Bibamus, Moriendum Est

“Rage.”

“What?”

“Love them. Fucking Tom Morello man.”

“Right.”

Sing, Danton, of the endless contest, that fell many a cup to errant shot, and many a player to errant drink. Sing, Danton the Earthshaker, Surveyor of Man, sing of the great games upon the tattered lawn, under the spiteful moon, waging eternal chaos upon the near-flung waves, riding in forever as if on the breath of Poseidon, the way a chorus will build and build, on a feted bed of strings and winds, rising and rising at the urging of man and instrument, until finally crashing, with a mighty explosion, only to begin it all once more. So the waves come on, under the watch and pull of the moon, and so the games are played, so the battle is drawn, so the sides are well-chosen, and the champions well-fitted, plied amply with drink, wine like the wine-dark sea, ale of light and dark like the passing of days and nights, libations from strange lands filled with strange effects—sing, Danton, in your husky growl, your triumphant call, your indifferent bark and mighty bulk, sing of the folly and the glory of man.

So barking Danton looked on, as brave James, Son of Rick, Drinker of All, took gravely his own council, and the council of those nearest him, as the contest wore on. 

“Damn.”

Like the felling of a mighty forest, richly filled with many old and mighty trees, in order to build of solid wall and heavy door a great mead hall, so Danton, Surveyor of Man, came forward on his heavy paws, thundering on the trampled grass and carried sand, to the place where stood brave James among his council, imbibing healthily the spirits of the fabled northlands. 

“This vodka is strong, M.”

Sage Madeleine, Scribbler of Word, answered him. “Now you’re just making excuses for why you can’t make a cup to save your life.”

“Where the hell is Emma?” 

“She’s with Anna. I think she’s sick or something.”

“Well that’s just great.”

“What am I, dog meat?”

“Nah, its just, you know. Emma and I always play together. It’s a twin thing. It’s Emma. She’s incredible. When she’s not off having the same argument with Anna for the seventh time this week.”

Madeleine surveyed the state of the contest with sage eyes, with years of battle behind her, with troubles yet within her soul. How many times had she fought this same fight, the way a rapid river, running rapidly through the country, will grind down the rock and the stone, again and again carving through that solid edifice? So had sage Madeleine, over many years and under many moons, thrown herself into battle. And once more did she prepare to engage, once more did she make ready snapping elbow and flicking wrist, gentle finger and focused eye. For many years did she and brave James do battle with each other, many times did they find themselves on opposing ends of the stained and smeared table, she and Rick’s son, with the father himself, as those small feuds which mark the bonds of brothers played themselves out beyond the patio in the trampled grass. Yet now they stood shoulder to shoulder, arrayed together against the common enemy, lounging Alex with his mouth full of words and fearsome Henry, he of dark hair and consistent shot. For nine long songs now, nine shuffles of the communal playlist, calling out from the ale-smeared speaker, had they waged their contest, and far from certain was the outcome. In vain did James, Drinker of All, look to the patio doors for the image of his sister, locked in conversation in another world. The image of Anna, Bringer of Plurabilites, Distractor of Emma, appeared, unhemmed and uneven, in the flickering light of the thumbprinted glass. James sighed. Sage Madeleine, boldly taking up her place, nodded. “Yeah, yeah I know. We could use her. Not looking great.”

Wise Danton, Surveyor of Man, bearing in his sharp fangs and weighty jowls a firm stick, leapt across the grass and tossed it far, far, towards the ancient tree beyond the land of men. 

James ran a steady hand through curling hair. “I know. We can’t lose to these idiots.”

“We just need to make a few here. Get some momentum back.”

Brave James scowled at her and said, “wonderful advice.”

“I know what it is. You can’t focus because you’re still in love with Hannah.”

James, brave leader and fearless drinker, tried again his potent glass. “That’s absurd. One, never was in love with her to being with. Two, ancient history.”

“You’re so obsessed with beating the dude who stole your girlfriend you can’t concentrate. And now you’re blaming Emma and taking me down with you.”

Danton, back from the place where no man goes, beyond the great tree, returned to keep watch over James and Madeleine, allied in common cause. The words thus spoken were, like the heavy bells of an awesome church which sound out for all to hear and mark the hour, ringing true in the ears of many. For while oh so many moons had passed, and waves broke, and games played, since the heady days now spoken of, wise Danton, Surveyor of Man, knew not to trifle with the affairs of the heart, and knew too how long might a wound linger, in the breast of mortal man, even one so Brave and Fearless as James. Many years had by then gone by since Danton walked slowly with, and received scratches from, that alluring woman beyond the table, across the battle lines, set fast behind the enemy camp. And how shameful indeed had been the day, when Alex, now arrayed on the far side of the moon-filled night, standing firm in that position of strength made for him by fearsome Henry, longtime brother-in-arms, closing perhaps upon a mighty victory, had made so bold as to ask Fair Hannah for a evening free, so soon after James and she had parted ways. 

From golden chalice, from amber-tinged vessel, from glass like amethyst where the moonlight came through like divine inspiration, Madeleine drank a beer. And on she continued, leveling her accusations like sure-eyed spears. “Why did you even invite them, anyway?”

“I didn’t! They’re just here. It’s fate.”

“Right.” Sage Madeleine, eyeing the field with a knowing eye, offered council in this time of darkness. “First, can we get the patio lights on? I can’t see anything. Second, we just need to make a cup here and regroup.”

“Alright.”

As when a sprawling army, making good its approach in the cover of the last of the night, before the rose-fingered dawn ascends for its solemn ritual, nears the enemy encampment and suddenly, with a single motion, alights their torches and their flames and comes on as one in a blaze of murderous and thunderous fire, so did the trampled and crowded backyard come alive with light and shadow when James flipped up the switch.

“Tryin’ anything, huh,” came the call from across the contested ground, from beyond the opposing lines, from the far side of the embattled table, spoken by that much-gloried competitor, that stranger from a strange land, that long-antagonist to brave James, lounging Alex.

Danton the Earthshaker, stomping his stomping paws and flapping his flapping ears, snuffed the ground with awesome disdain at this rather petty remark.

“Shut up,” said James, tossing a verbal dart of his own. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

“That’s the kinda impressive language they use at USC doctoral programs now, wow.”

“Just trying to keep it mostly monosyllabic so you can understand.”

Fearsome Henry, longtime brother-in-arms, nonetheless laughed at his partner’s expense. Lounging Alex with lounging arm around the shoulders of fair Hannah, seemingly to make a point, scoffed while drinking from the spirits he’d borne with him.

“Are we gonna play or what?”

James, beset on all sides by the troubles that prey upon man, rummaged through the cooler for another beer. “Yes, we’re playing. Getting a drink if that’s alright with you.”

The patio light, like yellow-robed Dawn, came rolling down the rough-hewn steps to shine upon the ground, where all around the contested table lay, like so much blood from the wounds of heroic warriors and their mighty steeds, spilled beer by the gallon, absorbing with mournful splash and prophetic swash the heavy steps of wise Danton. The lines of competitors, arrayed against one another the way the great peaks of a mountain range, divided down the center by a raging valley, will stare in eternal animus at the faces of their rivals; so did the humans face off across the table, weighed down by the trivial worries of man.

“Let’s get on with it.”

Triumphal music carrying siren calls, with a dash of Top-40 thrown in for good measure, cleaved the loose-lipped night with the fluid, practiced motion of the butcher, toiling away for years amongst innards and sinew, hacking and cutting to the specifications of others, rendering once-majestic beasts to wax-wrapped entrées and bleeding menu fixtures. So the night split and the song carried and the ball flew and good was made upon the battle.

“Bibamus, moriendum est,” spoke James loudly like the loud cries of war, in a proclamation, recitation, peroration. He was really into it.

Bathic Alex, adorned dubiously in the garments of a smaller man, synthetic cotton stretched tight against modest pectoral, aimed and missed, aimed and missed. He blamed the music, and the drink, and the wind and the light and the uneven ground. But did he blame the mirror, or the vanity therein? Did he blame the t-shirt, emblazoned with the Apple logo and wrapped inflexibly around the bicep? Danton the Earthshaker, Surveyor of Man, snuffed the ground and pawed the ground and let loose a ferocious bellow, scattering from the thick branches of the thick-trunked tree the nighthawks from their lofty vigil, casting copious canine dispersions in the direction of foolish Alex.

And yea, did his folly provide an opening, for Imbibing James, brave and tipsy, finally made a goddamn cup. 

“Finally!” Madeleine said, knowing now the contest grew closer. Her sage eye fell upon indifferent Hannah, applying scented balm to peeling tattoo and rich wine to smooth lips. Her sage eye moved back, covering the distance between the warring sides as simply and smoothly as the eagle, resting atop the prevailing winds, rides on kind Aeolus’ shoulders to and from the nest. On her own side she found James, celebrating his much-required make with a smoldering, forlorn glance across to that place her own eye had late departed. Sage Madeleine, Scribbler of Word, now held her words, for silence oft becomes the wise, and they’d already been over it a dozen times before. 

On and on did the battle wage, with off-the-rim tragedy and bouncing heroics, with wild blunder and steely determination from either end of the contested ground. The crowd had gathered round, offering darting scratches and roughing pets to the head of Danton the Earthshaker, to let fall their gaze upon the extended conflict, to let fall their words upon the tactics of the warriors. None in memory could recall so long a game, none in memory could recall so fierce a combat. None in memory could recall whose phone was connected to the speaker, or how to change the song. Cups were toppled like so many trees in a forest abutting a thriving, growing town, and beer was spilled like so many tears from the eyes of the mothers and the wives and the sons and the daughters of those famous heroes slain in battle. Under the sun-bright moon, and the wine-dark sky, and the stars overhead like the watchful eyes of intervening gods, did brave James and sage Madeleine contest the issue against their formidable foe. But as they shot and as they bounced, as they sipped and as they sang (for the music played on, chagrining the neighbors and keeping the beat), slowly did the tide turn against them, gradually did it appear that lounging Alex, carried along by fearsome Henry, would win the day, would rout the man whom he so offended, long ago.

Like a known orator, or an actor upon the stage, performing one of Tragedy’s eternal roles, after preparing and rehearsing for many an hour and many a night, with polished movement and confident gesture, with graceful step and practiced gait, comes once more unto the spotlight to take their leading turn, so did Henry, stepping to the front lines of battle, make his presence know. For cup after cup did he make, driving back all resistance and proving to all why famous was his name.

Basic gestures of congratulation, palms meeting with a sharp force the way the wheels of the bouncing trundle cart, clamoring noisily down the dirt path, driven on by aged horses of questionable disposition, will collide, again and again and again, with the earth over which they spin, were shared between lounging Alex and fearsome Henry at this latest success. Danton the Earthshaker, Surveyor of Man, shook his shaking head, flapped his flapping ears, stomped his stomping paws, as he looked on at this latest turn of Fortuna’s fickle wheel.

“Well shit.” Thus spoke Sage Madeleine.

Brave James, eyes set across the table to his foe, across the years to his past, across the yard to the cooler, saw all those things he might have had, but which now seemed surely lost. For for the enemy only did one cup remain, while a host of crepitant plastic, arrayed in red like blood and in white like spirits, sat facing James, unstruck and unmade, presenting in their awesome number an awesome force to be overcome.

“We made a brave stand,” he said, turning with heavy brow and heavy heart to Madeleine, peering into the glow of her phone.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Fuck these guys.”

The Song of the Siren jumped ahead, now in the guise of early Pearl Jam, and the light, like yellow-robed Dawn, came from the porch, and a great cry was given up amongst the crowd and amongst the wind, and James turned, and he looked, and beheld his once and future partner, broken free of the heavy chains of conversation, coming down the rough-hewn steps like a feted monarch, like a sterling debutante, like a disguised god trifling with the affairs of man. Forward came Emma, Maker of Cups, bearing fresh drinks and rushed apologies. 

“Sorrysorry, are we still playing?”

A mighty howl came from across the table, lounging Alex and fearsome Henry in vocal unity.

“No no no. You can’t just bring in a ringer when you’re about to lose.”

Like spilled wine running rapidly from the toppled bottle, did righteous indignation spread across the again-fiery visage of Imbibing James, Son of Rick, Drinker of All. “She’s on my team! M was just filling in.”

Sage Madeleine looked up from her phone. “Right, definitely. Here you go, Em.”

“This is such bullshit.”

Mighty Emma, Maker of Cups, caught smoothly the tossed projectile from the flicking fingers of far-seeing Madeleine, taking as she did a mighty drink of her mighty drink. “My shot?”

On did Alex glare, and on did the eyes of Henry roll, as Emma, Maker of Cups, drove before her all crepitant plastic, with red like blood and white like spirits, before unmade.

“Hell yeah,” said James, raising dark eyebrows in the dark night towards lounging Alex and indifferent Hannah, whom he’d loved so long ago.

In vain did the enemy watch, from behind their encampments and their embattlements, and in joy did James watch, with drink in hand and praise on lips, and in wise silence did Danton watch, jowls heavy and coat thick, and not really did Madeleine watch, distracted by changing the music and kinda over it at this point, as Emma, Maker of Cups, drove all before her, and vanquished all in front of her, and proved to all watching her, and bathed in the yellow light from the porch like yellow-robed Dawn, and awash in the sounds of the speaker like the cries of Sirens, and enwrapped in the wind from the ocean like the breath of Poseidon, and illuminated under the overhead moon hanging high overhead glistening and still the way an ancient lake, deep and wide with the blue secrets of the water, will sit without ripple or current in the place frequented only by fleet-footed gods, the surface like glass and the depths like memory, for years and years untouched by man or wind, so did the moon hang above the brave head of a brave combatant—and thus bathed and thus awash and thus enwrapped and thus illuminated, did mighty Emma, Maker of Cups, end the game longer than all games, and vanquish the foe before all foes, and right the wrongs made so long ago, and, upon closing so Mighty and Bold a chapter in History, turn to those remaining to bear witness and declare to all, god and beast and man, whist mounted sturdily upon the apex of conquest, and in view of all from the peak of triumph, and high atop the summit of Victory, that she could use another drink.