V LEON OF BAKSHEER

Leon of Baksheer, that's what they called him. He stood by and watched the commotion under Aktamo Temple. The Bacish thrac was still lying on the ground, his head shattered, and the others were curled up above him. Who would have thought he would ever see them live, ran through Leon's mind. The Quintans ago, when he was stuffing bags of meectskeean dust, he was having sharper a meectskeean dusttacles on his nose for easier sorting, he wouldn't have thought he'd ever get to Nastreen XCaemino. He hadn't even dreamed of it. But he'd long had the feeling that something was pulling him somewhere. Even if he was just standing under a tree of maplepeak, it was nudging him toward a tree of chasemebasee. He just couldn't stand standing in one place. It wasn't that he was impatient. He could have been, but something just kept pulling him from place to place. Some kind of force or something.

He hated it. He was just subservient to whatever was pulling him and it was pissing him off. He'd rather go to a bar, not - you go fill the bags with the meectskeean dust. Fuck, who ever dreamed of this? He was swearing to himself. Even if he wanted to swear at someone else, he was out of luck. Stuffing the meectskeean dust into the bags was the most unpopular job in all of FX6FEE, and maybe all of Moushramee. And that´s a fact, that's not a fantasy.

That's why it pissed Leon off. He! Leon of Baksheer! He's stuffing the meectskeean dust into the bags. Oh, fuck me! But nothing helped, not even cursing. So he eventually gave up. He became something of a peaceful warrior, except he wasn't peaceful at all, just patiently quiet. He watched patiently as something erased his plans and outlined its own.

If he'd ever wanted anything, he'd make it true it to his fifties. And from fifty onwards, it was - sorry dude. So you've played enough, boy, and now you're gonna play our game. You're gonna do what we say. Game's over. That's how Baksh felt. Yeah, he was called Baksh, among the people. Leon was all he had left for himself. No one called him that anymore. There was no one who knew him as Leon. Everybody thought it was awfully strange and suspicious, so they always ended up calling him Baksh. You'll be Baksh. He didn't even have that name left. But whatever, as long as he remembers it, he knows who he is. With a self-denial, he let everyone call him whatever they wanted.

After a while, he even forgot that his name was Leon. Only in the Melusinian fever did he whisper his name, but that was all. So Leon was gone. And only Baksh was left. And Baksh could have been anybody. I guess they wanted it that way. They probably wanted him to give up his name. Why else couldn't he have the name he wanted? But what name? What am I even thinking. And so, as time went on, there was less and less of Leon and more of Baksh, and after a few quintans in NastreenXCaemino there was no memory of Leon or anything that could fit in a wrinkle. They were already moving him around like a chessboard. All of him had to disappear and he had to make himself available. His whole being was subordinated to what moved him. But when I say submitted, it's almost as if it were an act of free will, which it wasn't exactly. Something was forcing him to do it, and he submitted because it wasn't to possible to the force - I guess that's what it was - or more - not - the - force - ...

That's just the way it is. Like a bad disease. It tied Baksh's tongue. What's your name? Baksh. What are you doing here? Baksh. To consent, to goodbye. Baksh. An invisible force was putting him in all sorts of situations to play his part, and also making sure that he didn't give anything away or say anything extra. But his eyes remained. |The eyes that knew. The eyes that, if they could, would tell everything. And even so, the eyes were clouded.

Not that Baksh had lost his eyes completely, but he couldn't see into everything. Sometimes he saw double, sometimes with one eye in the distance, the other up to close, so he couldn't focus on what was in front of him. And so it came to pass that he came to Aktamo Temple. But they knew very well that it must not be suspicious. They let him pull a cart around, slamming around, messing around, living in a sewer, stinking, pissing and stenching for maybe six months.

He must have become something of an inventory of the place. He had to fit in. And why is that? Well, to make it clear that he killed NamastFinger. Baksh jerked! No! Don't make him a murderer! It happened to him often, he saw what was coming, why he was where he was. He knew what they wanted him to do, but even this was too much for him. Why would he kill someone? Plus, NamastFinger, which sounds like a pretty cool name for a fican citizen? So there's no way in hell I'm gonna --- uh... uh... Baksh... Baksh...

I Baksh... Yeah, I'm... I'll do it. He was sitting on the ground with a broken arm. There was one long slimespit coming out of his eye, drying, and then it broke off. Baksh was in apathy. When he came to senses, he straightened his arm, attached a bugle to it, tied it, and then exhaled, whereupon he lay down on a cardboard and fell asleep.

One would like to say that such a fate is to be regretted. Isn't it? But if one knew what OTHER fate awaited him, surely everyone would wish that he could choose the one that was destined - and assigned - to him. So no worries. The Ficanian Justice has long fingers. And so do The Ficanian Psychics. They knew perfectly well why the Bacish thracs were coming to Aktamo Temple. They knew all too well what power was coalescing at its summit from the dimension of Moshquenseer, and they knew what power Moushramee was gathering to protect itself. By that time, few people had their own will.

Only the last vestiges of citizens thought they still had any. But if anyone still had one, it was ArtFork, but he didn't know it for a change. But why did NamastFinger have to die? What did she do to who? Why her? And why should Baksh be the one to kill her? Lots of questions, and I'm sure there are answers. Yes, there are.

To all those questions. A STARTING POINT. The starting point is the answer to every one of those questions. So on the maefee that NamastFinger found herself outside Aktamo temple, Baksh was already there. And when NamastFinger fell to the ground, Baksh shouted the name: „ArtFooork!“ And people were turning around to see where - where ArtFork was.

"He killed her!" shouted Baksh. There was panic. One ran to the other, nobody knew what to do. Whether to let someone know, whether to hide, or what. And Baksh just sat down and leaned his back against the cart with the cardboards and took a deep breath. It wasn't the first time he'd had words put in his mouth that he didn't understand. Names he didn't know.

First the subickers appeared on the spot, secured the area, and after them, of course, the hokenshires. But nobody paid any attention to Baksh's shit. The plan worked. Cewl, huh? But after a while it became clear that ArtFork was the killer of NamastFinger. The word got out fast. After all, the rail of thoughtsloids worked well.

It was moving faster than Kavantarian anthrax. ArtFork packed up his Mexe and Tre in a ultrathin fleecer when the idea came to him again. It hadn't stopped yet. The Ficanian Justice has long fingers. The Ficanian Psychics know a lot. Then why did both of them involve ArtFork in this damn game? ArtFork knew nothing - nothing about tMoushramee's higher power plan to save the galaxy. He didn't even know anything about the fact that he himself still had something like free will, but that he had to - unconditionally - go to island. And if NamastFinger had lived - he would never have left FX6FEE and the city of Nastreenfaat1589 XCaemino. That's why NamastFinger had to die.

But who killed her? ArtFork wondered. He must find the answer. And something tells him that island is where he will find his answer. Sometimes we find the answer in unlikely places.