, but it’s made out of yellow paper. Newspaper.

It looks up at Anslenot and says, I’m the Media Bird. All the news that’s fit to print except for stories I don’t like.

It ruffles newspaper feathers and then closes the wings in close to its body. The wings are such that Anslenot can read the headlines on them and watch moving pictures. Oh, it says, I feel a story coming on. Then it shrieks, "SENATOR CAUGHT STEALING, SAYS CONSTITUTION PROTECTS RIGHT OF POWERFUL TO TAKE PROPERTY FROM OTHERS LESS DESERVING. Squawk." The Media Bird shakes and lets fly a gooey mixture filled with miniature camcorders, computers and Barbie Dolls which plops into several of the tarantula’s eyes.

I can’t see— the spider says, then, oh, sparkly things—things, things, things, all sorts of—things— Then it becomes quiet. Gone, it finally says.

Have to keep this crap in your eyes at all times, says the Media Bird, otherwise you might not buy anything. It stops, looks at Anslenot. "Oh, another story coming on: WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION FOUND. WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION NOT FOUND. PRESIDENT GOES TO WAR ANYWAY. Squawk." Again, the Media Bird shakes, more excrement in the tarantula’s eyes.

Oh, pretty—says the tarantula, pretty pretty pretty. Got to have, got to have—

Anslenot raps the tarantula between the eyes. You okay?

Oh, pret— The spider stops. Hypnotic. Stuff is so hypnotic. How embarrassing that I would so succumb.

"Squawk," says the Media Bird, addictive, isn’t it? It stomps its feet and looks about. "All the news that’s fit to print except for those stories that will scare away advertisers. Squawk."

How long are we going to stay here? asks the Tarantula.

Let’s go on, says Anslenot.

"Squawk," says the Media Bird. I feel another story—THREE—HEADED BABY BORN TO TEN—YEAR—OLD WITH BUTT THAT LOOKS LIKE SECRETARY OF STATE.

Anslenot shakes his head, The baby or the ten—year—old has a butt that looks like the Secretary of State?

Don’t know, says the Media Bird, but that headline sure sold lots of papers. Then it fluffs its paper feathers and looks about. Sure is bleak out here. Where you boys goin’?

Don’t know, says Anslenot.

Actually, says the spider, he does. He just chooses not to know that he actually does know. We always do.

Ain’t that the truth, says the Media Bird. "I look at all the stories that come my way but what I end up publishing and what the public gets to read—is what the media chooses to call news—squawk!" The Media Bird fluffs its feathers again. "Hot news story coming—this is going to be a three squawker—DUCKS DROWN IN LAKE; COMMUNITY HORRIFIED—Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!"

Don’t you wonder who defines the news? the spider says.

Whatever sells the papers and gets people to watch, says the Media Bird, obviously a little irritated as if the answer is so stupidly obvious that it really deserves no discussion. Pander to the lowest common denominator. You don’t want people to think. What would happen if people realized they were a lot smarter than they thought they were?

Anslenot listens but keeps looking ahead. At times he glances to the Media Bird, the sharp eyes, the cruel intelligence, the ever changing action—oriented images and words on its newspaper feathers. But most of all what he notices and deeply appreciates is that here, at last: distraction. Distraction. Lovely, lovely and haunting distraction. He closes his eyes, lulled by the banter of the tarantula and the Media Bird. Distraction. He sighs, loving the fact that he doesn’t have to think. He just closes his eyes—

Oooops!

—and when he opens them, he’s back on the chessboard, The Something moving toward him.

. . . because you refuse to know me, because you fear me, I will destroy you—

Bing! Anslenot is back. Startled, he looks around. The Media Bird eyes him cautiously. You okay? it asks.

I— begins Anslenot, I’m not—

The tarantula sighs. He knows but he doesn’t know, he says.

Huh, says the Media Bird. It stomps its feet. But not too unlike those I know. So many strange things I see. How much can you pretend you don’t know before what you don’t want to know becomes that which you have to know? It fluffs its yellowed feathers, stomps its feet and says, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Something from Fuks News Service—CLIMATE CHANGE CAUSED BY ENVIRONMENTALISTS PASSING GAS! Squawk! Oh, another one—ALLEGED PRISONER TORTURE NO WORSE THAN HIGH SCHOOL CHEERLEADING ANTICS—Squawk! Squawk!" And the Media Bird lets fly a particularly gooey discharge into the tarantula’s eyes.

Oh, my, says the tarantula halting, my, my, so, so pretty. I wonder if tarantulas are eligible for credit cards.

Anslenot shakes his head as he looks at the Media Bird which says with great pride, I even impress myself. I’m very self—impressed, actually. Looked up to as the beacon of truth.

Are you? says Anslenot. Are you the beacon of truth?

Sure, says the Media Bird, MY truth.

Pretty, pretty, pretty— mumbles the tarantula, slowly beginning to move.

Is your truth THE truth? asks Anslenot.

As far as I’m concerned it is. And as long as I don’t really air opinions that are truly different than my own, who’s the wiser? It stomps its feet, ruffles its feathers and says, Hoo. Sure is cold out here. Where did you say you folks were going?

Don’t know, says Anslenot, glancing down to the tarantula. Where are we going?

The tarantula stops. Pretty, pretty things. Such pretty— it stops speaking and after a moment says, Gotta say it would be nice having some pretty things: a Spinneret Warmer for those cold desert mornings, a BigBug brand Left Overs Heater to warm up those big half—digested meals from yesterday, Nookie Tarantula Track Shoes to get a better run on a potential mate, so many things I just suddenly need and just have to have—is there a shopping mall nearby? A Seers? A Maul Mart?

But the Media Bird sighs. No. I’ve been flying and fluttering about and we are in a desolate place indeed. Nothing to spend, nothing to buy, nowhere to purchase anything.

Anslenot taps the tarantula on the head. But where are we going?

I don’t know, says the spider. "If we aren’t going shopping, then where are we going?"

Anslenot looks closely at the Media Bird, noting just how yellow it has become.

The Media Bird becomes abruptly agitated. Headlines, it screeches, "headlines! Headlines coming! CONSUMER CONFIDENCE IN CRISIS! NOTHING WORTH BUYING! NOTHING WORTH COMSUMMING! NATION IN PANIC! PRESIDENT ASKS CABINET TO FIND AN ENEMY TO FIGHT TO BOOST CONSUMER SPENDING Squawk! Squawk!" It pauses. "Squawk? Ooops. Did I just tell the truth?"

The tarantula halts. I think you did.

"Squawk!" says the Media Bird, I couldn’t have.

I think you did, says Anslenot,

"Squawk!" says the Media Bird, No.

Uh—huh, says Anslenot.

The Media Bird snorts. It looks at Anslenot with hot, black eyes. You made me tell the truth.

How could I? says Anslenot, I just read what’s in the papers.

Did you or didn’t you tell the truth? says the tarantula, studying the Media Bird.

For just a second, the Media Bird becomes transparent. Almost as quickly, it becomes opaque and more yellow than ever before.