Two Things Really Crazy

Peter and Eric sat at their usual chess table over tea and crackers in the latter's manor. The cardinal's arm had healed so he could wear his robes again and the taipan was smoking.

"I hear you, ah," said Peter after sipping his cup of tea and putting it down on the table, "ordered Vincent to remove the pituitary glands from some of those cultists."

"What about it?"

"That was too extreme-"

"Would you prefer if I had them all done away with? Besides, it was Vincent's decision not to use anesthetics on a few of those fakers."

The cardinal pondered for a moment in silence. "Could you tell me more about those people?" he then asked. "Your son doesn't want to talk about them and your wife knows next to nothing, only that you were involved with them for some time."

Eric crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and moved a piece on the board. "I'd rather forget about those people," he said. "I'd say my son and I were duped by what I'd refer to as 'spiritual greed.'"

"'Spiritual greed?'"

"Oh, appealing to one's awareness to the frailties of human existence by claiming a cure for them only to find out that such claims are bogus."

"Could you elaborate?"

Eric poured tea into his cup and leaned back on his chair. "Here comes this group one day, claiming that you can become successful if you join them and adhere to their teachings," he began. "You attend their free seminar and they teach you some meditations and and exercise that's really painful. They claim you'll become successful if you practice them for a total of two hours and thirty minutes a day. After some hesitation and subsequent assurance from friendly people, you join that group."

Peter took a cracker and spread butter on it. Eric leaned forward, picked up his cup and took a sip. He put it back on its saucer, leaned back on his chair and continued, "The moment you join, you're handed materials about stuff you learned about in Asian history back in high school."

"Such as?"

"History of India, the Aryan conquest, the creation of the caste system, the making of that system and all that comes with it religious law like reincarnation and karma."

Peter bit his cracker as Eric went on, "Only this time they elaborate on it more. They talk about mystical systems like Kabbalah and alchemy-"

"I've heard of Kabbalah," remarked Peter.

"Yes, Jewish Kabbalah, not Hermetic Kabbalah. But anyway, so they show this stuff and they suddenly introduce this Indian stuff and in comes ideas like the world is an illusion and the absolute necessity of devoting oneself to the guru as a prerequisite to liberation from the cycle of karma. They make you attend these so-called 'transmissions of energy' to make you advance on the path to enlightenment... And you know what?"

"What?"

"They say their lessons are free but charge you handsomely for their 'energy transmission sessions,' you can't receive their supposedly free lessons if you don't don't pay monthly dues, there are different subgroups with corresponding lessons and dues -might I add that they encourage you to join all of them- they teach you that enlightenment is the only true success and wealth isn't necessary-"

"Well, wealth isn't a goal in itself," interrupted Peter, finishing his cracker.

"Of course, it's not an end in itself," Eric went on. "But it does form part of the hierarchy of needs, if you remember Maslow."

Peter nodded. "Of course," he said. "I remember Maslow." He poured himself another cup of tea and made a move on the board as Eric continued his story.

"Then they have people they call monks, their so-called 'battery of the order.' These people supposedly don't receive salaries. For some strange reason, these so-called monks aren't like the monks we're familiar with."

"In what way?"

"Well, you know that the monks we met back in our seminary days were fairly normal people: benedictines, franciscans, carmelites, and even the buddhists and daoists we met on our exposures were normal people. They were not like these monks of this group, no, these monks were different. They were so full of themselves. They believed themselves to be god-men in the making and some of them lorded it over the others to the point that they made threats and maltreated some of the members. Are we supposed to donate to these people? I know that every religious order and the Church, for that matter, have grievance machineries but these people don't have them. What they have is their guru, whom they believe is a god, and the leaders of the subgroups who are supposedly enlightened. And that guru of theirs is a chain-smoking, beer-guzzling, old pervert."

"I see where you're heading," said Peter as he sipped his tea.

"And do you know the absolute worst thing is about this group?"

"What?"

"They've been able to fool a good many people into joining the group but from what I observed, the only successful people in that group were already successful before they joined it. And to think that the teachings they claim are ancient and authentic were actually downloaded, copy-pasted, edited and photocopied."

Peter chuckled slightly as he set his cup down. "And how did you find that out?"

"A former 'monk' spilled the beans."

"So in the end they turned out to be a bunch of frauds," Peter concluded. "Checkmate."

"Oh shit," sighed Eric, looking at the board. "Don't tell me you weren't listening."

"Oh, I was listening, Eric."

Eric lit another cigarette.

"So they raked in millions while posing as non-profit," Peter continued. "How much did you lose to them?"

"About seventeen thousand and five hundred pesos."

"Philippine or EOGC?"

"Philippine."

"But why fume over that amount? It's not really of any consequence, considering the money you make."

"That's true, but that doesn't give them the right to do what they did."

"And the rest is history," said Peter, taking another sip of his tea.

"The guru dies, his immediate subordinates quarrel over the money, the scandal's made public and in the end, they do something really crazy."

"Two things really crazy," Peter corrected him.

"Two things really crazy." Eric repeated. He blew a puff of smoke.

The Bar Files 1

Anselmo Sanchez laughingly set his mug of beer down. "Man, you got your job easy," he rambled. "Just sleep while the damn lawyers scream themselves hoarse."

Roderick Torres finished his beer and handed the mug over to the bartender for a refill. It was Friday night, the beer was bottomless and they had been drinking non-stop. "The work's easy," he remarked. "The pay's horrible. If I ever get married, my wife's gonna have to have a job that pays at least as much as mine."

"But you're a judge, JT!"

"Big title, low pay."

The bartender handed JT back his mug. "How much do you make?" JT asked him. "Basic pay?"

"About SS45."

"You see?" JT said to Anselmo, pointing at the bartender. "This guy makes almost as much money as I do!"

"Ever tried resigning?"

"They begged me to stay. It's an 'honorable profession,' they said," JT grumbled. He took a large gulp of beer as Anslemo, handed his mug to the bartender for a refill.

"And they didn't increase your salary," Anselmo concluded.

"What do they think we are, priests?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"At least the priests have it easy."

"I don't think so," said a voice.

Both turned to Anselmo's right and beheld a priest calmly sipping a glass of rum. Anselmo went pale and leaped up with a "Yipe!"

"What's with the 'yipe?'" asked the priest. "I drink as much as everyone else does."

"You mind introducing me to your friend?" asked JT.

They both looked at Anselmo, who was still petrified.

"I'm Father Lorenzo Guevarra," said the priest, extending a hand.

"Judge Rodreick Torres, MTC," said JT, shaking the priest's hand. "So you two know each other?"

"Sort of."

"Hey, I know you," said JT, pointing at the priest. "You were one of Cardinal Zhang's proteges. Yeah, you were famous. The guy with the violin."

"I'm flattered," said Lorenzo. "Yes, I was famous, going on world tours, working with orchestras."

"You still play the violin?"

Lorenzo nodded.

"Hey," said JT, leaning forward. "Is it true you can drink like and elephant and not get drunk?"

"Who told you that?"

JT looked at Anselmo, who was still petrified. Lorenzo followed his gaze.

"Hey, I'm bored to death," said JT. "Why don't you and me try something?"

"Such as?"

A table was chosen and a bartender summoned. Both parties decided to contribute to the cost. The drink of choice was wine. Whoever got knocked out last was the winner. Before the still-petrified Anselmo, the combatants took their seats.

"Before we begin," said Lorenzo. "Let me give a slight suggestion."

He turned to the bartender. "Bartender," he said, "give us the oldest wines you got."

The bartender began with a 2009 Chablis. In less than thirty minutes, it was depleted with neither side defeated. Next was a 2009 Pinot Grigio. That, too, failed to put either one down.

"You're really good at this, aren't you?" muttered JT.

"Not really," Lorenzo replied. "Just had a lot of practice."

A 2010 Cabernet Shiraz came next. Both were now starting to feel the effects but neither gave up.

"Wanna give up?" asked JT.

"Give up? I'm just getting all warmed up!"

An unmarked (but rather old) Sherry came next.

"I'm ruling Spain!" cried JT."

"Give it up, Don Rodrigo!"

People were now placing bets. Some were on the judge, some on the priest.

A 2011 Pinot Noir came next. Now both were tipsy.

"Give it up, will ya?" said JT. "It's obvious you won't win."

Lorenzo filled his glass to the brim.

Next came a 2012 Cabernet Sauvignon. Both were now leaning over the table. Anselmo was still petrified. 

"Hey, what's his problem?" JT asked, pointing at Anselmo.

"Beats me."

An unmarked but old Moscato came in next.

Lorenzo put his head on the table halfway through the Moscato.

"I win!" JT roared triumphantly. He stood up, fell back down on his seat and slumped onto the table. He was asleep

Lorenzo straightened up and drank his last gulp. "Looks like I win," and slumped backwards.

It was closing time now, and there was no place to sleep in the bar. So the priest, the judge and the still-petrified Anselmo were brought out. The priest and judge were put on a bench while Anselmo was propped up behind them.

A few hours later, they awakened. It was still dark. "Hey, that was fun!" JT declared. "We should do it next time!"

"I try to avoid drinking too much," said Lorenzo.

"But, man you really live up to your reputation!"

"It's exaggerated. Look, I gotta go."

Lorenzo rose and noticed the half-finished bottle of Moscato on the bench. "You keep that," he said. "Or better yet, give it to your friend. Looks like he could use some."

JT glanced at Anselmo and turned back to Lorenzo. "Nice meeting you, padre," he said, holding out his hand.

"Nice meeting you, judge," Lorenzo said, shaking JT's hand. "I'll think about it. Drinking's not my only pastime, you know."

"Hey, how about violin lessons?"

"Sure," said the priest. He turned around and walked away. 

That instant, Anslemo came to. "Uh, what happened?" he asked.

The Laid-back Judge

It was afternoon in a municipal trial court in, well, a municipality (duh!) in Bukidnon. The two lawyers, one being the prosecutor and the other the lawyer for the defense, had been shouting themselves hoarse over a simple case of a peeping tom when they were suddenly interrupted by loud snoring. Turning their attention to the bench, their eyes came to rest on the judge.

The judge was young, only thirty. He was leaning back on his seat with his hands behind his head and his feet were on crossed and on the bench. Obviously, he was bored with this conversation which began as an opening argument and degenerated into a character assassination match with both lawyers questioning each other's personal backgrounds.

Judge Roderick F. Torres had been made a judge only last year. He was chosen to fill the post due to a lack of qualified members of the judiciary in EOGC territory. It was no surprise... He was, after all, a Bar topnotcher.

The two older lawyers looked intently at the judge and noticed that saliva was dribbling from the corner or his mouth.

How long has he been like that? they both thought.

Suddenly, the judge awoke. "Oh, uh, excuse me, gentlemen," he said, straightening up. "So what were we talking about?"

Both lawyers gaped in shock. He had been asleep the whole time while they were delivering their opening arguments.

"Your honor," demanded the prosecutor. "Does this mean, we have to go all the way back to the beginning? We've been doing this all day!"

"Well, yeah," said the judge. "All we've had all day are peeping tom and dead drunk cases all day. It's kinda boring."

"Boring?!" said both lawyers.

"Well, yeah," said the judge. "We've never had anything interesting going on in our little municipality. All I get to hear are brawls, drunks, perverts, and the occasional BP22. Nothing doing."

He stood up and walked down the bench as he continued, "besides, all I see everyday are your two faces. I wanna see something exciting for a change."

The two older lawyers grumbled.

"Hey, loosen up, will ya?" he said, turning to them. "It's not like the world's going to end."

He walked into his chamber and shut the door, leaving the two older men dumbfounded.

He took off his robe and draped it over his chair. He the flung open the door leading to the clerk's office and slung his coat over his shoulder. "Hey, it's Friday!" he said as he walked past everybody on the way out of the courthouse. "Make sure you finish everything early, 'kay?"

"Are you going to Cagayan, sir?" asked a girl who worked there as a stenography clerk. 

"Yeah, sure thing," said Torres with a smile. "If you like, I can let you come along."

"Maybe next time, sir," said the woman.

That said, Judge Roderick F. Torres waved a hand, walked out of the courthouse, put on his coat and loosened his tie. He then mounted his motorcycle and put on his helmet. "Well, the good thing about this boring job is that I don't have to get death threats," he said to himself.

That said, he drove off to Cagayan de Oro, which was only an hour's drive away. Friday night... He wouldn't  want to pass up the opportunity to hang out with his drinking buddy, Anselmo Sanchez.

Neo-Byzantium

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The Surgeon

Pinkie awoke to find himself strapped onto an operating table. Even his wrists and feet were bound. A large bandage was on his head. Around him were tables with surgical tools and equipment. There were people there, dressed in surgical gowns and preparing for an operation.

"W-w-w-where am I?" he mumbled.

"You are in Great South University Hospital," said a voice.

Pinkie turned his head slightly to the left to see where the voice was coming from and saw a man whose back was turned to him. This man was being helped into a surgeon's gown by two assistants.

"So it was you who shot Cardinal Zhang," the man continued, turning around. He had an effeminate face but the right side of it was hidden by a white mask.

A feeling of foreboding came upon Pinkie as the man approached him. "W-w-w-w-who are you?" he asked.

"I," said the man, "am Dr. Vincent Tejero Ordonez. I am the head of the hospital's trauma and emergency department, but that's just what my job description says. Some people call me "Dr. Frankenstein" because of the other things I do. And you Pinkie, or whatever your name is, are among the most unfortunate persons today. You know why? Let me tell you a story."

He approached the operating table and held up his hands for the assistants to put the surgical gloves on them.

"A long time ago," the man began, "there was an irresponsible drunkard gambler of a fisherman who was married and had five children. He also had a mistress who bore him a son. The fisherman hated this son but didn't stop using his mother. His family likewise hated the woman and her son. But because the woman was the maid of a well-to-do old widow, the money she earned kept the abuses at bay -most of them at least.

One day, the woman and her employer died in a car accident. The woman's parents couldn't take the shock of losing their only child, their only daughter, and died brokenhearted. The children of the old widow, who were by now living in Canada, came back to bury their mother. Although they were not familiar with the boy's circumstances, they gave him a handsome sum of money out of gratitude for what his mother had done for their mother and returned to Canada. The boy had completed his first year of college, then.

But the money didn't last long. It was plundered by his father and his other family and once the money had been used up, the boy was thrown out of the house. He wandered around, searching for work and managed to take a few odd jobs but it wore out his body. He fell sick often, with a weakened immune system. Leprosy set in and he suffered deformities as a result of secondary infections.

Because of this, looking for work became impossible and he was reduced to begging in the streets. People looked in horror at his wasted body, and the only thought left in him was to die. He hated himself and his family. But one day, while begging in the vicinity of the cathedral, a priest grabbed him and dragged him to the archbishop's palace. Fighting back was useless because the boy was already too weak. This was no ordinary priest because the other priests were bowing to him, and sometimes kissing his free hand. The priest threw the boy into an ambulance, which drove off to a hospital.

In that hospital, the boy was subjected to massive doses of medication in order to stop the disease and some surgery also to replace certain body parts that had been destroyed by the leprosy. He survived. Do you know who that priest was? It was Cardinal Zhang."

Pinkie shuddered as the masked doctor came closer and continued his tale. "The boy recovered and the cardinal decided to help him finish his studies and he was made a scholar of the EOGC. During those days, the boy decided to become a doctor and made up his mind to repay the cardinal's kindness. And do you know who that boy was? It was me."

The doctor took his mask off; the sight was terrifying.

While the left side of his face, as well as his mouth and nose, were normal the right was withered and shriveled.

"It was a mistake for you to shoot the cardinal," the doctor snarled. "By the time I'm through with you, you will wish Maximilian had sent you to your maker!"

An assistant fitted a surgical mask on the doctor's face and cap on his head. "The taipan ordered me to remove your pituitary gland," Ordonez continued. "Your so-called third eye-"

Pinkie started.

"But he didn't say I should do it painlessly! Let's put your cult's belief that 'this world is an illusion' to the test, shall we?" Ordonez sneered. "I'll show you they call me 'Frankenstein.'"

"We're ready to administer the anesthetic, sir," said an assistant.

"There won't be any," Ordonez said to him. "We'll just give him a paralytic."

Words of a mantra formed in Pinkie's mind. He began mumbling them out while another assistant administered something into his arm with a syringe.

Ordonez lifted his scalpel. "The cardinal would never approve of what I'm about to do," he hissed. "But I will do it for his own good!"

Pinkie screamed.

Let the Music Heal Your Soul

Lorenzo: This is another favorite of Cardinal Zhang's. Goes back to 1998 when the cardinal and the taipan had just graduated from college, "Let the Music Heal Your Soul" by Bravo All Stars.

Anselmo: Uh-huh.

Lorenzo: What's with the "uh-huh?" This is a nice version!

Anselmo: I know, I agree. Sheesh, you don't have to be so freaking uptight.

Life Goes on

Lorenzo: "Life Goes On" by LeAnn Rimes. Never mind the imagery. Concentrate on the song's message.

Anselmo: Hmmm... mardi gras in New Orleans, right? It's about learning from bad experiences, right?

Lorenzo: Right. Learn from the bad experiences so that you'll never fall for them again.

Anselmo: After you've been fooled, leave the trickster and get on with your life, and apply what you learned in order not to get suckered in again.

Lorenzo: It's another favorite song of the taipan.