#StitchedSaturday – Brasi Hyatt – 2/9/19

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By Brasi Hyatt


“…most babies smell like butter
His smell smelled like no other
He was born scentless and senseless
He was born a scentless apprentice
Go away – get away, get away, get a-way
Every wet nurse refused to feed him
Electrolytes smell like semen
I promise not to sell your perfumed secrets
There are countless formulas for pressing flowers
I lie in the soil and fertilize mushrooms
Leaking out gas fumes are made into perfume
You can’t fire me because I quit
Throw me in the fire and I won’t throw a fit.”
-Scentless Apprentice. C. 1992 Nirvana

Part 1: Business As Usual
He’d just morphed back from human to his main mushroom form, the form he preferred, the shape with an elongated mushroom face, and the body with the long legs. The door to his office was locked, and the coast was clear.

“Alright everyone, we can promote this Bob guy, or my family and I can go on vacation for a third time next year,” said The Boss, almost scoffing. His human hologram was off. He’d bought it as a gift then decided to keep it for himself, so it didn’t fit him quite right. It was meant to disguise his mushroom forms, in case he forgot to morph.

“I’m pretty tired and need to get back to Station 12 soon,” he lamented. “But these damn grinders always want more.”

A bloody rare cheeseburger made of human baby flesh was on the conference table in his large corner office. The dark clouds outside rained on the mid-sized American city in which Agency 9 was based. The television was on, showing Sports Bowl 456: The Return of Sports Bowl. It’d been a great year for Agency 9. Profits were soaring, and the humans still had no clue they’d been infiltrated.

The Boss could see for miles out his windows in his large corner office. Traffic, weather, the browned-out mountains, all viewed at his leisure. Sometimes, but always at night, he’d climb up the skyscraper in his mushroom form, and using his spindly legs, he’d enter his office through the 11th floor window. He’d rack up thousands of dollars in space porn and restaurant delivery because he could. To be safe, on the next day he’d always call the window cleaners to come and wash his greasy snail-trails off the building.

Three older male “mushrooms” (a nickname for those in the loop, interlopers who’d been subbed for humans by Article 12 of the Space Code long ago, circa 2021) sat at the conference table. They chortled and chuckled at his supreme wit. The Boss was no fucking joke. Take the dumb humans for what they had, leave another race with a desolate planet, and move on. In a couple decades, it’d be time to move on to the next operation. It was a cliché at the time, but mushrooms were, as they say, “the shit” in the “U-N-I.”

They’d come a long way from growing in the shit on their home planet. As a race, they’d developed the technology to travel four light years in several days. The mushrooms deserved this. It was their manifest destiny.

A slew of important-looking folders and papers were strewn across the Boss’s office. An expensively finished, ornate conference table, centered in the room, was covered with a clear glass top. The surface of the wooden table was a hot mess of dead trees. On a large brown bookcase nearby, multiple copies of “Agency 9 For Dummies” rested, unused and for show. Twenty-six grab-and-grin photos of The Boss as a mushroom, pictured with myriad celebrities and encased in shiny silver frames, littered the top shelf of the case.

Always happy with company in his office, The Boss looked around at the other mushrooms, as if seeking comment, but not wanting any. His eyes kept stopping on the television. He clicked his $40,000 pen against the shiny glass table top – tic tic tic. Typical meeting, and he was in complete control.

Part 2: We’re Bigly…We’re Uni-wide
Just then, the prism of perfect silence was interrupted by a female voice.

“Boss, I need to be honest and tell you something,” said Sharon Ima Moonunit, clearing her throat. She was Vice Director for Scheduling Pre-Meetings to Avoid Trouble at Subsequent Meetings, and the only female mushroom on the management team. She was the fourth mushroom in the room other than the Boss and she was shivering – much more than slightly. Her nose twitched, rodent-like. New to the mushroom game, she’d just arrived in her new title from Agency 8 a month prior. Her ‘shroom head showed through her hologram. It didn’t quite fit her.

“Freakin’ new morpher,” whispered The Boss, barely audible, to the male mushroom. To illustrate his prowess to Sharon, he morphed back and forth from human to mushroom form several times, turning his human hologram to the “on” position, and back to “off” several times.
It was not a great brand, and as it started to overheat, it sputtered, then came to full bright, like the fluorescent light bulbs used to do in the late 1900’s. This frustrated The Boss.

“What, Sharon?” he said, irreverently looking down, his frustration turning to admiration as the brightness returned to the holographic image, and he gazed at one of his own hologram hands. She was obviously blessed to be in the room with him.

“I was in human form, had a few Sasparilla Magillas, and the guy you’re talking about ate my pussy last week. Right after the Hoop Ball Tournament at our social networking blast off,” she said. “He saw me as a ‘shroom. We’re going to need to promote the son of a bitch.”

Her face flushed a poop brown.

The other mushrooms peered at her like she’d spoken a foreign language. A female? Talking out loud – to THE BOSS? And she let a human toss her salad?

“I’I-I..I’m sorry I let my guard down,” she said. She looked around, now shaking like a flag in headwind.

“Did you just speak up in an open meeting about a clear abuse of Space Code?” asked The Boss, incredulously. He stood, walked behind her, and reach out and grabbed his baby sandwich. He took a bite of the bloody burger, which was too large for a human meal by any known anecdotal comparison. As he opened his jaws, his mushroom face showed through the hologram. Her indiscretion angered him, and as he spoke, his mouth full, he nearly spat out pieces of the half-chewed burger.

“Shut your mouth!” he said. A powerful mushroom he was, indeed. This too would pass, but right now, he would smite her down. It was his manifest destiny.

He snarled a vulgarity at Sharon, and, just then, right on que, the door to his large corner office burst open. Three barely disguised mush-rats a.k.a. “Agency 9 security” slithered quickly over, on, and around the conference table. They grabbed Sharon Ima Moonunit by her feet and dragged her out of the dark tunnel – er, hallway – that led away from The Boss’s office. They pulled her like she was a Christmas tree in mid-January. She’d apparently worn out her welcome.

Despite this unpleasant exit, she did not make a noise. She did not she scream anything about a human tossing her salad. She knew better. Any mercy shown by Agency 9 HQ would be based on her loyalty, and she knew her resume barely passed muster.

Loose lips sink ships, as they say.

Thus, a few moments later, further down the hall, a door clicked open, and just like that, security and Sharon Moonunit were gone, and almost immediately forgotten. Later, anecdotal rumors would circulate that she was selling insurance on Titan, a moon of Saturn.

The rank-and-file humans did not care to speculate. Those lucky enough to be enslaved –er, employed – by Agency 9 knew nothing of the recent meeting, and paid no attention to the ruckus. As Moonunit was dragged out like chattel, work did not stop. Slogging in the mill er-office, pushing out live fetuses as fast as they could, and being good employees required concentration. In the Copulating Room, fucking went on, and lots of it. In the Birthing Room, seconds after the dragging, another female died, and she was unceremoniously cast into the fire bin on the first floor.

The day simply went on. Dark screams were heard intermittently throughout the tunnels that ran in circles throughout the building, and occasionally the fire bin burned redder for a few seconds.

A decades-old, five-foot-by-five foot agency-issued poster on the wall outside the Boss’s Office read, as it always had, and always would:

Agency 9: Burger Tasters and Baby Makers.

That was almost all that happened at Agency 9 on that day.

Part 3: But yeh…About THAT
A bit later, Bob Longtimerwhogaf, an Agency 9 employee for 25 years, looked up slightly from his preferred work station. He’d been parked at the same desk for nearly two decades – conveniently next to the coffee pot.

As Bob glanced upward, there was The Boss. Bob – a real human – swallowed slowly, nervously surprised, his low expectations briefly buoyed by the “big man” being at his desk.

(By the way, if you saw Bob’s desk, you’d see it really is more of a bench).

“We’ve thought deeply about your recent request for promotion,” said The Boss, a hand still bloody from his baby burger. One hologrammed hand held up his “I’m the Boss lean” on Bob’s “desk”. A crumb from the burger bun was stuck in his eyebrow, and one of his hooves was coming out of his shoe – just slightly – almost as if it had been planned that way.

Bob pretended not to notice the crumb or the shoe. Mushrooms were well known to have a predisposition for getting super angry if they thought mere humans were on to their charade.

Fake it ‘til you make it, thought Bob. I hope he is promoting me to Head Copulatoror that he at least doesn’t know about my encounter after Hoop Ball with Sharon Moonunit.

“We’re going to have to pass on moving you up to a Copulater at this time,” said the Boss, in a bored monotone, not even looking Bob in the eye, yawning. “But we want you to know how much we value your contributions to this team.”

The Boss dropped Form 1,25,23123,456,789-abcd-GWQ-398-JGU76z Part A at Bob’s “desk,” which was stained with blood and marked with knife wounds from years of hard work.

“Here’s a copy of your request, and my denial, for your records,” said The Boss. He chuckled a little, or maybe he cleared his throat a bit. It was tough for Bob to tell, as it was barely audible.

The Boss turned around and shuffled away quickly. His feet/hooves/shoes scratched against the base of the tunnel and his forked tail peeked out from the bottom of his right pant leg like a lost snake. The Big Shroom, The Boss, limping a bit, and with a slight lurch, a lurch barely noticeable, left the dangling shoe behind. The Boss ignored the noise when it fell off, seeming to tease Bob into saying something. Almost like it was planned.

Without even thinking about speaking, because he knew better, Bob grabbed another fetus and dropped it into the burger grinder on his desk.

Chin up, no promotion, no big deal Bob thought as he ground and ground and ground, smiling about the fact the Boss had come to his desk for the first time in 25 years. There’s always next time.

Author Bio:
Brasi Hyatt is a resident of upstate New York. He is the former managing editor of Conservationist magazine, and his band Flakjacket has toured throughout Canada and New England. His new musical collaboration is called #themashup. A debut album will be released in 2019. Now he’s writing fiction, too, because writing songs does not allow him to effectively purge his crazy ideas.


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