genessia | Complementing a Half-Truth [Video, Text, Backdated to 5/2]

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Complementing a Half-Truth [Video, Text, Backdated to 5/2]

"Hello, everyone. Thank God the Cirque du Vrai is no more, eh? First time I've been glad that the circus left town. My sympathies for those who suffered its decadent airs. To my chagrin I was silly enough to go, and, thanks to the terrible charities of a dear and faithful friend, blessed enough to die to it. By now I suspect everyone knows the meaning of its name: "Circus of Truth." An odd title for something with the pretense of a masquerade. If there was truth therein, 'twas only partial, and taken solely by itself, is as destructive as a lie. The other half ought to be unveiled, and it's towards that attempt I present the following works. I hope reflecting on their wisdom will help settle your mind and mend whatever wounds were left in the carnival's wake. May whole truth, bared in love, illuminate."

1st Piece: The nature of the circus
The Devil is a gentleman and askes you down to stay
At his little place at What'sitsname (it isn't far away).
They say the sport is splendid; there is always something new,
And fairy scenes, and fearful feats that none but he can do;
He can shoot the feathered cherubs if they fly on the estate,
Or fish for Father Neptune with the mermaids for a bait;
He scaled amid the staggering stars that precipice the sky,
And blew his trumpet above heaven, and got by mastery
The starry crown of God Himself and shoved it on the shelf;
But the devil is a gentleman, and doesn't brag himself.

O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away,
And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay
At the little place in What'hitsname where folks are rich and clever;
The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse forever;
There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain,
There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain;
There is a game of April Fool that's played behind its door,
Where the fool remains forever and April comes no more,
Where the splendor of the daylight grows drearier than the dark,
And life droops like a vulture that once was such a lark:
And that is the Blue Devil, that once was the Blue Bird;
For the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn't keep his word

2nd Piece: Proper pretense
Let us take the most elementary example: as a father, I know I am an unprincipled weakling; but, at the same time, I do not want to disappoint my son, who sees in me what I am not: a person of dignity and strong principles, ready to take risks for a just cause -- so I identify with this misperception of me, and truly 'become myself' when I, in effect, start to act according to this misperception (ashamed to appear to my son as I really am, I actually accomplish heroic acts). In other words, if we are to account for symbolic identification, it is not enough to refer to the opposition between the way I appear to others and the way I really am: symbolic identification occurs when the way I appear to others becomes more important to me than the psychological reality 'beneath my social mask,' forcing me to do things I would never be able to accomplish 'from within myself.' - Zizek

Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men’s minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one would, and the like: but it would leave the minds of a number of men poor shrunken things: full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves? - Bacon

Final Piece: Do you have eyes but fail to see?
Once upon a time, a man named John was arrested in his pilgrimage by armed men, who, upon meeting him, sprang up and barred his way.

"Do you not know," they said, "that you are in the land of the Spirit of the Age?"

"I am sorry," said John, "I did not mean to trespass. I will try and find some other way beyond that country."

"You fool," said the captain, "you are in his country now. This pass is the way out of it, not the way into it. He welcomes strangers. His quarrel is with runaways." After that, a young man clapped John in fetters and dragged him towards their prison.

They went through a valley. Along the way, John observed a strange mountain, and said so.

"Oh, is that what you think it is? Plain rock?"

"What!" cried John. "Then what is it?"

John became like a terrified child and put his hands over his eyes not to see the giant; but the captain tore his hands away and forced his face round and made him see the Spirit of the Age where it sat like one of the stone giants, the size of a mountain, with its eyes shut. Then the captain opened a little door among the rocks and flung John into a pit made in the side of a hill, just opposite the giant, so that the giant could look into it through its gratings.

"He will open his eyes and look upon you soon," said the captain, before locking the door and leaving John imprisoned.

John lay in his fetters all night in the cold and stench of the dungeon. And when morning came there was a little light at the grating, and, looking round, John saw that he had many fellow prisoners, of all sexes and ages. But instead of speaking to him, they all huddled away from the light and drew as far back into the pit, away from the grating, as they could. But John thought that if he could breathe a little fresh air he would be better, and he crawled up to the grating. But as soon as he looked out and saw the giant, it crushed the heart out of him: and even as he looked, the giant began to open his eyes and John, without knowing why he did it, shrank from the grating. The giant’s eyes had this property, that whatever they looked on became transparent. Consequently, when John looked round into the dungeon, he retreated from his fellow prisoners in terror, for the place seemed to be thronged with demons. A woman was seated near him, but he did not know it was a woman, because, through the face, he saw the skull and through that the brains and the passages of the nose, and the larynx, and the saliva moving in the glands and the blood in the veins: and lower down the lungs panting like sponges, and the liver, and the intestines like a coil of snakes. And when he averted his eyes from her they fell on an old man, and this was worse for the old man had a cancer. And when John sat down and drooped his head, not to see the horrors, he saw only the working of his own inwards. Then I dreamed of all these creatures living in that hole under the giant’s eye for many days and nights. And John looked round on it all and suddenly he fell on his face and thrust his hands into his eyes and cried out, "I am in hell. There may be no heaven, but there is certainly its opposite, and I am there. I am mad, I am dead, I am in hell forever."

Every day a jailor brought the prisoners their food, and as he laid down the dishes he would say a word to them. If their meal was flesh he would remind them that they were eating corpses, or give them some account of the slaughtering: or, if it was the inwards of some beast, he would read them a lecture in anatomy and show the likeness of the mess to the same parts in themselves—which was the more easily done because the giant’s eyes were always staring into the dungeon at dinner time. Or if the meal were eggs he would recall to them that they were eating the menstruum of a verminous fowl, and crack a few jokes with the female prisoners. So he went on day by day. Then I dreamed that one day there was nothing but milk for them, and the jailor said as he put down the pipkin:

"Our relations with the cow are not delicate—as you can easily see if you imagine eating any of her other secretions."

Now John had been in the pit a shorter time than any of the others: and at these words something seemed to snap in his head and he gave a great sigh and suddenly spoke out in a loud, clear voice:

"Thank heaven! Now at last I know that you are talking nonsense."

"What do you mean?" said the jailor, wheeling round upon him.

"You are trying to pretend that unlike things are like. You are trying to make us think that milk is the same sort of thing as sweat or dung."

"And pray, what difference is there except by custom?"

"Are you a liar or only a fool, that you see no difference between that which Nature casts out as refuse and that which she stores up as food?"

"So Nature is a person, then, with purposes and consciousness," said the jailor with a sneer. "No doubt it comforts you to imagine you can believe that sort of thing;" and he turned to leave the prison with his nose in the air.

"I know nothing about that," shouted John after him. "I am talking of what happens. Milk does feed calves and dung does not."

"Look here," cried the jailor, coming back, "we have had enough of this. It is high treason and I shall bring you before the Master." Then he jerked John up by his chain and began to drag him towards the door; but John as he was being dragged, cried out to the others, "Can’t you see it’s all a cheat?’ Then the jailor struck him in the teeth so hard that his mouth was filled with blood and he became unable to speak. While he was silent, the jailor brought John outside.

When they came out into the air John blinked a little, but not much, for they were still only in a half-light under the shadow of the giant, who was very angry, with smoke coming from his mouth, so that he looked more like a volcano than an ordinary mountain. And now John gave himself up for lost, but just as the jailor had dragged him up to the giant’s feet, and had cleared his throat, and begun "The case against this prisoner—" there was a commotion and a sound of horse’s hoofs. The jailor looked round, and even the giant took his terrible eyes off John and looked round: and last of all, John himself looked round too. They saw some of the guard coming towards them leading a great black stallion, and in it was seated a figure wound in a cloak of blue which was hooded over the head and came down concealing the face.

"Another prisoner, Lord," said the leader of the guards.

Then very slowly the giant raised his great, heavy finger and pointed to the mouth of the dungeon.

"Not yet," said the hooded figure. Then suddenly it stretched out its hands with the fetters on them and made a quick movement of the wrists. There was a tinkling sound as the fragments of the broken chain fell on the rock at the horse’s feet: and the guardsmen let go the bridle and fell back, watching. Then the rider threw back the cloak and a flash of steel smote light into John’s eyes and on the giant’s face. John saw that it was a woman in the flower of her age: she was so tall that she seemed to him a Titaness, a sun-bright virgin clad in complete steel, with a sword naked in her hand. The giant bent forward in his chair and looked at her.

"Who are you?" he said.

"My name is Reason," said the virgin.

"Make out her passport quickly," said the giant in a low voice. "And let her go through our dominions and be off with all the speed she wishes."

"Not yet," said Reason. "I will ask you a riddle before I go, for a wager."

"What is the pledge?" said the giant.

"Your head," said Reason.

There was silence for a time among the mountains.

"Well," said the giant at last, "what must be, must be. Ask on."

"This is my riddle," said Reason. "What is the colour of things in dark places, of fish in the depth of the sea, or of the entrails in the body of man?"

"I cannot say," said the giant.

Reason set spurs in her stallion and leaped up on to the giant’s mossy knees and galloped up his foreleg, till she plunged her sword into his heart. Then there was a noise and a crumbling like a landslide and the huge carcass settled down: and the Spirit of the Age became what he had seemed to be at first, a sprawling hummock of rock.

[A poem, some choice quotations, and an allegorical story. A trifecta of literary pleasure! Hopefully, Ted thought, those words would do someone, somewhere good, especially as they recovered from the dark bacchanal of the circus. The last story was incomplete; he had to shorten it for the sake of relevance and attention span. The meaning of the riddle is explained, though Ted humbly thought everyone else perceptive enough to not need it. But if they do, he's always happy to reveal for those who sincerely want to know. For the right reasons, of course.]

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You could say that. I'm just relieved that the source of whatever is controlling our thoughts back there is gone. I still can't forgive myself for my own actions that night.

[What's even worst is that he will remember these embarrassing events for the rest of his life.]

By the way, I am surprised at the literature you have posted here.

"Ah, good afternoon Professor. Yes, It's a very good thing to have the spell broken and done with. Sorry you too had to contend with it, though I wouldn't hang your head or lengthen your face so much. So far I don't think any took offense by you."

[He saw Sycamore's post and, for all its contrition, none seemed wronged. Lucky him!]

Haha, what, didn't take me for a man of letters?

Yeah... But now that I experienced that strange phenomenon, I'm starting to get worried about what is it to come in this city.

[Sure, he knew the Pokemon event was somehow harmless, but after that crazy phenomenon, he is worried if there are many more phenomena that can manipulate his thoughts and feelings just like that circus.]

Well, how did you find all of these in the first place?

[The Prof. always seemed like such an upbeat guy with his French phrases and omnipresent encouragement. It reminded him of Vyers. Ted doesn't wanna see him weighed down by the woes of the world.]

"Oh, don't be! Besides, worry in and of itself, especially about an unknowable future, never helped anyone. 'What will be, will be', and all that. All one can do is stay strong and have faith, right? And, haha, keep up with weekly Pokemon bouts, of course, now that our number has grown so much.

Goodness, the same way one finds all literature I suppose. Your parents cultivate a love for a writer of X, then you find X's influences and predecessors and see if those might be worth reading, and they usually are. Before long you're caught in an endlessly interconnected web of wonderful, written works you can hardly get to the end of. Besides, I didn't want to have this carnal carnival have the last word; the moment I was free I struck out for the library and tried to recall who and what might have better things to say. Hopefully I was successful in that. After all, 'there's nothing new under the sun', and all the good things have been said before. Just a matter of finding and remembering them. But I'm sure, being a professor and everything, you're more than familiar with the joys of reading."

[He's right. He can't stay worried forever all because of that circus event. Besides like he said, he still needs to focus on his Pokemon research.

As for how Ted found it, he is surprised how he loved the literature she posted after his misadventures in the circus as well.]

You have a point. Now that you've mentioned, I never read something very interesting for a while now.

[That's looking more like it!]

"Haha, well I doubt even someone of your experience could go through Shakespeare's oeuvre so quickly. The Bard is well worth it for practically everything. The Tempest is very fine."

Really? Well, I hope you can show me more of those books when we meet again in person.

[At least the thoughts of the circus incident managed to leave from his mind for a little while as he became interested in Ted's taste in literature.]

I'll fulfill those hopes to the utmost! Oh, I almost forgot. You really ought to read The Bible; in my world, you couldn't even call yourself educated if you didn't. The King James version is liked best for its style. I'll make sure to bring that over next time we meet. Until then!

[Just can't help himself.]

[The Bible? Well, guess he can try reading that in his free time.]

Right, I'll see you soon, then.

That's a hell of a lotta readin'. Any of it say anythin' or 's it jus' a buncha words for the hell of it?

[In short: tl;dr. Namur's a great friend, ain't he?]

[He's trying oh-so hard to not laugh. He doesn't know if Namur's one of those literate pirates. He sends text messages, doesn't he?]

*Snrk* It's all about seven pages. Not so great a quantity, I think, to invoke hell. But if it were seventy it would, of course, say something. I would never use words in vain.

[He sounds about as serious as usual]

[He's totally literate. It's just a lot of work.]

Yeah... that'd take me like three days t' read. But my ears is better'n my eyes, so how 'bout y' jus' sum it up for me?

Edited 2017-05-23 00:21 (UTC)

[Good Lord! That's 2.333 pages a day! He'd never finish the Bible at that rate. His conversion can't start soon enough. The funny thing was that despite Ted's high-falootin', five-dollar words, Namur could always keep up. All without darkening a library's doorstep? Strange character.]

Hah, what, don't want me to read it to you word by word? I'm also available for bedtime stories, if you'd like.

[He's not entirely kidding with that offer. He's a little sad he has to truncate it even further and deprive Namur of its naked, poetic glory. But if it's that or nothing, he'll bite. It is Ted, however, doing the summing, so he's probably in for a good while either way.]

Well, the first speaks of...decadence as such. It's a rebuke to bestial, soulless thought: that life consists of pleasure and pain, involving only maximizing the former and minimizing the latter. The carnival, then, was a perfectly pleasurable place, yet somehow rather miserable to anyone with a healthy spirit. Gain without pain, say, contrary to the usual adage one finds in gyms. Gilded, but not golden.

The second is a complement to the carnival's--as near as I can tell--philosophy: "Let the truth out." You must've seen those posters everywhere. What it meant by that, I suppose, is that the "truth" of someone can best be seen when they're largely alone and unknown, given as much license as they like.

That's half right. What a man does when he's free from consequence says a lot about him. The old "who are you when no one's looking" thing. But there are two things wrong with that, in and of itself.

The first is that that environment is wholly unnatural and, practically, speaking, impossible. That simply isn't what life is. Consequence, in one way or another, tarries one all one's life. Subtraction of that element is practically a negation of personality; hardly a revelation. It also says something about one concerning what they do when people are looking; not everything done with an audience is deception.

The second is that it ignores something. To put it simply, souls are co-created. It is not solely within oneself that one forms identity. God forbid, even if it was, it wouldn't be worth having. It is not a narcissistic personality apart from society that is true, rather, it is the one formed by our surroundings that's true. What people expect of us, the roles we take on in our families, etc., those are what define and ennoble us. Identity is so much more relational than it is individual; that's what the carnival left out. Strip a man of his social context, and what you have is a very sorry thing.

As an aside, I think that's why some people perish here. To be uprooted is so much more damaging than mere relocation. Personality stripped of place reels from such a blow. Some, perhaps, never really recover. My own world had that problem; deracination, I mean. So many went from place to place and quite lost themselves. One simply can't change community like outfits without adverse consequences.

The third work is an allegory that builds upon the second. It's a story of a man being tortured by being forced to look at other men's innards without rest. Naturally, the sight shocked him not a little, and his tormentors made sure to taunt him saying that he was "really seeing" someone for what they were. So it would have gone if Reason hadn't had her way.

She freed him by instructing him that what he saw was a lie. He was shown something that wasn't, but would be if the whole world was other than it is. Much like the circus. But in reality, it simply isn't the case. To see someone reduced to their barest and basest level is hardly seeing them at all. Likewise, seeing someone by their organs is looking upon a lie; looking at death, in fact, for seeing organs in reality would be seeing someone on the brink of death. Of course death is ugly. But the man being tormented was being made to believe that life is ugly, much like the pitiable carnival-goers were subtly being persuaded that that was all they really were.

Much as I'd like to say that the carnival was, like the Devil, lying from start to finish, truth compels otherwise. As I said, it was a half-truth. Maybe a quarter, but if there's anything to take from it, it's humility. There's some good in remembering what one would be like if our most basest impulses were given free reign. But there's more good in remembering how some sort of reign is necessary for anything worthwhile to flourish.

Edited 2017-05-23 05:14 (UTC)

Lord a the Sea, ain't never gonna stop regrettin' passin' my dictionary off on Fi so long as yer 'round, am I? A'ight. Think I got it. Most a it. Think for once yer makin' a lotta sense underneath them fancyass words. But I don't think 's always a bad thing t' move 'round. Sometimes y' ain't right for where y' was, an' it ain't 'til after y' sailed a few seas that y' find yer place an' the people t' be 'round that's gonna take yer broken circus shit an' still see someone worth shorin' up and helpin' t' get stronger.

Pffha, what do you mean 'for once'? Surest sooth spills from my lips unceasingly. There's something in that, surely. To be honest I can't quite trust people who feel too at home, wherever they are. Every honest person, I think, would admit to feeling some yearning for a place they know not where; a vagabond, at heart, made for a place they hardly know.

Though I suspect your generality is far more personal. Something to do with White Beard, eh? Did you actually come from a circus or were you being metaphorical?

[He could see it.]

Well a whole gam a us jus' come from a damn circus an' from the looks a things I'm 'bout the only one that ain't got no regrets, sheheheheh! But y's sayin' the circus shit was somethin' true but not totally true, an' that can happen t' anybody anytime. Sometimes that asshole that's runnin' 'round causin' all kinds a problems ain't jus' some asshole that makes problems. Sometimes they got problems an' that's why they make 'em for other folk, y' know? So I's talkin' 'bout all that half truth shit people's all torn up 'bout, mostly cuz they're worried other folk's gonna know who they was an' see less in 'em cuz a it.

[Ted looks thoughtful as he replays what he's just heard a few times until he gets it.]

Aha, well, usually troublemakers have some reasoning beyond coprophilia, yes. Though, then again, this world isn't short on those who ruin for ruin's sake.

If you'll pardon a change from the universal to the particular, I was referring to your own experiences with sailing and globetrotting. I figure your own family was grown largely by adoption; was that how you first lost home, then?

Edited 2017-06-04 00:14 (UTC)

Got it right an' wrong all in one. They ain't the reason I left the District, but they sure as hell brought me in an' gave me a place t' stay, catch me? Most a us was like that. Nowhere t' go, no one t' turn t', 'til Pops stepped in an' gave us shelter, brothers an' friends t' shore us up, 'til 'ventually, we's strong 'nuff t' weather our own storms, an' do the same for those that come after us.

Pfha, "The District"? Surely home had a more natural name than that. So, something drove you out, then? The origin of a fishman must be very exotic. Was it a place of mermaids who decorate with corals and clamshells?

Fishman Island's like that, yeah. Fishman District's like. Jus' outside a that. Used t' be an orphanage but it got shut down years 'go. Ain't stopped people takin' their spawn they don't want an' droppin' 'em off, though. 'S why my Ma's always got a brat or two hangin' off her skirts even though she got more careful after spawnin' me. Folk that can's always tryna get outta the District t' go live on the Island proper, an' a lotta the folk that stays is there cuz the law ain't, if y' catch my drift.

[Ted paused, deep in tought. There's a lot to unpack there, funniest of all being the incredibly uninspired name. It's just so absurd. It sounded like naming America "Scorned Englishman Land" instead.]

Haha, I feel like you're pulling my leg. Did the fishmen themselves pick that name? Were there simply not very many of them, and thus, wherever they were was the one and only, needing no distinction?

[He still thought "Namur", as a name, a little silly, or at least irresponsible for his mother never telling him what it meant. Speaking of that mother, he has questions there too. Did she live in the District or callously leave him there like so many others? Was he a literal bastard?]

Huh...so, did your mother look after the children of others, then?
[He really hopes so, since the alternative isn't pleasant. He's certainly not going to use the word "spawn"; the acoustics are ghastly, for one.]

At any rate, I'm sorry to hear that. It sounds rough. [Not that Namur looks especially upset about his childhood. It almost made Ted laugh to consider Namur would ever be sad about...anything, really. He wonders if tear ducts are a strictly terrestrial feature. It sounded like an unanswerable riddle: if a fishman weeps underwater, can anyone tell?]

What about "Pa", then?

[If Ted had mildly more tact he wouldn't have asked, since by the sound of it he was not in the picture. Oh well; nothing ventured!]

There's jus' the one island, yeah. Ain't real safe for my kind on the surface so there ain't a hell of a lotta us that lives in the sun. There's a tree in Mariejoa called the Eve tree, an' 's got clear roots that bring sunlight down t' the deep. So in that one spot where there's light, that's where our ancestors made their homes, right in the middle a the vearth. Then they made the orphanage out in the dark beyond that, an' that's where the District is. Most folk on the surface ain't got any idea we got differnt cities an' towns an' shit, an' Fishman Island itself's kinda like a fairy tale t' 'em.

[But hey, at least they've got an island to live on, rather than their population being confined to the back of an elephant!]

Yeah, she hated livin' in the streets so she worked hard t' get herself a place t' shelter in an' always let the pups take shelter there, too. Still had t' go out an' scavenge for food but at least they weren't sleepin' in the gutter. Whitebeard's the only man I'll accept callin' me his son. Whoever's blood I got in my veins obviously didn't want nothin' else t' do with me or my Ma so he ain't important. Used t' think he was, but I got someone better.

[Namur shrugs, happily.]

The Eve tree! How wonderful.

[Phew, he was beginning to think Namur's maritime world was completely alien to his own. No points for guessing why Eve would be so significant to him.

However, Namur's mind is still estranged, as evidenced by Ted's thoughtful, slight frown. Ted can't quite imagine not caring one whit about one's father, however worthy a symbolic substitute. He's read about cases on Earth like that; some criminal's father would be brought into court to prove how terrible an upbringing the defendant had, and thus exonerate. What a shock, then, to read how utterly unemotional such reunions were.

Thinking about it further, he shudders. His own religion put forth that the relation between father and son was by far the most central. The whole universe, in other words, hinges on fatherhood. The attainment of it is the best thing, and the absence of it is the worst.

What ripe hunting grounds Whitebeard had, then. It must've been so easy. Every man--even a fishman, he supposes--yearns for some things. Adventure. A sense of purpose and belonging, especially to something greater than yourself. A father most of all. And Whitebeard could offer every part. Who would refuse him? What did they have to lose? Is it any wonder he could inspire such enduring devotion, even from beyond the grave? Indeed, who would want it more than the denizens of a lawless orphanage? It seemed almost predatory.

In a way, that almost makes Ted hate him. He's a usurper. That need, that hole in the soul, was meant exclusively for one's true Father. How dare he use that for his own earthly gratification, however noble. He may as well have damned every single one of his "sons" to hell!

But he can't do anything with that. For one, hating a person as a person is wrong, full stop. For another, he has to acknowledge that if it weren't for Whitebeard, there probably wouldn't be a Namur to speak of.

He's left with an inarticulate and familiar frustration. Ted remembers what this is like: the argument about the auction. The point he tried to make there was the value of accidents; the meaning inherent in the random hand one's dealt. But Magicians don't care for that; they willed things. They wanted to choose and direct. Why wouldn't he love Whitebeard, the superior synthetic, over his own father, the forgettable accident?

But then, was it all that synthetic? He doesn't know why, but despite the gloomier feelings, he wants to keep going.]

"I know we've touched on this before but...call me stubborn. How were you recruited, exactly? It's ha, hard to imagine your mother approving of piracy. Then again, she doesn't sound quite usual."

Edited 2017-06-08 01:42 (UTC)

Ma didn't know. Figured I's dead cuz I gone out one day like normal an' never come back. Some people started comin' 'round botherin' her 'bout me, an' then one day they stopped too, so I guess she figured they'd found me an' finished whatever business they had with me, y' know?

But I's up on the surface jus' tryna get by an' not get throwed in a shitty jail jus' for lookin' wrong. Causin' a bit a shit, too, I admit, sheheheheh! Anyway, guess I picked the wrong bar t' make my stand in, cuz after a few months one a the Ol' Man's Commanders, guessin' he was a friend a the owner's, rolled in an' scooped me up an' whisked me 'way. Thought for sure they's gonna sell me or some shit so I fought 'em hard when I woke up, an' wound up poppin' the Ol' Man hisself right in the sniffer. Everbody freezes, right? An' I'm thinkin' I'm dead for sure, right then an' there. An' then, blood runnin' all down his face an' stainin' his mustache a nasty red, he starts laughin' his ass off. Said he liked my spirit an' offered t' call me his son on the spot. Couple months later, I took him up on it.

'S the short version, anyway.

[Ted laughs piteously. Not that that wasn't a funny story; it was. Relatable, too. Decking Whitebeard so hard his beard turned from the white he isn't is a feat worth imitating. What dampened the humor was placing the comedy right after a tragedy. Ted couldn't help but inquire after the latter.]

She thought you were dead? Did she, er, ever find out what really happened to you? Did you write letters or use those...where were they called...den den mushis?

Well obviously, otherwise how'd I know she'd writ me off as belly upped? Went back a few years after Pops took me in. Had a smidge a unfinished business, after all. But I got shit squared up an' then went t' go 'pologize for makin' her sad all them years. After that, yeah, we'd call each other all the damn time, sheheheheh!

Oh thank God!

[He breathed with profound relief. That was shaping up to be a much darker story than he anticipated. Now he can put away the fainting couch for another day.]

Heh, how relieving it is to discover the mother's boy in you. Perhaps not all pirates should be hanged on sight.

Oh, y' think so, huh? Damn. There's one for the journals. Dear Shitty Diary, yer never gonna guess what I heard Ted say t'day! Sheheheheh!

Seriously, man. The hell y' got 'gainst pirates, anyway?

Ah, and a diary, too! What a surprisingly sensitive life you lead.

Pffha, against them? Why, pray tell, would any civilized person be for them? What good do they do that is both good and piratical? My own world knew them simply as brigands who preferred channels to mountain passes. Suppose one compliment they've earned is their enduring skill in dance. They alone popularized the "hempen jig."

Though perhaps your own world, whose name I've never heard, had a different definition.

Edited 2017-06-19 20:33 (UTC)

Other world I's on, 'stead a these fancyass phone things we all had t' write or talk in a magic book. An' then we could write on other peoples' journal entries an' shit. An' if y' wrote 'em out that they's private, they'd send t' jus' certain people. Draw pictures for people'n shit like that, too. Sheheheheh! Crazy shit.

Anyway I'unno if my world's got a name. Didn't think much a it at the time cuz I didn't know there was other'ns out there, y' know? So it might, but y'd hafta ask someone that thought 'bout that kinda shit 'fore they left. Usually though if someone recognizes an ocean called the Grand Line, they're from my world.

Plenty a places is for pirates where I'm from. Not all a 'em, lotta pirates is like y' say. But some do important shit like protectin' an island that the dumbass World Government won't. Like mine. Back when I's born, pirates was runnin' wild all over the place, kidnappin' folk t' take the surface t' sell an' stealin' supplies an' shit. Only way t' cross the Red Line without goin' through Mariejoa's headin' down through Fishman Island, so y' can guess which folk went which way. Anyway, Fishman Island's part a the World Government an' it shoulda been easy for the Marines t' get their asses down there t' get shit under control, considerin' 's right there next t' the capitol an' the Marine's Headquarters. But World Nobles an' Celestial Dragons is the ones doin' most a the buyin' when it comes t' slaves, so they didn't want the pirates t' stop raidin' everythin' ever, so even though ol' Neptune asked for help defendin' the Island, Marines never came. So the Ol' Man stepped in. Guess he made friends with Neptune on one a his trips through the Island an' decided t' help out. Planted his flag in the port an' told all the pirates there t' pass it 'round that Fishman Island was his, an' if someone came down pullin' whaleshit an' he heard 'bout it, they'd have the Whitebeard Pirates huntin' 'em in the New World. This was... shit. Twenty five, thirty years 'go now? Somethin' like that. Didn't change shit much in the District, a course, but the Island proper cleaned itself up pretty damn quick. Mean, weren't a hunnerd percent effective, but Pops was terrifyin' an' most folk like the thought a livin', so they'd behave. Maybe cause a ruckus now an' then but the Ammo Knights could take care a that, catch me? Know Big Mom was doin' the same kinda shit- plantin' her flag on islands she liked that needed her protection, an' Shanks an' Kaidou done the same. 'S why they started callin' 'em Emperors. Ain't like they's goin' 'round makin' laws an' shit but damn they could make more selfish folk think twice 'bout gettin' too wild. An' there's folk like Li'l Bro- uh. Strawhat. Luffy. Ace's li'l brother. He's here not long 'go. Anyway, heard some a the shit he's done. Basically, goes 'round helpin' folk an' it pisses off the Marines cuz they're either in on it or can't an' it makes 'em look weak, sheheheheh! So cuz the Marines is pissed, they put a bounty on 'im, spin shit in the worst way t' make 'im sound like he's a horrible person, an' let it go at that. Hell, they call Jimbei a pirate, an' if that guy ever broke a damn law in his life I'll eat my own shit. But he's a fishman, see, an' he lives on a ship on the surface an' he ain't too keen on goin' t' jail for lookin' like a whaleshark, so he's a criminal.

[Namur waves his hands in an overdramatic shrug. What can he say? It seems pretty wrong, to him.]

[Ted wears a charmed smile as he listens to Namur's discursiveness. Partly because Namur has a funny voice and, boy, is it getting a workout. But mostly because he loves it when people have something to say. He takes as well as he gives when it comes to words, and despite the flood of strange proper nouns, manages to keep up.]

"Huh! So this Red Line was very desirable to cross, and this Mariejoa very undesirable, then? And I take it the World Nobles and Celestial Dragons are much allied with the World Government, too. I wonder why the District didn't get much attention from Pops--er, Whitebeard. Seems like it could've used the help. Hoping for a trickle-down effect, perhaps?

Haha, no I don't quite catch you. The Ammo Knights? That's too fancy a name to think of anything as mundane as mere police.

Goodness, one could be criminalized simply for looking like a sinister fishman? What on earth did they do to earn that sort of reputation?

Well, all this raises an extremely interesting question: what on earth did "pirate" mean, then? By your account it almost seems like the Marines invented it out of whole cloth. But that can't be right; at the very least it comes from a Greek root meaning "to attack", so violence must be part and parcel of the thing. Was it simply a black brush the World Government painted with chauvinistic zeal? And if it was, why on earth would people accept it so readily? Hah, too much trouble? The term "sailor" might've done.

Still, I'm glad Whitebeard was one of the whiter pirates. That was the business he got up to, then? A sort of marine Robin Hood? Defending the weak when the powerful would rather not?

Goodness, I'd like to meet this Jinbei. Seeing a fishman with love of law would be a pleasant shock.

Oh. Hang on a sec.

[Give him a second, he has to repeat that last little bit and write down a list of things to explain.]

A'ight, so. Mariejoa's the capitol. 'S where the Celestial Dragons live, an' a lotta the World Nobles, so there's a shitload a Marines there, too. Don't y' put a shitload a bodyguards an' soldiers 'round yer kings in yer world? Well, that's what they are. The kings a the world, an' the Marines is their guard dogs. 'S why even though they talk a lotta shit 'bout justice, it ain't what they live. Cuz their masters don't give a shit an' they gotta do what the rich bastards say. 'S also how a lotta 'em become pirates theirselves, if they really mean the shit they're spoutin'. There's justice like what Smoker talks 'bout sometimes, an' then there's Absolute Justice, which is what a Marine's gotta worship. An' Absolute Justice is decided by the Celestial Dragons, that go 'round tellin' folk they're gods, so whatever they say goes, an' the Marines back 'em up or get turned int' pirates for defyin' 'em.

District didn't get much attention cuz nobody pays much attention t' the District. Hell I'd be surprised if Pops even knew it existed 'fore he met me. When yer caught up dreamin' 'bout the girls in Mermaid Cove an' takin' lunch in the Ryuugu Palace, y' ain't 'zactly thinkin' shit, I wonder if they got a secret place no one talks 'bout where they dump off all the babies no one wants t' admit they ever had, y' know? Also the District ain't in a bubble like the rest a Fishman Island, so them that's got a Devil's Fruit Ability can't 'zactly go there. The sea's jealous a 'em, so if they get covered in water more'n like in a shower or somethin', they get paralyzed an' drown. Ammo Knights is King Neptune's soldiers. An' hell if I know why 's a damn crime t' be a fishman on the surface. Probly jus' assume every fishman or mermaid on the surface is an escaped slave.

Pirates from other worlds keep tryna tell us we ain't real pirates, too, cuz we don't fit in their smelly li'l box, so whatever. Seems like their problem more'n ours. We know who we are.

An'... shit man. Wish y' could meet Jimbei too, cuz it'd mean he's here an' it'd be good t' see his snaily face 'gain, sheheheheh!

[It just keeps going; the answers lead to more questions! A fractal conversation. Just what Ted would like. He continues to nod and "mm" along.]

Good Lord! Kings of the world? That's incredible. So their tyranny extends that far? Damned despots; hopefully some righteous bolt of indignation knocks them off that false throne soon. And poor Smoker; forgot to say that he, heh, alone constitutes another injustice of pirates; I'd be surprised if piracy didn't drive him into smoking, and such excessive smoking at that. Then again, his unusually prophetic parents did bestow the name; perhaps he was destined to breathe that fetid air.

That certainly explains how "pirate" could be so broad; if it simply means "whom Marines despise", and the Marines themselves aren't quite as moral or efficient as they ought to be, it's a small wonder how so many could fit under that umbrella.

Oh, so the District is underwater, right? And those who...hold on. "Devil Fruit"? I vaguely recall Smoker mentioning something like that. So your band had these and couldn't go for that reason? The, um...jealousy of the sea?

Hah, well if other pirates hate you, you must've been doing something right. You mentioned Whitebeard liked to, in addition to poaching talent, claim territories and put them under his protection; presumably those the government neglected. What else did his increasingly particular parade of pirates get up to?

Yeah, Smoker's a Logia type, so he's literally made a smoke. Ain't breathin' that shit, he is that shit. Yer breathin' him when yer sniffin' his smoke, jus' think on that for a bit, huh? Sheheheh!

Whaddy' mean, what else? Whatever else come up, I guess. I'unno. What sorta shit'd y' get up t' when y's at home?

"Logia" type? Hah, come on, that's a bit much. Why would he buy cigarettes if they were no different from himself? He can't be that narcissistic.

[This Devil Fruit's stuff is good info, though. Was that what Marco had? So the key was drowning him, them. Good to know.] [Ted's line of questioning was meant to suss out just how evil of a pirate Namur was. He liked everything he heard so far, but there were still lingering doubts. But then he remembered that that probably wasn't friendly. He was annoyed when Namur had doubted him along similar lines, after all. Besides, isn't it better to believe the best in people, when you can? There might be something unkind in probing for wickedness when he needn't.]

Heh, so long as Whitebeard kept a white schedule, I suppose. My own was more innocent still; reading, mostly. I think. [aka: spending time in his own little world]

Hell if I know, I ain't ate one a them things. Nothin' more pathetic'n a fishman drownin', aye?

[Seriously.]

Readin's all y' done, huh? Didn't y' have any friends good 'nuff t' go drag y' 'round with 'em? Say oi Ted y' look like a shitty ghost, come walk in the sun with us half a shake or anythin'?

Haha, that would be a little pathetic.

[He sounds faintly shier; friends weren't something widely available for him growing up. Too strange, or not enough people around. Still, Ted's worked up a decent tan. He spends a lot of time in the sun.]

"Oh, hah, not all. There was the family pet, and my parents, and my parents' social circles. Even changed houses every so often; they meant for me a, ah, liberal arts education, I suppose, and thought a variety of experiences would make a robust man. Though sometimes I wonder if they weren't simply mad about novelty. I'm touched, but my time indoors was healthily moderate. Between the two of us, I'm not the one who should be worrying about walking in darkness."

[Ah, morality humor. Endless void notwithstanding.]

Tchyeah, since yer the one with a shitload a darkness tentacles livin' in yer gut. How the hell's that all work, anyway? The creepy [he makes a hand gesture, vaguely imitating the way Ted's threads move] shit. That somethin' y' brought from home?

[Oops. Walked right into that one. With a disquieted look, he switched the feed to private]

"I don't...really understand it myself."

[True, if evasive. Much like a Devil Fruit, he has an intuitive if incomplete idea on how it works, growing over time. The "why" of it--by far the most important part in his view--eludes him, and all he has on that score are guesses. It's an unnerving topic for him, so he'll jest and deflect.]

"But, aheh, no need to disparage, now. I'm sure whatever menace you see will help frighten off any who'd accost Jolly Eddy's patrons.

Speaking of strange, black things, I could've sworn I saw something like that in our last feud. I recall trying to kick your head before your skin turned dark. Felt like striking diamond. What was that?"

Haki.

[He says it as if that explains it all. Then he blinks, remembering that people from other worlds don't know what that is.]

Means I'm such a badass, all I gotta do's decide y' ain't gonna hurt me, an' from that point on, it ain't possible.

Haha, we'll see about that!

[New goal: break through Haki and make him eat those words at least once. That settled, that raised his curiosity considerably.]

Well, you said you weren't a sorcerer so it can't be magic. There must be something more to it than simple say-so.

[Namur grins.]

Naw, that's pretty much the long an' short a it. No tricks or nothin', jus'. You.

Mean, there's a lot that goes int' wakin' it up an' shit an' learnin' how t' use it on purpose an' it ain't everbody can do that an' them that can it takes 'em years an' years. Their whole lives sometimes.

[Namur shrugs.]

Huh! So it can be used un- or subconsciously, then. How long did it take you? Can Marco or Grell or Ace or Smoker use it? If it's as unbreakable as you say, what should happen if two practitioners clashed? A stalemate?

[Sorry Namur, you brought up another otherworldly proper noun. Now you get the questions only slightly more tolerable than prison interrogation.]

Might need t' make y' submit all questions in writin', holy shit Ted.

[He's laughing as he says it, though.]

Haki's like... spirit power. So yeah, there's folk that uses it without even realizin'. Most a the time 's how y' find out y' got it woke up, but y' can train someone t' do it, too, if they's strong 'nuff an' got 'nuff determination. Took me several years t' get the hang a it, but I's doin' shit 'fore I even realized what was goin' on, 's why they even started yawpin' at me 'bout it. All them folk y' met from my world uses it.

An'... shit I forgot the last part.

[He frowns, trying to remember.]

Haha, but that would be so inconsiderate, given your feelings on reading.

Goodness, so your spirit manifests as an impenetrable blackness? I should've guessed.

Ah, well if it takes as long to work as all that, my last question was merely idle curiosity. I wondered what would happen should two of its users square off. If neither could hurt the other, what would result? They fight until fatigue?

Naw, my armor shows up like the skin of a shitty Island Whale. Watch it next time, there's a flash a light, dumbass. All haki's got some kinda light. Or... somethin' that kinda seems like light even if y' ain't lookin' at it with yer eyes. Sometimes 's more like a voice y' can see with yer... Everthin'.

[Namur rubs at the side of his head.]

Look I'm better at knockin' dumbasses 'round t' get 'em t' 'waken it. Yer gonna want book shit an' I can't tell y' that.

Oh, that's...nice. Sounds like quite the synesthesia.

[He means that, even if there is a mildly mournful air about him. He really is happy that Namur has light about him. Some people have all the luck.]

Well, I appreciate you indulging me and my bookishness. And thanks again for, ah, coming to my rescue back there. I'm in your debt.

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