Not Out* (Part 3)
(Part 3 of 3) Air conditioning, octopuses and cricket.
Fiction workshop. Original absurd, satire and humour writing. Influences include Pynchon, DeLillo, Vonnegut, Adams, and Norm Macdonald (all lovers of SEO).
Before we kick off
If you haven’t, I advise that you read Part One and Two first, available here:
For those who have, below is a brief recap of what we have learned so far:
Bruce Grey discovered that Mark Taylor, an ex-Australian cricket captain, is communicating worrying messages about Fujitsu via morse code blinking.
Makoto Matsumoto, a Fujitsu employee, outlined that Fujitsu is using air conditioners to control minds as a way to promote new Japanese Imperialism.
He also mentioned something about an octopus, which we will learn about today.
Now for the final instalment, Part Three…
Scientists have long appreciated the strange intelligence of octopuses.
Each arm of an octopus has a cluster of nerve cells that controls movement, so technically the creature has eight independent mini brains along with a larger central brain. Also, about two thirds of an octopus’s neurons are in their arms, rather than their head, meaning their intelligence works in a vastly different way to humans.
This difference led a branch of scientists at the Tako Institute in Tokyo to investigate whether octopuses possessed telepathic capabilities. They were laughed out of all the major octopus-related conferences (all three [two really, one was for ‘comic’ books]).
So, one warm Tokyo afternoon on October 8th (International Octopus Day), the Tako Institute’s founder committed seppuku in the middle of Shibuya Crossing. Too soon, it seemed, because less than a year later the institute was privatised by Japan’s Miyazawa Government and sold (price redacted) to the Fujitsu Corporation.
“Telepathic octopuses,” said Bruce. “That’s what underpins the Fujitsu Split System Mind Control Scheme (FSSMCS); that’s why Tubby can’t quit.” Bruce presented another decoded message from Mark Taylor:
Nights I cannot move, Bare octopus tentacles, Squeeze my fate and mood.
“Think about it,” he continued. “Taylor’s been with Fujitsu for 25 years now. Do you honestly think he’d still be doing that if he had a choice? Any sane person knows that doesn't make sense.
“Honestly, what’s more likely: Mark Taylor has been a willing brand ambassador for an air conditioning company for over a quarter of a century, or he’s being forced against his will by a mind-control serum forged from the cephalic veins of a blue-ringed octopus mutated in a lab in Fukushima? Not convinced? Well put this in your pipe and smoke it: octopuses don’t have eyelids.”
That night at Howzat Bar years ago, Makoto explained how Taylor was able to communicate in morse code despite the octopus’s control.
“Octopus can’t control what it does not understand,” said Makoto.
In essence, the octopus controls by mapping its consciousness onto the human brain. The mapping acts like a go/no-go switch. The octopus can’t create movement, but it can stop any action of which it does not approve. Because an octopus lacks eyelids, however, it cannot map its consciousness there. The eyelids remain free.
“Inside Taylor may be screaming, but his screams are not allowed,” explained Makoto. “He may try to run but running is not allowed. He may try to break Don Bradman's record…”
Not out* three three four, Forced to stop and not one more, Short of glory’s door.
Tears smeared the zinc on Makoto’s cheeks. When Bruce tried to hand him a tissue, Makoto waved it away in favour of a small, leather-stained towel tucked in his pants.
“This is all my fault,” he said. “I had no idea they would do this. I had no idea they make two-metre-tall octopus. Then one day they take me to the lab as a reward and I see the giant tank. They tell me the octopus name is Henry. I see octopus in tartan mesh suit and cognitive enhancement helmet. And… and I see Mark Taylor in the tank and… and I swear I thought we just sell air conditioners, please believe me, I-”
Makoto cut himself off. He scanned the bar, the joyous men in cricket whites. Not looking at Bruce, he continued. “I saw Mark Taylor make a ton at SCG in 1995. I was young. This was the best day of my life.”
In a filming break, we asked Bruce where Makoto lived now in the hopes we could interview him. Bruce laughed and repeated aloud, “Where is Makoto?”
Bruce left the camera shot. From the wall he retrieved a cricket which he had displayed like a framed fish or deer head above his workbench. The bat was stained and weathered.
“Makoto and I had organised to meet a few days after our rendezvous at the Howzat Bar. He was going to find a way to sneak me into the lab so I could see the octopus for myself and take pictures. But he never showed.
“I checked his home, checked back at Howzat’s. When I reported him missing to the police, they made me talk to this detective. I know cops and he was no cop. Anyway, I tell him the same thing I told the others and then he asks me: ‘What did Makoto tell you about the location of the octopus?’ Well, I’d never mentioned the octopus.”
Bruce rotated the bat. “About three weeks later this bat showed up in my mail. God knows how Makoto got my address.” He pointed at the blue stains on the bat’s face and edges. “You know what those stains are? That’s octopus’ blood, blokes. That’s from the skull of an octopus. You asked where Makoto is, well I figure he’s in God’s pavilion now, but at least he went out swinging.”
After that, Bruce called time on our interview. He ran his hand along the bat’s face and smiled one of those smiles that means only sadness and loss.
We tried our best to ask what he had done in the years since Makoto’s death, and what he had planned in the future to stop Fujitsu, but he waved off the topic. He did, however, offer us a beer.
We drank and chatted for a while as the crew packed away the equipment. Bruce had returned Makoto’s bat to its mantle with utmost care and was now sitting under it on the workbench, his legs dangling. In his hands, he spun an old cricket ball (a trophy from his greatest ever bowling effort - 8 for 12 in a state final). We kept one camera filming - why not?
“They said beating Bradman’s 334 not out would have been poor marketing. Tubs could have been anything - the greatest ever if those crooks didn’t stop him.”
“And what about you, Bruce?” asked our cameraman. “You were pretty handy.”
“Me?” Bruce threw his weight back into the tin shed wall and laughed. “I just wanted to play cricket. I wasn’t a pro. I couldn’t deal with the coaches, selectors, scouts, travel, team politics, the pressure…”
“Is that why you stopped?”
Bruce whipped the cricket ball so fast it made a sound, a gunshot. It seemed to spin in the air before him like a planet in orbit. His grin returned. “Who said I’ve stopped?”
After that day, Bruce went missing. Through a contact at Qantas, we were able to track down flight details for Bruce Grey: Melbourne to Tokyo. He had pre-paid for over-sized luggage, and through CCTV footage we saw it was a cricket bag.
As for our documentary, the only content left to get was a comment from Mark Taylor.
Outside the Channel 9 offices, we approached the retired cricketer. Taylor, for those who don’t know, is one of the most affable and engaging people - a true gentle man. He took photos with us, signed memorabilia, and asked about our lives like we were old friends.
It was only when we mentioned the documentary, Fujitsu and the octopus that his attitude changed. When these topics were broached, he dropped his coffee cup and fell dead silent. His eyes, however, continued to speak.
Author’s commentary
Thank you for reading Not Out* Part 3.
This was my first attempt at splitting a piece across multiple posts/weeks and given how wildly unsuccessful that proved I will likely try it again. There’s a little insight into my psyche. Hiding in the soft, warm belly of expected failure is my MO.
I’m sure many of you can relate to the following: you’ve written a satirical piece about a fake conspiracy involving Fujitsu and cricket and you find it hard pinpoint whether it was the content and/or your execution that stopped people from engaging with it. This is what the philosophers call a ‘universal experience’.
Luckily, I don’t write for literary success, I write for the women. Call me a sellout.
The highlight of writing this piece was drafting 10-20 Mark Taylor related haikus. I also enjoyed researching octopus anatomy charts (25 Great First Date Ideas #13).
In terms of what I learned or developed, I told myself to be silly, to follow my gut flora. I feel inside me (near the gut flora) a strong urge to write what others will approve, or at least to not write what others will not approve. This is a small, but impotent distinction (my high school nickname).
I believe in a kind of creative regression to the mean. You start out wild and odd yet the more you learn, the more you become similar to everyone else.
We all, in the final analysis, end up writing a touching novella about an orphaned child dealing with the trauma of abandonment while feeling like an outsider. The urge to write this novella is embedded in our DNA. Aliens argue it is something essential to the human condition: the urge to end up humourless and serious, at least when the cameras are rolling.
Important works are ‘serious’, and serious is defined by current sensibilities, so what happens is, again, a regression to a limited number of topics and expressions. But I just can’t take myself seriously; I’ve seen myself naked. I envy those who take themselves to be important and serious people, though also, I hate them a lot.
All this is to say, that the conspiracy, the Fujitsu, the Mark Taylor, the haikus, Henry from the Wiggles… it was a useful exercise to stay un-serious. It was a reminder to keep in touch with what I like and what I want to do.
Maybe a piece like this every 3-6 month might be a useful inoculation from the poisonous urge to convince you all that I am serious by writing about serious topics.
Or maybe I will just fail. If so, I look forward to failure’s soft and warm embrace.
Fiction workshop. Original absurdism, satire and humour writing. Influences include Pynchon, DeLillo, Vonnegut, Adams, and Norm Macdonald (all lovers of SEO).
Another great one. I liked the self analysis at the end. Gotta stay silly.
I found these pieces the easiest and most free flowing of yours to read so far. Really enjoyable mate.