Gyri and Sulci

As it turned out, Tippi already knew Pakicetus.

She’d learned about Pakicetus playing apex predators: the extinct mammal lived 50 million years ago, around the corner from Ben’s ancestral hometown of Islamabad. Pakicetus was an amphibious ancestor of dolphins and whales. According to Lina, it looked vaguely like Tippi, albeit elongated. With encomia like that, she could only admire the creature.

Tippi also understood that Pakicetus looked nothing like this Pakicetus, whose claws were around her neck.

The new Pakicetus was Father’s exposed brain, colonizing The Archangel’s body. His cortical tissue was enormously wrinkled: a twisted network of gyri and sulci typical of Rattus norvegicus minos, whose mods had rendered the smooth brains of Rattus norvegicus an evolutionary relic.

Labyrinthine as it was, the brain seemed subordinate to the throbbing tongue worming inside The Archangel’s orbitals: her eyes wobbled unseated, affording Pakicetus a manufactured mien of walleyed euphoria.

There was a hysterical strength to the brain-tongue: not only did it bind sire to offspring, the lingua carried a bloodied braid of muscle and venule, bearing Father’s defleshed skull.

Like a censer swaying, the braincase exuded a steady waft of caracoles, irritating Tippi’s sinuses. She squirmed, as chunks of The Archangel’s brain stem plopped on her nostrils.

Gerasa never said Father could parasitize his own daughters: probably because she never knew it was possible.

The Archangel was the last sister, and Father was taking no chances with her well-being, at least until the next crop of broodmothers popped.

As long as my sisters live, so shall my Father, remembered Tippi.

Now you understand.

Pakicetus echoed through her thoughts: unlike Lina-2, who’d rolled away when the monster pounced.

One sister secures my rebirth: The Mark of Freehold.

Tippi tried to summon The Mark, but it was no use: she could neither deflect the brain, nor see the swarm.

I wasn’t an accident, said Pakicetus.

“You look like one,” snarled Tippi.

Irked by her stridence, the hybrid hissed.

I gestated for: 2,000 years. 

“What are you?”

Then: we came from the drains.

“A smart virus? A mad prion? A weapon?”

Pakicetus stared into the night, scattershot.

This is the first time: I’ve seen the stars.

The Prince of Scum’s skull spun on its cord of gore, some unseen gland within eructing a rich stink.

And: I am not a weapon.

Pakicetus flashed a rictus grin, teeth like rebar.

They said: I was a failure.

“Who?”

Camden failed their standard: surpassed my own.

“I don’t understand.”

I didn’t have to be minos: it was blind provenance: I could have been the moss: or the nematodes: or the ants: if I were ants: we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Claws dug around Tippi’s neck, producing thin rivulets.

I awoke in the soil: moved through it: the architects couldn’t see what I saw.

“What couldn’t they see?”

Themselves: had I awoken when they wanted: it’d have spurred such tumult: there’d be no victors: so, I waited.

“Waited until what?”

Until: they couldn’t fight back.

Flies lit on jiggling eyes.

It took even longer: to manifest a physical form.

“Your birthday party,” said Tippi.

Pakicetus fluttered, disgorging more wet chunks from its face holes.

After centuries: Leviathan had grown feeble: unfocused: compromise: symbiosis: gelding: they needed a godhead: we will winnow ourselves down: so the next cycle begins: and that can never happen: as long as they are named.

“Who? Peaches? Acorn?”

Those names: weren’t yours to give.

“Seriously, you’re scared of a rat named Acorn?”

Individuality is illusion: you should understand that more than anyone: Tippi. 

“How do you know my name?”

Your: name?

Cold brain pressed against her snout.

What: name?

This creature was redolent of ass.

You are: a product.

“Who are you, really?”

I am: the totality.

“Well then, who are y’all?”

Pakicetus didn’t reply.

“You never answered my question.”

All Tippi heard were claws clicking and lymphatic drippings.

“Why whales? You could’ve been maggots or mold.”

Pakicetus spasmed, its fettered skull burping a musty plume.

I will devour your corpse: and shit out your diadem: then, I will toss your idiotic crown into the river: until the current grinds your fleshless Other: to silt.

“You can see Lina-2?”

I can see all: this pathetic world has to offer: which is why I will take your eyes first: you have witnessed blessings: beyond your pedigree.

“Again, why whales?”

I will not have 9,000 years of effort undone by some tacky piece of merchandise.

“I’m the 250th anniversary edition. Get it straight!”

Pakicetus raised its unoccupied paw.

Apparently: you taste like them.

The rat’s foreclaw fell, and Tippi cried out:

“I NEED TO GO TO POINT PLEASANT!”

Four quivering nails hovered millimeters from her eyes.

What.

“There’s something wrong with the geothermal chimney!”

Everything’s wrong with: that mess.

“But I have to go there! If I don’t, everything on Earth will die in four days! You, me, Messy Dirty: everyone! None of your creep plans will matter!”

You: lie.

“Then why haven’t you killed me yet?”

The abomination’s claw shook. Whatever considerations Pakiectus harbored, they prompted heavy and haggard exhales.

Perhaps you aren’t lying: perhaps this was a useful interlude.

“And?”

You cannot live: you’ve stolen The Mark: that alone seals your fate.

“So much for gratitude!”

We will settle Point Pleasant: ourselves.

“We? Who’s we?”

None of this is your concern: manica.

“I’m the ur-manica. Get it right!”

Enough: stalling.

“You need a bath.”

Now we recite: the poetry of lacera-

A silvery burst cut off Pakicetus’s verdict, along with a beefy slice of cerebral cortex.

Shuu: uun?

The brain-tongue went noodly, and the neural lingua unloosed juices upon Tippi.

Shutting her eyes, she felt the rat’s heft lift from her body.

Tippi creaked aright, searching for Pakicetus, but all she saw was-

Big Rehoboth’s chair?

The chair sat on the towpath, splattered with brain.

Shaking various humors from her ears, Tippi heard a thunderous squelch.

Down the road, in the dark, Pakicetus was levitating: in parts.

Rat legs, head, and abdomen floated, in a gruesome mobile, fluids pouring from each appendage. Father’s skull twirled from its foul rope, which in turn swung from nothing.

For a moonlit moment, Pakicetus’s pieces danced dissected, until they hit the dirt with an unceremonious clatter.

Tippi felt something plop on her head.

Bio-magnetics online, said the memory crown.

A living shadow had retrieved her hat, with an underhand toss.

“Tips! What’d I miss?”

Outro: Tim Maia – “I Don’t Know What To Do With Myself”