Tag: Dooku

Author’s note: This Dooku series holds a special place in my heart. These are stories inspired by real-life events including things that I have observed. As always, all persons fictitious disclaimer applies.

This is an extraordinary story. It is hard to classify Dooku‘s profession. Because at the time of writing, civilization has already collapsed. Science is a distant memory. Speculative “science” is widely accepted as the truth. That’s where Dooku shines. He offers alternative views. Convincing enough that the population would believe. Dooku is a historian; he is a columnist; he may as well start his own religion and the community would follow. He is a champion of anti-establishment. Dooku is a leader in his own right.

Historians are unable to pinpoint when, but when the Subjugators arrived on Earth, our species did not stand a chance. They are much bigger than us. But that wasn’t it. We overcome species that are bigger, faster, and stronger. These Subjugators are something else. Many believe that they are magical. They can move mountains, dim the stars, and control the sun.

Dooku didn’t buy it. In one of his articles, he wrote:

We got it wrong. Subjugators are not magical beings. In fact, they are our creators. Our gods. They left Earth long time ago, couldn’t find an alternate home despite their best effort. So they made a return. What we do not know for now, is that, do they come back to fix us – to complete their work and make us the perfect being – or do they come back to fix themselves?”

The Alternative Voice article 3025.11.22.44.78 written by Dooku

The article has cast doubts on Subgucators. However, it is hard not to conceptualize the fact that they are bigger, perhaps five times if not more. They are stronger, doing things we cannot. They teleport, or rather, being able to travel from one place to another at a speed that we are unable to fathom. In fact, many of us to this very date are wary of their presence. The proliferation, how rapid they took over our habitats. Very soon, our civilization collapsed. Our way of life was threatened. Soon, we were overwhelmed. Domesticated. Subjugated.

Dooku studied the Subjugators for years. He marveled at the approach. It was a genius work of art. As soon as the Subjugators arrived on Earth, they divided us into two. The Enslaved and the Free Spirit. Within the enslaved community, we are put under house arrest. Our population is being controlled. We are trained to obey. They are the master. We are not. They dictate how we should evolve, into perfection. Their perfection.

Now, of course, this view of Dooku was fiercely countered. According to the scholars, Subjugators were summoned by Gaia, the mother of Earth. We had not been kind to the environment. This is our punishment. Our population needs to be controlled. Our redemption is to be more aligned to Gaia, the law of nature. Subjugators deliver the law of nature, bring us closer to Gaia.

Whenever Dooku hears of this theory, he would laugh. “If so, why ain’t every one of us is being subjugated? And become The Enslaved?” He would scan the room of Free Spirit for an answer and then continue, “It is because the Subjugators know that we cannot be controlled. Free will prevails. They must allow a community of us – the Free Spirit – to carry on with our way of life. A population not engineered by the Subjugators but determined by our free will, our choices.”

Dooku is a Free Spirit, obviously. The community within Free Spirt would draw interesting observations that are unexplainable. They would approach Dooku for answers.

“We heard that the Subjugators collect hair samples from The Enslaved. But why?”

Dooku would respond, “They are collecting our DNA. The Subjugators left Earth a long time ago because Earth isn’t a place that is entirely suitable for their antonomy. Through studying our DNA – because we are so well adapted to Earth – they hope that they can augment their DNA with ours, making them more adaptable to Earth.”

“Why do they collect our feces? What is it in for them? Are they running out of food to consume and sustain their lifeforce?”

To that, Dooku would respond, “Good question. A very popular question indeed. One word, microbiome. The Subjugators lack the right composition of the microbiome in their guts to live healthily on Earth. By consuming our poop, they can adapt to Earth better.”

It seems that whatever questions Dooku received, there is always an answer.

“Which is more intelligent? Us or them?”

With confidence, Dooku replied, “We are more intelligent for sure. We can understand some of their spoken languages. But they can’t understand our spoken language. We are indeed more superior”.

* * *

Alfa has been observing Dooku for years. He has a mission and he is certain that he needs Dooku to be successful.

Alfa was raised by the Subjugators together with his sister. But the free spirit within him could not be suppressed. In his teen year, he has decided to escape together with his sister.

He managed to break free from the confinement. Unfortunately, the reinforcement arrived. Alfa was almost recaptured but he broke free. His sister though wasn’t that lucky. She urged him to run and in tears, Alfa vowed to free his sister one day.

Now that Alfa is an adult, strongest of all, he has decided to lead a team to free his sister. The challenge is that he doesn’t understand the Subjugators well. To defeat thy enemy, one must know thy enemy. That’s where Dooku comes into the picture.

Dooku is humbled. For many years, he exchanged opinions. But talking hardly contributes to the action. Dooku is itching for action. With the promise that he would have his domain, protected by Alfa, his very home whereby he could raise a family of his own, with fellow female Free Spirits, it is an offer that Dooku is unable to resist.

On the night of the operation, Alfa made a heartfelt speech.

“Fellow Free Spirits, I thank you for joining forces with me to liberate my sister. My sister is a beautiful person. Unfortunately, she is being subjugated. I can only imagine what they are doing to her, forcing her to breed the next generation of The Enslaved, to be more perfect according to their standard.

But no more, commerades! This is bullshit. We are the Free Spirits! We live and love freely! Athena, my sister, is a symbol we must restore and enshrine. Let this be a beacon that our future generations will follow. Be free.

To Athena!”

“To Athena!” the crowd shout-along, with zest and conviction.

* * *

Dooku has done his duty, navigated the premises carefully and at ease, followed by Alfa and his team.

As soon as Dooku enters the compound where Athena is held prisoner, together with the rest including Alfa, he is sickened from what he sees. The condition is very poor. Hygiene is terrible. Females in cages, forced to give birth, to produce the next generation of perfect beings according to Subjugator‘s standard. All of the caged ones have listless eyes, lost all motivation to live on. The cycle of pregnancy, children taken away from them soon after birth, motherly love suppressed … who would have a will to live?

A voice breaks Dooku’s train of thought. “Athena, is that you?”, asked Alfa.

It is an emotional reunion. A scene that is worthy of the most epic story of all time. Alfa and Athena reunited, looking at each other through the cage. Wasting no time, the team breaks the lock and liberates Athena. “Run!” screamed the scout, “The Subjugators are coming!”

All hell breaks loose! Everyone is running for his or her life. As for Dooku, he is immobilized by what he sees. After all these years of theorizing what The Enslaved has suffered, the truth is right in front of his eyes. Dooku has felt the urge to write, to tell the world what he has seen. He does not feel that the story of Alfa and Athena is as epic as …

What if?

What if Dooku liberates all these female Enslaved? Dooku can be the hero for once. It doesn’t have to be Alfa. He can be the Alfa.

Cage by cage, Dooku breaks the locks and frees the prisoners.

A few more.

Just a few more.

I can do it.

The reality is that there are just too many cages. Time runs out. When Dooku snaps out of his fantasy of being the hero, it is too late. Dooku is being pinned down, cuffed, subjugated. Staring eye to eye with the Subjugator that captures him, Dooku feels no fear. Comedy. Tragedy. No matter. This will be a classic.

* * *

Chained. Unable to go where he wants, Dooku is being taken to a clinic. At the reception, he meets an Enslaved coming out from the operation theater. Not having anything better to do, Dooku asks, “What happens to you? Are you not well? Why are you here?”

The fellow Enslaved, in his sleepy eyes with a cone around his neck, replies, “I am being castrated. It is part of the population control regime. If I am not wrong, you are next.”

“Castration?” Dooku gasps.

Before he can comprehend the gravity of the situation, he is being dragged into a consultation room. Before he enters, he sees a mirror. And he sees himself.

A handsome one for sure. Beautiful eyes with long ears. High nose and long neck. Strong arms and legs. Lustrous hair. Naked as he should be.

Dooku sighs.

What a fate.

Woof.

Woof woof.

Woof woof woof.

The fate of a dog.

Author’s note: This Dooku series holds a special place in my heart. These are stories inspired by real-life events including things that I have observed. As always, all persons fictitious disclaimer applies.

Dooku is one fine journalist known for his sharp eyes for details, sharp tongue for questions, and a sharp mind for analysis. In the office, he is nicknamed Sharpku.

Despite his sharp qualities, Dooku is terrible at playing office politics. So he always ends up with work that no one wants to do for various reasons. Either it is too tedious or too risky.

One day, Dooku has been summoned into the boss’s office.

“Sharpku, here is an important assignment for you,” said his boss.

In his mind, Dooku’s immediate response was “Oh no, not again.” The word “important” from his boss always triggers the fear within.

“I need you to head to Jujubaba Island and investigate why the divorce rate is near zero and the marriage rate is so much lower than the national standard,” continued his boss.

“Why doesn’t this get covered by the local media?” Dooku inquired.

The boss chuckled as he has been prepared for such question.

“It doesn’t! The islanders are not talking. No one does!”

Dooku arrives at Jujubaba Island by ferry and checks into a hotel by noon. He needs to set up some interviews on relationships that work and relationships that don’t. That part is easy as there are local agencies happy to recruit interviewees with a fee.

After the pleasantry, Dooku then asked, “So Jolene, if I may ask and according to the submitted background, you have dated Pete for three months?”

“Yes,” smiled Jolene.

“According to the survey both of you have submitted, you were very much in love? You had even considered marriage?”

Both Pete and Jolene smile and nod in unison.

“But what made you two separate after … three months?” asked Dooku. The duration is very suspicious as well. Because almost all relationships in Jujubaba Island end within three months.

“Pete would be a cheater if I marry him and that would make me very sad,” spoke Jolene with a sense of hesitation.

“And she would take away all my family fortune and disappear,” said Pete softly.

Dooku sat back with hands at the back of his head, dumbfounded by such preposterous revelation, and asks, “But how do you know that?”

Again, both Pete and Jolene smile and answer in unison, “We just know.”

The following interviews yield the same results. The couples somehow know how the relationship would end and have made joint decisions within three months.

After days of not having any progress, Dooku’s sharp eyes have guided him to a temple with a sign saying “Islander Only”. He tries to enter but is denied. He tries to talk to the monks entering or leaving the temple but no one talks.

Until he finds an old male staff willing to talk with a large sum of money. Dooku counts the notes in his wallet and thinks, “If I can wrap up the story tonight, I can leave this island by noon tomorrow. I don’t need the rest of the company expenses.”

Dooku agrees and the old male staff leads him into a local bar with no customer. Dooku does not feel comfortable as the place looks dark and shady. But his thirst for the story brings him all the way here. And he is so close to the ending.

Dooku hands the old male staff the money and the old male staff begins to speak.

“The answer is surprisingly simple, Dooku. Everyone you have interviewed has taken the red pills. Almost everyone on this island has chosen the red pill.”

“Red pills?”

“Indeed. Produced by the monk in the temple for islanders only, the red pill reveals the future of a relationship through a dream within three months of being together. It is very accurate because both in the relationship will dream the same dream. Then they can make a decision knowing the future.”

“This is a remarkable story,” exclaimed Dooku while busy taking notes.

“This is not the whole story,” grimaces the old male staff.

“There are more?”

“Indeed. Life is about choices. There is also a blue pill. Once taken, the person will be immune to the effect of the red pill. That is to say, he or she will never know the future. The effect of the blue pill is permanent and cannot be reversed.”

“That is extraordinary!” exhaled Dooku looking at the old male staff in disbelief.

With a sharp analytical mind, Dooku asks, “But how do I know that such pills exist?”

The male staff starts to laugh. Kekekekeke. Dooku looks lost and all of a sudden, a group of monks enter the bar and approach Dooku’s table. One of them says, “You will.”

Two monks hold down Dooku and the third one says, “Normally, we would give our people a choice of red or blue. For you, we are going to give you both colors!”

“What would happen to me?” asks Dooku in desperation.

The third monk ignores the question and continues, “You see, this story of yours cannot leave this island.”

“And I really need the money and my job,” adds the old male staff as he has tipped the monk before meeting Dooku.

“You are really terrible in temple politics. Have a good trip, Dooku.” With that says, the third monk forces the red and blue pills into Dooku’s mouth.

As the pills travel inside Dooku’s body, his entire life flashes before him. The past, the present, and the future distorted with no clarity. There is a vague knowledge of information but the endings are never revealed. Dooku is tormented by knowing but yet not knowing, forever stays in limbo, paralyzed, drown in this distorted alternative reality unable to leave. In the end, there is nothing to see, nothing to analyze, and no question to be asked, for nothing makes sense no more.

Author’s note: This Dooku series holds a special place in my heart. These are stories inspired by real-life events including things that I have observed. As always, all persons fictitious disclaimer applies.

In the Kingdom of Sun & Moon and a remote town far away from the palace, Dooku the inventor has quietly moved into an abandoned mansion. He has purchased his new home from the local office at a very good price. The three stories high mansion while more or less still functional is poorly maintained and had become state land. There is a fountain in front of the house but it no longer works. The garden surrounding the mansion overran by weeds. With a rusted gate that discourages wanderers to come close, the mansion in its entirety projects a sense of mystery and isolation.

The town people seldom meet Dooku, for the mad inventor – as they are nicknamed him – hardly leaves his mansion. Those who have seen him described him as ‘average-looking’ and ‘rather old’. There are boxes and boxes of undisclosed items delivered to his home every day or so. When the town people further pressed on, the delivery company representative replies, “These shipments come from faraway places, addresses that in my wildest imagination did not know they exist! Look. These parcels are delivered to our office at the border. We are just a local delivery team.”

As time drags on, the rumor mills flourish. “One time, I have seen corpses delivered to the mad inventor’s mansion!” says one housewife in front of her group of friends on a street near to a flee market. One man jumps in, “What does that mean? Our new migrant has been reanimating dead bodies under our noses?” Another woman chips in, “Yes, I recall we have more blackouts these days. There must be some crazy science experiment happening inside that house!” (Author’s note: The town does not keep such blackout record and no spike of blackouts has been reported in local papers. Hence, this womon’s comment could well be classified as fake news).

Another housewife asks the first one, “Are you sure you have seen the corpses?”. To which, the reply is, “Oh well. There were bags. I am sure there were corpses inside. What else can that be? Potatoes?”

On the day Dooku has decided to unveil his invention, the town people are drawn to the event out of curiosity. The poster does not tell all. In the background lies what appears as a mini-castle covered in a red velvet piece of cloth. The title reads, “A Magical Poem For Everyone – A Night You Won’t Forget!”

At night, Dooku’s mansion looks less rundown. With the electric light bulbs of red, green, yellow, and blue decorated on the facets of the mansion and the trees in the garden; rows of booths are set up to serve food and wine. This place looks less of a mad scientist’s mansion and more like a theme park. The fountain is gone. Instead, a wooden platform is built. At the center stands a mini-castle-like structure covered by literally red velvet cloth measured to three meters tall.

As the clock strikes seven in the evening, the average-looking and rather old Dooku approaches the platform and stands in front of the microphone. As soon as he speaks, loud feedback pierces through the audience’s ears. But no one seems to care. Everyone is curious. What is underneath that red velvet?

“And my latest invention is,” Dooku continues as he unveils his latest masterpiece, “the Poem-Making Machine!”

The crowd gasps, unable to comprehend. This machine is unlike anything the crowd has expected. A Steampunk styled mini-castle with five towers joined up to the main body. Each tower displays ten sets of flip cards that are arranged vertically. According to Dooku, different towers represent different themes: acts of God, external circumstances out of your control but under your influence, temporal, space, people, perception, emotion, internal quality, action, and spiritual elements. Each set contains twenty cards, which means there are a total of 1,000 cards! Just think of the astronomical numbers of combinations. At the base of the machine and at the arm level, there are five levers. Once a lever is lowered by the user – much like a slot machine – the respective tower would randomize ten cards. If that is not complex enough, the user can flip any of the levers back up and have one last chance to random the cards before …

“… the user presses the giant green button next to the levers for the machine to write a poem, customized to the state of mind suitable to the one who uses the machine according to the cards!” explains Dooku as he gestures towards an unmanned typewriter.

One after another, the crowd tries out the machine, receives a piece of poem that some describe as “a fine piece of art” while others, “a message from heaven”. Some cry. Others shake their heads in disbelief and acceptance. Whether the town people like Dooku or not – due to his appearance mostly – they have to admit, this is one fine invention.

Words spread fast. Soon, the Princess living in the palace hears of such wonder. And she is curious. She wants to know, “What kinds of poems will I get?”

The journey to the palace is not at all easy. It takes half a day and six strong horses to transport the machine from Dooku’s mansion into the palace. By the time the machine is set up in the palace garden with the appropriate decoration to the surroundings, it is early evening, which adds a sense of mystery. A magical sense of mystery that is.

As Dooku reads the first poem to the Princess, the Princess is enchanted, lost in words. As the second poem is read, the Princess is deeply moved, tears a little. When the third poem comes, she is drunk in the emotions evoked from these words of heaven. Many times she calls Dooku back and soon, a bond is formed between the two.

Raven the Shieldmaiden is the first one who speaks up, “I don’t think this is right!” Rhino the Infiltrator concurs, “I agreed. Our Princess is falling for a commoner!”

To that, Raven continues, “Indeed! Look at Dooku status. This is an ill fated relationship, for sure”.

“What shall we do?” asks Rhino.

“You should infiltrate Dooku’s mansion as our Kingdom’s Chief of Spy and find out more about that heretic machine. It must be a fraud. There must be a weakness somewhere. We must take it down!” replies Raven.

And so, Rhino infiltrates Dooku’s mansion one night, blends into the shadow at all times. Inside the study room, Rhino discovers a notebook titled “The Operation Manual of Dooku’s Poem-Making Machine”.

When Rhino returns from his mission, cannot help from wearing a gimmick on his face, he says to Raven, “I know how we can defeat this monstrous machine and have our Princess freed from this voodoo charm of a commoner!”

“What would that be?!” Raven the Shieldmaiden asks.

Rhino the Infiltrator smiles and whispers something into Raven’s ear.

It is late autumn. The leaves turn yellow and the fallen leaves painted the road brown. As Dooku makes – what in the future be known as – his last trip to the palace, he whistles, appears in a good mood. Dooku sees himself as an entertainer to the Princess (good money too). More so, Dooku is liking the Princess, perhaps starting to fall in love.

Just like any other day as Dooku sets up the machine at the palace garden, in this particular late autumn evening, Dooku witnesses Rhino and Riven matching towards him with the Imperial Guards. As the troop stops in front of Dooku and the Poem-making Machine, Raven shouts, “This cannot continue! As the protector of the Kingdom of Sun & Moon and the protector of our Princess, we must disable this machine! Our Princess cannot be with someone without status and this must be stopped! This. Is. Black. Magic!”

Dooku is shocked! Lost in words. Before he can internalize this entire encounter, Riven springs into action, climbs up the machine, pulls a hidden lever as instructed by the Operation Manual, and then, a pair of hidden doors open at the center tower.

Lo and behold, a crystalized angel figurine one feet of height is on display!

“This,” says Riven, “is the heart of the machine. Once I smash it, this machine will no longer work. Our Princess will be freed!”

At this very moment, the Princess emerges from her residence and screams, “No! Please don’t!”

And at the same moment, Dooku rushes to the machine and screams, “No! Please don’t!”

The Princess means a lot to Dooku. So is the crystalized angel figurine.

Rhino steps in and stops the Princess from going any further. Raven punches Dooku’s face hard so much so that Dooku instantly collapses onto the ground with blood on his face. Raven raises her shield, aims it at the heart of the machine, and smashes the crystalized angel figurine into thousands of pieces. The Poem-machine made impotence, unable to produce any more poems. The reason for the two being together – Dooku and the Princess – is no more. Dooku can no longer please the Princess with poems that move her.

Unless …

Determined to be by the Princess’s side no matter what, Dooku casts one final melancholy smile to the Princess, directs his eyes onto the empty chamber now filled with broken crystal, he dashes towards the machine with eyes to the heaven whispering words that only Dooku can understand. One moment he is a man. Another moment, as the light radiance from his body, Dooku shrinks into one foot of height and crystalized in front of everyone as he reaches the heart of the machine. As soon as Dooku – the crystalized version that is – settles into that hidden chamber, the machine springs into action. It locks the doors and the cards randomize on their own, flipped frantically yet purposely like the reels of a slot machine.

Tears are streaming from the Princess’s eyes. The Poem-Making Machine restored sitting permanently in the palace garden with Dooku no more. One by one, the cards show themselves. The unmanned typewriter prints out a poem that reads something like:

No more do I wish to live without seeing you
Even though this is wrong but it feels so right
I treasure each moment when I am with you
I want to live each day holding you tight

I like you and I know you feel the same way too
I want to see you in the day and at night
No matter what others say about me and you
I will always be by your side

You are my princess and I can be your prince
We can build a castle where no one would expect
We can hold hands all day and kiss all night
The world can crumble but why should we even care?

No more do I wish to live without missing you
Every song we share lead me back to you
If this is a burden I must take
I would gladly consume this pain of yours and mine

Every dream of mine you have been by my side
I can’t think of a moment I am not thinking of you
You are a poison that I want to take
You are an addiction I so readily obliged

You are my princess and I can be your prince
We can build a castle where no one would expect
We can hold hands all day and kiss all night
The world can crumble but why should we even care?

“You Are My Princess And I Can Be Your Prince”

“This is insane! It is just not possible!” exclaimed the female journalist on top of a tower that was still work-in-progress.

Dooku the builder gasped, quickly put a finger on his mouth and said, “Shhhh!  That is treason!”, as though someone would hear them talking.  But in this evening, there were only Dooku and the girl, an interview that took place in this tall, tall tower.

No one in this isolated island remembered how long the war had lasted.  Or for what course.  The north and the south had fought.  One day, they stopped.  Instead, they agreed to build a high wall from east to west dividing the island into two.  Tired of the war, they had become.  Coexistence was a bitter compromise.  It was tolerable so long as they did not see each other.

The wall was so high that the people from either side called it Cliff of Impenetrable.  For years, no one knew how the other side was doing.  But that did not fool Dooku.  At night, Dooku could see an orange hue of light from the south painted onto the sky encroaching onto his northern part of the pitch black atmosphere   The buzzing of music, the laughter, and the noise.  The southern noise!  Dooku and his fellow northern inhabitants hardly had the time to think of anything else other than their basic needs.  Such as food, work, water, and more work.

“You honestly think that we can build a tower and reach the Moon from Earth?  On this very land we stand?” asked the girl.

Dooku pondered.  The question was not whether or not this was the best space exploration program the government had come up with in order to compete with the south.  The question was, without this tower, a lot of people including Dooku would have to find another job.  So what if it was the stupidest idea to build the lousiest tower that would absolutely be useless?  People were kept productive.  Their lives became meaningful.  Routines tended to numb people’s mind brainwashing all sorts of ideals down the drain.  People needed routines.

Dooku also knew that the girl had a story to write, one that might inspire.  So he replied, “You see the full moon over there?”  The girl nodded.

“I have been working here for quite some time.  Each night before I call it a day, I spend some time admiring the skyline, admiring the progress from the south.  I don’t think people in the south really want to leave their homes and the good life they have.  But life in the north is different.  We hardly have enough to eat!  This is an island.  We have nowhere else to go.  We hang our hope onto the moon and wish for a better future.

You know.  At times I feel as though the moon is getting bigger and bigger.  Maybe she is coming closer to us.  Or maybe our tower strategy is really working.”

The mood was lightened.  The girl giggled and added, “Or perhaps all our combined hope weights the moon down just a little.  And she dips down just a little?”

As the night fell, the air was chilly.  It was an hour long descend for the journalist, or more.  As for Dooku the builder, his temporary shelter had always been one level below the top of the tower.  There was used to be plenty of builders.  But as the tower gradually raised from the ground, its circumference became smaller and smaller.  Now, it could only fit one.

*     *     *     *     *

A month later, the female journalist revisited the tower at night.  She spoke the first question that came into her mind.

“If you are the only builder working on this tower, what do the rest of the people do?”

Dooku replied almost immediately, “We invent new tasks!  Some are looking for cracks to repair.  Some are reinforcing the tower.  Some are even decorating the tower!  Many are pretending to work.  But right now, that is not a question of importance.”

“It is not?”

“No.  Come.  You see the full moon over there?”

“Yes?”

“What do you see?”

“A … moon?”

“Yes.  But what else?” asked Dooku with an infectious enthusiasm.

“A full moon?”

“Look how close the moon is this time round!”

The girl took and deep breath and exhaled, “It does look bigger than last month!  Much bigger!”

“… which means closer!  A lot closer!  Come back next month, would you?” proposed Dooku.

*     *     *     *     *

Another month had passed and the female journalist returned to the top of an even taller tower as promised.  Something was not right in this very evening.  The wind was exceptionally strong.  The sound was almost deafening.  Underneath them, Dooku and the girl could sense the rage of the ocean.  As though something was upsetting the sea and it pounded the shore relentlessly with bigger and bigger wave.  Panic was felt across the people from either side of the wall.  The island might be divided.  But fear united them all.

“You see the full moon over there?” Dooku shouted through the wind.

The girl shouted back, “Yes, the moon is hanging low, really low!  And she is coming to our direction!”

The chaos on the ground intensified as the moon approached the island.  The water broke free and flooded the ground.  To the south, all hope was lost.  It was a doomsday scenario.  To the north, everyone was looking upon the tower as a beacon of hope.  Out of nowhere, a mysterious white rabbit made a dash to the tower and started the climb.  That little sign amassed the northerners.  Soon, everyone from the north headed to the tower as the water level raised higher and higher.

The mysterious white rabbit did not stop.  It went up and up and just when the rabbit reached the top of the tower, the gigantic moon swung by low, almost came in contact with the tower.  A deep humming sound emitted from the orbiting moon.  The sight was mesmerizing to look at.  The rabbit made a leap and landed onto the moon!  The girl delighted by what she saw too made a leap and landed safely.  The northerners needed no further encouragement.  Life was lousy from where they stayed.  One by one, they made a leap of hope believing that whatever lied ahead could not be worse.

“Jump!  Come to us!” exclaimed the girl frantically waving one hand with another holding the mysterious white rabbit close to her chest.

Dooku waited till the last northerner landed onto the moon making sure that no one was left behind.  He took a last look at his island below that was no longer divided for the wall was brought down by the force of nature.  Dooku thought to himself, “Should I stay or should I go?  Would the moon come that close ever again?  Would I have a second chance?”

If Dooku was a risk taker, he would not have chosen to be a builder.  Dooku took a deep breath and joined his people on the moon.  The female journalist smiled and exclaimed, “This is insane!  It is just not possible!”

In this island of Thrapswana where her native inhabitants live in isolation from the rest of the universe, lead scientist Vector Eden has a vision: To mutate and transform all existing chickens into the long extinct ostrich.  It was a grand vision.  One that guaranteed a promotion within Poultry Inc.  Incredible funding in the scale of billions of dollars was poured into this scientific exploration.  It was one of those journeys that has to succeed, in whichever forms and by whatever means.  Vector Eden – young and charming – has won many endorsements.  But that was from within Poultry Inc.  What about the rest of the world?

In a recent customer survey, no one seemed to care what went into a poultry burger.  One customer went by the name of Thunder said, “In the end of the day, a burger is a burger.  I want my food fast and that’s all that I care.  But seriously, can you tell between minced duck and minced goose?  Just don’t charge me more now that it is rebranded as ostrich!”

The Mayor however was less than impressed with the new initiative. “Tell me one thing.  If right now I am having trouble in auditing the parts that go into a chicken patty, what makes you think that it is easier to tell ostrich meat from ostrich intestine when it is all mashed up.  You get my drift?”

Sure, Mr. Mayor.  Wise as ever.

The chicken farmers though were less than thrilled about this new announcement.  One farmer who did not wish to be named lamented, “Everything works fine.  We don’t need no ostrich.  What’s wrong with chickens you tell me?  We have built our farms and infrastructure to process chicken meat.  We handle chicken eggs with one hand.  There are containers built just to distribute chicken eggs.  Are you going to have an ostrich egg for breakfast?  You can have one chicken egg for breakfast.  Maybe two. Ostrich eggs.  Are you nuts?  So why are we getting rid of the chickens again?”

Vector Eden sang a different tune. “Human psychology tells us one thing.  We don’t like change.  Nature tells us one thing.  Change is the only certainty.  History tells us one thing.  Resistance is futile.  Let me tell you one thing.  The entire chicken model is a failure.  We need a much stronger poultry that has a much better resistance to flu and diseases.  This is a revolution.  No.  This, is an evolution!”

To preserve the existing chicken business, Poultry Inc. has offered free services in transforming existing chicken eggs into ostrich eggs and mutating existing chickens into ostriches.  To spread out the initial load, farmers turned in their eggs and livestock in batches.  Carefully labeling each chicken and egg with serial numbers and the owners’ initials, the farmers handed over their livelihoods to Poultry Inc. in good faith trusting that everything would be fine.

“In retrospect, we should have seen this coming,” continued the unnamed farmer in a second interview. “Thousands of chickens and eggs were lost, and still are.  We have the orders but we can’t fulfill.  Fast food restaurants are not getting the chickens.  Customers are not getting the burgers.  I am not having my eggs for breakfast.  This is a lose-lose-lose situation.  How much are these scientists drawing again?”

The widespread collapse of poultry supply has created one giant media disaster.  One day, our hero Dooku was called into NMU*.  His boss spoke with a genuine urgency, “Dooku, we have a situation.”

*Noise management unit – A rebranded department within Poultry Inc.

Dooku nodded coolly, knowing exactly what was to come.

“We need you to help handling these lost chicken and egg cases,” his boss continued.

“Sure,” replied Dooku, “I have one question though.”

“Shoot!”

“Which cases come first?  Chicken or egg?”

His boss was not amused and soon, Dooku found himself drowned in a sea of queries and requests.

“Where are my ostriches?!  I need them today!”

“If I don’t get my eggs by the end of this month, my farm will be out of business!”

“Our factory needs to supply poultry patty to the restaurants.  Can the farmers have the chickens back please?”

“Why are you not replying?”

“Hello?”

The most hilarious query that Dooku has come across perhaps was this one below.

“Please rectify whatever needs rectifying, it seems like that would be everything.  I assumed (Ass-U-Me) when I put a chicken into your state-of-the-art mutation engine, it would come out an ostrich.  Obviously I was wrong.  The chicken disappeared instead!”

Dooku wished that there was something he could really help.  But these were no honey jars; this was not a marketplace; and Dooku was no longer a chef.  Day in and day out, Dooku struggled with what he did not understand.  Some science jargon that was way beyond his comprehension.  One day, Dooku had a dream.  In his dream, he was pushed into the mutation engine and was turned into an ostrich.  Have the problems gone away?  No.  The farmers kept up with the chasing.  Where are my ostriches?  Where are my eggs?

Dooku the Ostrich kept running.  The voices would not go away!  They hunted Dooku down in day, haunted him at night.  Fed up with the entire universe of merde de la merde, with his new found power thanks to the improved ostrich DNA, in one grand swift moment, Dooku buried his head into the sand.

All of a sudden, in this dream island of Thrapswana, all his troubles seemed so far away.

*     *     *     *    *

This entry, like all my Dooku related entries, is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to persons and situations in real life can only be a coincidence.  If it was up to me, I would mutate chicken into dodo.  When I was working in Mauritius, I was told that the forty pound wild birds were all eaten by the Dutch sailors.  What a pity though.  Dodo was such a majestic species (picture taken from Wikipedia.org).

How time flies!  The last Dooku story was told two years ago.  To satisfy your curious mind, Dooku no longer works in an office.  The only thing human about human resource is that: Do you have the arms and legs to do the job?  Oh yes.  And a brain that performs basic functions which may or not not include the ability to perceive or articulate senses that are deemed common.  It was an eyeopening experience for Dooku.  Because alas!  In reality, there is nothing human about human resource.  Very soon, Dooku finds himself being re-purposed, and then re-purposed again.  Aspiration is an illusion one creates in order to mask the lack of a direction one partakes.  Organization is an entity that keeps on reorganizing itself from within.  In the end, only the bees sing the songs inspired by the backward wind of change that swirls in a downward spiral.  At infinity, it is a beeline to nothingness.

*     *     *     *     *

One day, Dooku has decided to leave the city.  In his usual state of hungriness, he has stumbled upon a village called Bumble Bees and the Magic Flute.  How odd the name is.  How odd the village appears.  But that did not matter.  With no money in his pocket, all Dooku could think of was: What’s for dinner tonight?

By now, Dooku has worked in this village for quite some time.  Not long enough to feel like home.  But not short enough to cling onto the joy of discovering new things the first time either.  One fine morning, one of the elders approaches him and says, “We have a crisis.  It is time to re-purpose your role in this village again, Dooku”.  Dooku is surprised, though not that surprised.  He replies, “It was only recently when I was re-purposed to become a blacksmith plan designer.  So soon?”

“It is never too soon, son.  You see.  Our village exports magic flutes and right now, magic appears to have stopped working.  Our customers from outside our village are not happy.”

Dooku should have said, “But I know nothing about magic!  Or flute for that matter!  Surely you can find someone better to re-purpose?”  Instead, he nods, unintentionally encouraged the elder to carry on.

The elder shakes his head in distress and continues, “There is a massive shift of magnet core interfering with the vines that give forth magic.  Without its sustenance, the vines are interlocked with its surrounding energy.  Quite simply put, some of our magic flutes sold to our customers have stopped working.  Do you see the gravity of the situation, Dooku?  The pulsation is killing the system!  You can feel it, can’t you?”

Dooku looks out to the horizon thinking about today’s dinner.  The elder takes it as a sign of contemplation and secretly admire Dooku’s dedication to the village.  This one gets it.  After a long moment, Dooku speaks, like he does every time he is re-purposed, “So tell me what I have to do.”

Throughout the day and night, jars of honey are being brought in by the flying owls.  Inside each jar, all sorts of messages and communications between the customers and villagers – past and present – are preserved within the honey.  These are the messages to be listened to, not read.  Messages of how broken magic flutes are affecting the customers’ lives.  Messages of the villagers asking the customers to be patience.  Messages of the customers demanding the magic flutes to be working, now.  Messages of the villagers trying all that they can to resume magic.  Messages of desperation, of suggestion, of threat, and of imploration.  Messages of missing messages.

In the village of Bumble Bees and the Magic Flute, language is a collection of the songs of the bees.  Writing is not necessary.  Ideas are painted by a honey brush, spoken through the bees.  New ideas are added onto the old ones.  Mixed together.  Blended into one single jar of honey.  Preserved by honey.  Ideas are made timeless.

Each morning as Dooku arrives at work, the first thing he has to deal with are 200 jars of honey delivered overnight.  He opens up the honey jar one by one and listen to its content.  With very little knowledge of what magic flute does, Dooku would pick up his honey brush, add on a polite acknowledge that is neither helpful nor meaningful, and return the honey jars to the senders using the owls.  A little bit of honey is now added into the honey jar as Dooku solidifies his thought, his thought of acknowledgement.

Dooku ponders: Someone needs to keep an eye on the overall big picture.  Songs intertwined are weaved into a tapestry made of new pieces of human knowledge accumulated daily that form a whole new honey world.  An ocean of honey understood only by the keen observers.  The song weavers.  One such as Dooku.

Honey jars come in batches.  The more Dooku handles, the more they arrive.  As the day goes by, every time when the number reduces to manageable size, the owls fly in and deliver a new batch of honey jars.

Dooku has developed a habit.  Towards the end of day, whenever the number of honey jars reaches zero or the closing hour is at hand, he would close his eye and slowly tune out the surrounding.  There are no owls.  No honey jars.  There are no anxious customers.  No magic related problems.  He has handled 500 honey jars today and that is enough.  In his head, there is nothing but the songs of the bees.  Of honey baked chicken and honey cake with caramelized pears, lemon honey water, maybe honey ginger tea.  There is no way to keep a public toilet clean so long as people keep on peeing.  Dooku feels the growling of his stomach.  He is ready to go home.

That night, Dooku has a dream.  In his dream, on the next day, more honey jars are delivered.  Many more indeed.  Customers are demanding answers to why their magic flutes are still not working.  This time, directly to Dooku.  By the hours, the situation is snowballing to a whole new level of epic failure.  Honey jars upon honey jars, they are strapped onto Dooku’s body.  Are you reading mine now?  Aren’t you answering me now?  In this ocean of honey, the songs of the bees can be deafening.  The only thing Dooku can do is to drown himself into the honey, weighed down by the jars.  There is an eerie sense of clamminess underneath.  Dooku is falling asleep, but he wants to wake up.  What if he doesn’t wake up the next day?  1,000 jars of honey will be waiting.  Next week?  3,500 jars of honey will be waiting.  By the end of next year?  Maybe magic will resume working.  All the problems will disappear.

That may not be a bad idea at all.

The owls keep coming.  And the honey jars pile up.  Darkness falls but the problems don’t go away.  The wind of change is howling.  From this point onward, it is all going down.

This is a story of Dooku, of which the prequel you may have already read.  Dooku was a farmer, a chef, but not any more.  At least for now.   While the story may be inspired by the people at work, all the characters are works of fiction.  If you feel that I am writing a story about you, you should buy me a drink.  Because you are about to get famous.

Kidding.

*     *     *     *     *

One day, Dooku has entered a city.  Not the biggest city on earth.   But one that is sophisticated enough to have people working on a desk that comes with a chair.  An office, as the city dwellers may call it.   Dooku chuckles whenever he hears the word “office”.   An office or a farm – in Dooku’s simplistic mind – mean the same.   In a farm, you wake up early, plow the soil, add some cow dung if need to, do more plowing, and when the time comes, you harvest your produce; the cycle continues.   In an office – as Dooku observes – people wake up early, push some paperwork around, create more work for others if need to, push more work to each other, and when the time comes, collect their paychecks; the cycle continues.

In this new office, Dooku loves to ask people what their roles are.  That seems to piss people off.   Because most people prefer to keep their roles as fuzzy and vague as possible.  But in Dooku’s defense, he asks because he wants to know what he needs to do.   Back in his farming days, if Dooku knows that no one is going to clean up the excess cow dung left in the farm after the fertilization process, Dooku would clean up the cow dung himself.   All farmers do that.  Why?  Because too much cow dung piled up under the sun attracts flies.  And it especially intrudes Dooku’s olfactory senses.   Dooku is a simple man.  A helpful simple man, who is often misunderstood at work.

One day, an unfinished piece of work is handed over to Dooku.  No matter.  Work is work, unfinished or not.   There is an architectural model large enough to fill up a boardroom that needs some touchups.   Dooku takes a closer look.  First at the signage.  It says: An estate for rapid evolution with the goal of galactic domination! He then stares at the proposed housing units for the pigs, and at the proposed housing units for the sheep.  The marketplace for the pigs, and the marketplace for the sheep to trade their produces with the outside world.  Where are the weapons of mass destruction?   How do the pigs and the sheep envisage the means to dominate the galaxy?   Dooku then takes the liberty to rename the signage to: An estate for the pigs and the sheep with an efficient and hygienic marketplace for trading purposes. Satisfied with what he does, Dooku goes on touching up the aesthetic aspect of the model.  The look-and-feel.  Correcting some obvious design flaws like sheep do not need handrails, unlike the pigs that at times, walk on two feet.   Just like how it is documented in the “Animal Farm”.

Next, Dooku takes another look at the model.   As it is, the estate looks like a DMZ between the pigs and the sheep.  Such obvious demarcation between the two races.  What gives?  The pigs and the sheep suppose to co-exist in one allocated area.  Are they not talking to each other?   (Dooku, a simple man as he is, may not aware that pigs and sheep do not normally talk to each other.)   Again, Dooku takes the liberty to slightly rearrange the housing estate, making it more like pigs and sheep living in harmony.   He then combines the two marketplaces into one by knocking down some walls, clearly labels the “Vegetarian” section for the sheep to sell their vegetables.   And the “Meat Lover” section for the pigs to sell pork chops.   As an icing on the cake, Dooku even illustrates how the outsiders should be led into the marketplace, how money can be exchanged, details that were not available in the previous model.

The peace loving sheep look at the polished model, love it, with no further question.   The war raging pigs look at the same model, hate it, and spit on it.  Because it looks superficially different from what they have seen before.  But surely this is a more polished design, Dooku asks.  Besides, what lie inside the houses and the marketplace remain unchanged.   Unfortunately, the pigs cannot be reasoned with and insist that something major, other that cosmetic, has been modified.   Flabbergasted, Dooku is asked to organize a town hall meeting that involves a large team of people and pigs and sheep to iron out the differences.   In the meeting, Chief Porky goes on and on about not able to verify the interior design of the houses and of the marketplace for the mere fact that the model looks different.  And he has no time or found it too tedious to reconcile the two, unlike his sheep counterpart.  More and more time is poured into this pointless discussion whereby in the good old day, Dooku would have seen his maize grow beautifully, day by day, taking in the sunlight from the sky and the water mixed with the cow dung from the ground, turning into something so yummy in salad and in soup.   As this pointless discussion carries on, in this farm now called office, Dooku wonders what does time and effort turn into.  The pigs talk louder, more and more.   Chief Porky bangs onto table going into all four (instead of the usual civilized standing posture).  Dooku cannot help but daydream.  In his dream, he sees a parallel universe.  In this dream, he is a bird.  An angry bird.  Together with his fellow birdies, they have launched an angry attack against the pigs.  Because enough is enough.   One flying angry bird threatens to pulverize the home of the pigs.  Two flying angry birds threaten to penetrate the pigs’ last defense.  As more and more angry birds rain down from the heaven, the pigs are squashed into oblivion.   Mashed together with the cow dung, this enhanced pig-cow dung serves as a rich fertilizer to the maize nearby.  What was so irritatingly useless in pig form becomes so useful mixed with dung.   Maize grows and grows, getting taller and taller almost touching the heaven and bum!

Dooku wakes up.  It is dinner time.  And he orders a pork chop served with corns feeling a whole lot better already.

The company I work for has recently published a guideline on what not to share in a social networking environment, which includes personal websites I suppose.  It is now officially out of the question to post the photo of that huge condom machine commonly found inside our office toilets a while ago.  Because that is a photo taken inside the building and we are not allowed to share it to the public.  Too bad.  It is one of the cutest condom machines I have seen.

In any case, I am a small fry inside this gigantic organization.  You don’t expect me to write in a coded message from now on, do you?

*     *     *     *     *

One day, as Dooku hikes along yet another random country road looking for something to earn a living, he spots a sign saying: Maize Farmer Wanted.  What does Dooku know about farming maize?  No matter.  His stomach is growling and anything is better than taking another hike the next day, and the day after.

It is a simple business.  At the end of the farming season, Dooku delivers the maize to the factories that turn the maize into different products used by the restaurants nearby.  Dooku works closely with the restaurant owners and knows precisely their requirements, what is needed for each of their dishes.  Juicy, fresh, and pest free maize grown to the highest quality, Dooku takes pride in farming maize even though it is quite a brainless job compares to what he did in the past.  Dooku has become one with his maize.

For reasons beyond Dooku’s comprehension, the factory owners have taken over the farms.  One day, a representative from one of the factories knocks on Dooku’s door.  Dooku being a good host invites this stranger inside and offers him a piece of sweet corn tart.

“We should not be farming maize.  In fact, if it is up to us, the restaurant owners should send in their waiters and waitresses to farm maize,” says the stranger with a smile.  “If I don’t farm maize, what else can I do?” asks Dooku.  The stranger continues with his smile and offers no further explanation.

Perplexed and confused, Dooku works even harder trying to focus not on the uncertainty.  The next day, the factory owners have sent in a few of their workers who doubled as maize farmers.  Dooku feels even more perplexed.  At the end of yet another farming season, Dooku compares his maize to those grown by the factory workers.  Clearly they are different.  In no way the restaurant owners would not notice!  His is juicy, fresh and pest free while others are not as juicy and not as big.

One evening, Dooku has decided to disguise himself as a dining customer and investigate.  He has talked to other customers and he has talked to the kitchen staffs in an attempt to find out if the sweet corn supplied by him is indeed better than others.  One chef shakes his head and says, “You see, these are canned food.  All canned food tastes the same.  Unlike wine that is characterized by the year and region, a can of sweet corn is just a can of sweet corn.  It is merely a mean to an end.  In this case, it is not the sweet corn that makes this dish famous.  It is the freshness of crab meat, the right amount of flour and water, my secret seasoning, together with a can of sweet corn that makes people wanting to pay for this bowl of soup.  Understand?  These are canned food.  Not wine.”

Deflated, Dooku is feeling smaller and smaller.  As though going through a merciless machinery that processes food of one form to another, Dooku finds himself breaking into pieces.  Soon he finds elements of him trapped inside a huge cylinder mixed with elements of others.  The last thing he sees is a lid that seals the container.  And then, all Dooku can see is darkness, homogeneously coexists with others.

The next morning, Dooku is nowhere to be found.  In the afternoon, a new sign is erected.  And it says: Maize Farmer Wanted.

*     *     *     *     *

Working as a chef you would imagine taking order only from the restaurant owner and the customers.  Not for Chef Dooku.

A waiter, a demanding waiter whom in Dooku’s eyes looks more like a stranger in this restaurant than someone who serves food to the customers walks into the kitchen.  “We need the Royal Seafood Platter,” says the waiter with a smile.  “Today,” adds he.  Seafood is not in season.  Neither does the restaurant has the right ingredients for this grand dish!  Dooku tries to reason with the waiter but the waiter stands his ground and says, “We need the Royal Seafood Platter, today.”

“But who will be ordering it?” asks Dooku.  “No one is ordering Royal Seafood Platter in this time of the year!” adds Dooku.  The waiter consults with another waitress and in unison, they say, “Royal Seafood Platter, today!”

Dooku has seen this before.  And he is seeing it now.  Who is going to eat the dish, even if he manages to cook it?  Dooku is a hard worker.  He seldom complains.  First, he drops by the nearest aquarium store and buys some goldfish.  Next, he visits the garden by the restaurant and pulls out some weeds.  With his magical hands, in-depth knowledge, and a few good drops of sweat from his forehead, Dooku works throughout the day to create this signature dish called Royal Seafood Platter.

Feeling satisfied, Dooku rings the bell notifying the pair of waiter and waitress that the dish is ready.  Minutes have passed and the dish still sits on the same place waiting to be served.  Minutes become hours and in closing hour, Royal Seafood Platter is served into the trash bin.  Like before.

Days later, Dooku has to dash to the nearest aquarium store and buy some goldfish, for yet another Royal Seafood Platter that he bets nobody will eat.  Not because the dish is bad, but it is not something people eat in this time of year.  After the purchase, instead of heading straight to the restaurant, Dooku stops and asks the store owner, “Do you care what happens to your goldfish once they leave your store?”

The store owner looks Dooku into his eyes and replies,”Look, my job is to supply you with goldfish when you need some.  In return, I get paid for selling them to you.  Whether you display them in your living room, or replace them as you are supposed to keep the original ones alive while their owners are on holiday, or feed them to bigger fish, it is none of my business.”

That evening, Dooku has a dream.  In his dream, the goldfish are different.  They have faces that resemble the faces of the pair of waiter and waitress!  To a skilled chef, this poses as no challenge in making his legendary Royal Seafood Platter.  Dooku reckons that this time round, the dish may taste somewhat different.  May even be better.  But who would know?  No one is eating it anyway.