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The Lord, the Maid and the Gardener
by
Michael Zymler
I awoke with a start. It is an altogether fantastic feat to be able to determine everything going on in ones own immediate environment merely by listening and analyzing the sounds, and it was so that - after opening my eyes - I began to search for the root of my awakening merely by listening intently.
I did not stir from my position in the lavishly big and soft bed; in fact, I found the cocoon of sheets and covers to be the ideal spot to listen intently. Whereas one might get the impression that such a position would only serve to muffle the sounds and thus hinder my work. However, my ears were - I assure you - of a highly tuned and ultimately delicate nature.
At first, I heard nothing. It was as if the person was aware of the noise it had caused and was trying to undo his mistake merely by remaining silent and balancing out the interruption of silence he or she had created. You may wonder how I know that there was another person in my house. To this I cannot give a direct answer, rather I must appeal to what is inside each human; the raw instinct, the animal side of the human nature. Much like the animals mark their territory by leaving scents or other bodily marks, so the human leaves his marks: the walls of his room or his house, the fence or hedge surrounding the house and other such third-party marks. The instinct of territory in humans is a finely tuned one, as the human may allow another human to enter his territory without essentially making it the territory of the intruder - yet still be aware of the intrusion.
It is thus that my very instinct told me that there was another human in my presence. Craning my neck, I could see faint light stream into my room from under the door. It was the dim grey light of morning, of the sun piercing a rather weak but stubborn blanket of clouds, a white-grey blinding light which is prone to induce feelings of melancholy and light-throbbing headaches.
I had thus far concluded that there was some person in my territory in the early morning. Using this information, I determined that it was the maid. And that the sound which had startled me out of my dreams so savagely was that of the door being opened and closed with a brute force, the brute force known only to those of a simple nature - such as my maid.
Trying not make a sound of my own - so as to not disturb the external flow of auditory information and as to not alert the maid of my sentient state - I pushed my nose from under the blankets and smelled. Most people think smelling - much like breathing - is something enacted automatically, without any internal order to do so. I know - from my intimate connection to my sense of hearing - that this is not so. The fine connoisseurs know this, too, and have themselves trained their sense of smell to be as acute as their sense of taste. These connoisseurs can deduct numerous details, merely by taking a single calculated whiff of the scent distributed by the bouquet du vin. But, not to my amazement but rather to my disappointment, I caught nothing but my own trusted scent.
It was of course mere folly which had driven me to undertake such an action, as I was well aware that my sense of smell was no where near as perceptive as my sense of hearing. However, it was to my great dismay after all that one of my instincts had failed me. As humans, I thought, we had to take care to preserve our inner heritage, our instincts and ourselves. It is by growing soft and experiencing things merely en passant that man loses touch with his bestial nature. The so-called intellectuals of today state that this detachment is not a loss to be mourned, but rather an evolution to be celebrated. They claim so pompously that it is in the name of art and the advancement of our sentient nature that we humans shed our primal nature. I disagree most firmly with this point of view as it is utterly contradictory. How can one become more sentient by doing away with his senses? How can man become more knowledgeable by casting aside the knowledge we were imbued with whilst still in the womb? But alas, even as a firm believer in the maintenance of mans instincts I too, had faltered. I had been unable to smell the intruder, even though I knew my target smell and I knew that I had the capabilities inside of me to achieve the goal. If I had merely been able to pick out the scent of his or her sex I would have been able to come to a more factually-based conclusion. I would have been able to conclude whether the intruder was a woman - in which case the probability of it being my own brutish maid would increase, or a man - in which case I would have to undertake further action.
It was to my great joy that my old friends, the auditory sensors, picked up the sound of renewed movement. I heard a single clack of a shoe followed by the swishing, crackling, noise of a paper or plastic bag being picked up. After these sounds there was once again the click of a heel, followed by the regular click-clack of brutish strides. The noise moved from the hallways below to somewhere in the kitchen, which was also underneath me to my right. It was now practically unmistakable, it was the brutish maid: the obese plain-faced woman whom I so loathed, but proceeded to do her work well and for a low wage to boot. There was no real reason to hate her, my reasoning neo-sentient side pled; she was ugly and dimwitted but, then again, weren?t all servants? Would it not have been a mockery should the maid prove herself to be an intellectual equal to me? I was, after all, her employer, her master, her owner. She did my bidding. It was - reason stated - natural that she did not posses a finely tuned mind or an interest towards the intellectual and the ethereal spheres of consciousness.
Adding these attributes together with the fact that she was mine to command - one could deduce that this sluggish, plump and obtuse maid was beneath me, beneath the status of human. Alternatively, perhaps I was extrapolating the given facts in an incorrect direction. Perhaps one so intellectually progressed, one whose instincts were so highly tuned and whose body was so agile - such as I - was above the maid, above the standard set by the maid; above human. But I was reminded of my failure to perceive her scent. Unknowingly this simple maid had bested me. She had demonstrated that I, too, had faults. In this she had mocked me. Worse still, she had unknowingly mocked me, which was even more grievous.
My heart suddenly ached with a fierce pain. I had just perceived a new sound, an external sound not originating from the maid - who was still busying herself in the kitchen, no doubt celebrating her victory over my instincts. It was the sound of a lawnmower being activated most noisily. Unbeknownst to my senses a new intruder had intruded upon my territory, and had apparently done so some time ago, as he was now already modifying my territory. The shrieking sound of the lawnmower was excruciating, it interrupted my very thoughts, even my very instincts. In but a few minutes time I had been bested twice by simple creatures, creatures unworthy of their own scientific name - Homo sapiens sapiens - but undoubtedly still of the Hominidae family.
The maid and the gardener, the gardener and the maid: two humans - for lack of a better biological definition - serving under my command, responding to me, relying on me to pay their wages so they could feed and clothe themselves. The maid relied on me to feed her already stuffed carcass and the gardener relied on me to clothe him, so he could just dirty the clothes in the sand again. Unbeknownst to them I was their leader, their alpha.
And yet they continued to challenge my dominion, the maid tried to hide her presence when she remained silent, and she flaunted my obvious superiority by refusing to emit her scent. The gardener was an all too obvious accomplice in this matter as he was trying - with some success I might add - to damage my instincts by blotting them out with his abhorrent noise.
At last the lawnmower stopped spinning. Though I was aware that this was merely a momentary pause, long enough for the gardener to dispose of the already accumulated grass. It gave me time to adjust my inner self to the renewed situation, a moment of respite, which I would use to again gain the upper hand. However, just as I was beginning to piece together the puzzle again, a new nerve-wracking sound began, this time originating from the kitchen. It sounded much like a blender: a fast whirring noise obscured occasionally by the introduction of a new solid object. I knew what she was doing, she was making a fruit mix of sorts.
In four years of service she had never made me one before, so why now? The answer sprang to me instantly, this piece of the puzzle fit perfectly in the grand design: their treason. Much like in every group where a social hierarchy exists there comes a day where the alpha is challenged, and it was now my turn. They were obviously trying to diffuse and dull my senses, thereafter they would commit their final treason against me; they would attack me. What made me lament my situation even more was the viciousness of it all. Rather than confront me directly and challenge my superiority in open duel, the vicious ?humans? had turned to a covert attack. It was beyond any doubt that the maid would serve me a poisoned drink.
Judging by the ongoing noise of the blender, I could only assume that she was making enough drink for three: one drink to kill me, two drinks for themselves, for them to revel in their own success in toppling their alpha. Where other animals would cast aside their old alpha, or push it to the bottom of the group hierarchy, these so-called advanced humans would not take pleasure in merely casting me aside or debasing me. No, they would have me dead. The old servants would thereafter rejoice themselves in drink and merriment over my dead carcass, and then fornicate in my room, in the room of their old master, as a final show of defiance of all things sacred. From the entwinement of their loins would come forth a new generation of unworthy masters; a ruling league born from treasonous gardeners and maids, the soiled fruit of the marginal humans.
The sound of the blender had stopped, but the gardener had once again begun his task of diverting the attention of my auditory sensors. He succeeded as I had no idea where the maid was. I prepared myself, I flexed my body into a heightened state of alertness, my every muscle - now weak and under tuned from years of wear and the diminishing effects of a comfortable life. Through the screeching noise of the lawnmower I heard, faintly, the maid arrive on the landing outside my door. I was now prepared to meet my hunter for I, the master, had become the quarry.
I saw the handle turn as the maid clumsily turned it - no doubt because her hands were full with the poisoned drink. The door opened, her fat posture outlined against the sickening white-grey light behind her. I jumped forward, out from under my cocoon of instincts. I reveled in the momentary glance in her eyes, the dimwitted fool of a servant had not expected this retaliation. She dropped the breakfast tray she had been holding, sending half a melon to crash with a wet thud to the floor and the glass carrying the poisoned drink to smash into a thousand pieces unto the floor.
In flight, I grabbed her now free arms, pushed her to the ground, and straddled her bulbous waist. It was with great satisfaction that I read the fear in her dim gaze, just before I sank my teeth into her throat and tasted the repulsive metallic taste of her blood.
It was the opinion of the modern intellectuals that I was unfit to continue my life in an open society, and they saw it fit to incarcerate me for my supposed sins. Yet you, whom I have entrusted my vision to, know that my actions were born not from a violent nature. Rather my actions were based on the eventual harmony of careful intellect and raw instinct, the fusion of man and beast. I, the quarry, had merely acted in self-defense. What was I to do? Should I have endangered the whole of humanity by letting the maid live and have myself killed? The modern intellectuals refuse to hear my views, knowing full well that they cannot refute them, as refuting them would mean refuting their own existence as humans. Humans, these modern intellectuals themselves state so admirably, are group-creatures. But it is a fundamental law in the nature of all groups that within this group there exists a hierarchy. Moreover, where there is a hierarchy, there will be those on top and those at the bottom. Those at the bottom will, and this is a fact, challenge the top; the alpha. Humans, more vicious than any of the other animals, seek to work their way to the top by subterfuge and murder. My own actions are limited now, enclosed twixt four bleak walls. But I write this hoping that you may learn, hoping that - when the day comes - even the modern intellectuals will be prepared to fight for their rightful place in the social hierarchy.
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