The Saragun Civil War by Leila Allison

Auntie Bellum

Every society must schedule at least one civil war during its existence. It appears to be an unwritten cosmic law. Far be it from Saragun Springs to scoff at unwritten cosmic laws by continuously living in peace when such is considered abnormal.

So we took advantage of a little dust up between two residents of the realm and staged a Civil War last Tuesday. It began at 9 AM sharp (which, around here, seldom arrives before noon) and was scheduled to end before Happy Hour (which arrives earlier every day). But when nobody came back after lunch (scheduled for two, but taken at “9:15”) the affair was scrubbed and it became the sort of non result that both sides claimed as victory. Although “suppose we gave a war and nobody came back after lunch” doesn’t quite measure up to the profundity of the Sandberg line, we proudly claim to have come the closest to making the grade.

In a twisted, acidy way our Civil War was a reenactment of a conflict that never really took place (except for Big Talk). Some people might say that a reenactment of a non-event boggles the mind. But we of the Springs must ask how can a species that has never enjoyed a day without war in its entire existence be boggled by anyone or thing but itself?

Anyway, our little Civil (both tiff and spat, are more accurate) War began because talking herbivores are quick to lose their tempers and resorted to name calling and writing Big Checks with their mouths.

Witness:

The Haggisly Incident

Our Civil War began idiotically enough. Daisy Kloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess was playing in a Scrabble Tourney against a Lamb named Shaytan Shotten (the Grand Poobah of the Saragun Springs’ state of “Lambystan”). There is a bit of a tense rivalry between the closely related herbivores and it often raises its head during so-called friendly competitions. Soon enough insults got into the tiles, and when Daisy coined the adverb “haggisly,” it caused Shaytan to flip the board. I wasn’t there but I heard that both parties reared menacingly on their back hooves until the Second in Command of the Springs, and Tourney Judge, Renfield, got them to calm down.

Renfield informed me that there were a lot of “this ain’t over” flavored comments issued as the two trotted off in separate directions. Renfield declared the match a “mistrial” and that it would be rescheduled as soon as everyone “got her undies out of a bunch.”

Unknowingly the seeds of War were sown.

The Declaration of Sex Session

A couple of days down the line, Renfield entered the office, carrying a document.

“The Lambs have faxed another article of ‘sex session.’”

“Fax? Why not smoke signals?”

“They say they want Daisy’s head on a Pike–the fish, or an apology. They also want to re-renegotiate their bedtime.”

“Not again,” I said. Still, I was in a rare mood in which I promised myself I wouldn’t drink before noon unless I had a good reason. That was a good enough reason.

“Bring that pitcher and glasses over, would ya?” I asked as I pulled jugs of vermouth, gin and olives from my desk. For the next twenty minutes, Renfield and I contributed to the long, ongoing history of the martini.

We were both getting into our third when I asked her what the Woollie’s new complaint was all about. At the time I knew nothing about the dust up at the tourney (or I was told and chose not to listen). But as Renfield told me it all made sense in the usual twisted way. As you probably have deduced, “sex session” is their mature way of declaring secession. They had done so before when they objected to their mandatory bedtime of nine on school nights. I shouldn’t have caved in so easily.

As if on cue, Daisy trotted into the office wearing a military cap (which sported seven stars), a pair of aviator shades and white ascot. She was missing a pipe, but since that would have made speaking difficult and is not an object easily manipulated by hooves, Daisy had omitted it from her Douglas MacArthur ensemble (which was for the best because she doesn’t smoke anyway). She was apparently “attended by her attache” Pie-Eyed Peety, the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon (a living cartoon beer mascot), who wore an enlisted Pigeon’s cap that had three stripes on it.

Peety drunkenly flew onto my desk, as always perpetually blasted as hell, and stuck his beak in my martini and then washed that down from the bottomless can of PDQ Pilsner he totes wherever he goes. Peety is “drawn” on the surface of reality. He’s a two-dimensional, limned toon, but he does change colors in keeping with his mood. After sucking down the extra booze, he turned seaweed green.

“Don’t you dare yark on my desk, you little skid mark,” I told him. He ignored me and lay down for a nap on top of the dictionary I keep on my desk for old times’ sake.

Daisy climbed the ramp that gives small, flightless realm citizens access to my desk. There she stood, in all her military majesty.

“I see your generalship already knows about the ‘sex session,’” I said.

“I have not yet begun to fight!” Daisy stated proudly.

“You’re dressed like MacArthur and quote John Paul Jones,” I said.

“Wasn’t he in Led Zeppelin?” Renfield, ever her useful self, chimed in, even though everyone who knows anything about classic rock could see that yuk coming from a full thirty fathoms.

“Um, Daisy, I just heard about you getting into it with a Woollie at the Scrabble Tourney,” I said, examining my drink for Pigeon backwash. “Something about name calling creeping into the tiles–mainly your tiles.”

“The spoilly spoil sport flippingly flipped the boardly board–that means warly war,” Daisy, being an adverb addict, was especially eloquent while ignoring her role as the chief cause of the problem.

“War is a triple-score helly hell,” said Renfield, “best decided at the scrabble table.”

“‘And out of here faster than shit through a Goose’–Dean Vernon Wormer, Animal House,” Peety said in his sleep.

“That sounds like a great idea–what Renny said, not, well whatever he just spouted,” I said. “And before you object oh mighty Hooved One, you may choose what the spoils are if you should win.”

“Iffly if?” Daisy snorted. “Thatly will be the dayly day.”

And it was so decided that the match that had ended in that “mistrial” would decide the outcome of the Civil War. Faxes were sent and the terms were thrashed out and the battle was set to appear in a field in the Enchanted Woods. Still, maybe a backstory is in order. If Daisy won, haggisly would become an official word, if it went the other way, Daisy would have to express her support for Critical Graze theory, in which Goats systematically (and erroneously) consider themselves superior to Sheep (who say it is the other way around).

Why are the Lambs such little entitled monsters instead of sweet cuddly creatures, you might ask? Well, the Anita Know Function (Saragun Springs’ Virtual Assistant, a for real ghost in the machine, not a metaphorical one, either) will explain:

“In 2024, several thousand Scottish Blackface Sheep entered Saragun Springs via an accidental opening of the interdimensional vortex that connects us to Earth and other realms. There is no such thing as an illegal alien in the Springs, so they were welcomed aboard. We have extended a standing offer to return any Sheep to Scotland at any time, but to date none have elected to return to the Old Country, possibly due to the fact that they are not on the menu in the Springs nor are they harassed by Dogs.

“The Sheep have remained normal Sheep after crossing over, but ever since any Lamb born in the Springs is a Talking Lamb. The Lambs are intelligent, precocious and obnoxious little brats of the highest order, these are not mild mannered Lambs. Thus we established a Rock and Roll Lamb School run by our resident Witch HeXopatha.

“Even though there are no other school age creatures in the realm, a faction at the school has introduced Critical Graze Theory to the students. The proponents say that the school is a thinly disguised Lamb reservation.”

Sigh.

Someday They Will Give a War and Everyone Will Go to Lunch

Further faxes determined that the Civil War would be a team resumption of the Scrabble match that ended with the infamous “haggisly” incident, and no longer a one on one affair. Daisy chose her drunken au de camp Peety, while Shaytan first enlisted the aid of the recently born Buckfast the Geep–who despite being half Goat, half Sheep is the Lambystan’s Chosen One. But she changed her mind because A.) Buckfast is Daisy’s half brother; B.) Bucky is gleefully illiterate and wishes to remain so.

A further complication involved the fact that Peety, though not completely illiterate, has a vocabulary limited to quotes from 80’s slobcoms and action films. In fact, you have to look long and hard throughout Saragun Springs to find individuals who have the basic skills necessary for scrabble. And even the ones who can will pretend they can’t because they find life to be easier that way.

Since Lambystan is really the Lamb School campus, nearly all of its citizens are literate (save for Buckfast), but it was decided (by me, for I too can be unreasonable) that two of the same species cannot be teams (“diversity” is often the soul of unreasonableness). Shaytan selected a Black Rat named Melanie, who is one of the Great HeXopatha’s minions. Any positive number in the Rat literacy rate is a stunner, yet Melanie can read, having learned the skill in service of her Master.

Juan Gee, a human-sized Allosaurus who gained Saragun Springs sanctuary after being rescued from a science fiction movie on earth, was Daisy’s choice. Juan is a Mexican-American-Jurassic actor, and learned to read even though his lines were usually limited to various roars and grunts. Juan is a sweet person, although he is currently under the delusion that he is “Kathy” in Kate Bush’s various Wuthering Heights’ videos. Hey, if it makes him happy, right? Besides, maybe it is true. Anyway, Juan arrived at the war in the red dress. Quite fetching, actually.

The table was set as there were the three chairs (Juan’s tail serves as his “chair”–he curves it “in” and rests on it).

Naturally this is when and where new bullshit dropped.

“He can’t sit like that,” Shaytan kvetched, pointing at Juan.

“How come?” Judge Renfield asked. “He can’t sit any other way, nor could you if you had a big tail.”

“I dunno,” Shaytan said craftily. “He might be able to see what I’m going to play.”

“That’s the objectively object of the game, you dunderly dunderhead,” Daisy said.

Then both she and Shaytan raised onto their back hooves, like before. Fortunately, the board had yet to be laid, or someone would have flipped it.

“Ah, Jesus,” I said, watching from my office. I muted the volume and gazed out my window. A Butterfly zipped past, and there were little Sparrows and Finches and Ladybugs. It was all pretty zippity-do-dah, out my window.

On the tablet that held the Civil War, however, when I finally looked back at it, both Daisy and Saytan were seated again. But this time both of them were seated with their backs facing each other. Melanie the Rat and Juna Gee were away from the table, on which the board had yet to be placed, chatting and laughing. It was a time for decisive action.

“Tell you what, gang,” I said into my microphone, which connected to speakers Penrose the Flying Weasel had placed in the trees. “Why don’t you break for lunch–pizza all around, on me,” I said. That cleared the area in no time.

I spent the rest of the day drinking martinis, smoking, gazing at verdant nature and occasionally glancing at the War tablet. But no one came back to the table.

Daisy and Renfield finally wandered in after a while; neither said anything about the War and I certainly did not bring it up.

So, here we are, stuck for a wow ending. Over two-thousand words spent on something that almost happened twice should say something. Could use that as a cheap literary symbol against war. But symbols against wars are almost as annoying as the wars are themselves. So, I closed the file. And placed it under “Ugsome stuff that goes nowhere.”

Through the open window, toward Lambystan, I heard a large rumbling, like thunder. I went to the window and saw what appeared to be a giant geyser of caramel colored foam in the distance. This was accompanied by the combined cheers of many Lamb voices.

Daisy and Renfield paid no attention. They were setting up the Monopoly board.

“Um, do either of you know what happened to the mentos and diet coke the Boss sent through the vortex last month?” (The stuff “she” sends greatly enlarges upon passing through the vortex. Two litre bottles become the size of torpedoes.)

“I think that should be obvious to you by nowly now,” Daisy said, pretending to choose between the game tokens, before selecting, as always, “The Boot.”

“Right?” Renfield added. “You really need to know how to let things go.” (For the record, she picked “The Hat.”)

There was a second instance of rumbling, a geyser and cheers coming from Lambystan.

“All righty,” I said. I was sitting at a crossroad of the soul. I could continue the pointless war or I could just let it go.

I closed the window and chose “The Iron.”

Leila