The Proposition at Café Lemonade

“Oh,” said one, the taller of the four seated aliens, “You needn't tell me about Humans, Mr Skorsjeld. I have had my share of them.”

They sat quite amiably around an open air arrangement in the center of Citron City. Not Citron City, mind you, but Cit-ro, as the oh so historical French would have had it. Only the ever so gauche Humans would call it Citron City, and you simply musn't allow such base mockery to pass your lips. And it was in the middle of the city, the center, as it were; not the Rim Regions and not the Langor Elements or the Maker Rings. Only here, where these fine Citizens took their places outside the most desirable cafe, “Lemonade” could one be construed as a part of, well, anything of import.

Citron was, among the great aspirations of our grand Democraxic Empire, foremost. The skyscrapers scraped higher, the landscape more scaped of land, the subways more steeped of subterranean tao than any other grand city of the Empire. Why even passing by the very open air cafe were millions of grand alien lifeforms, all Voters By Heritage, because who else literally would have any business at the center of Citron? Many among these esteemed democraxia towed their hapless humans nearby on leashes, as was fashionable at this time. There was bustle and purpose lending pride to the leisure with which our worthy Citizens lounged over lambent conversation.

“But have you taken care to observe their rather queer stage dramas, Diarsing? I should say they are somewhat more than amusing to a piercing eye.” This second most worthy alien, unlike the first, was a squat immensity upon his hard and tiny metal chair. He sported a very wide head, virtually no neck at all, with a decidedly amphibian look for all of his fine attire. He had massive toad-like eyes over the barest slits for nostrils and an extremely wide mouth equipped with sharp triangular teeth.

Of the first it must be stated that his form diverged from any other in that he required no outer wear of any kind, his preference being the pure Mantis look. It was a fashion, that so-called 'purist' perspective. It wears on one rather swiftly, and it had undoubtedly worn on Skorsjeld, but although the Citizen also had rights, he clearly saw fit not to exercise them on this day.

Of the other two, one may be mentioned as a twist on the oh so dated bovine look, and the other a somewhat aquatic cetaceous approximation. Be aware, of course that “approximation” is a word abused rather loosely. One could hardly approve of the look so far from the sea. That these obviously confused Citizens were present seems to indicate their Esteemed Citizenry but beyond that, the matter can only devolve into greater confusion in and of itself. Largely, and gratefully, they said little, but seemed eager not to disagree with Diarsing or Skorsjeld.

“Factually Skorsjeld, you shouldn't say, since One has in fact beheld enough of their insipid plays to write a tome of critiques. I assure you no piercing eye that I know of has ever found anything but rabid hostility and even more maudlin drollery.”

“Do tell,” said Skorsjeld, pretending to inspect his delicately sharpened amphibian fingernails.

“Why certainly. Take for example any of their most precious plays, by the one they name Shakespeare- and, pray give me leave to note: The name itself clearly a drab mixture of words intended merely to loan inspiration to some strained aspirations of creativity. These unrealistic tales spout little more than hapless bungling fools screeching arias over the loss of sexual partners; and a waste of time at that, since most everyone dies in these shambling monstrosities. I tell you they are hours I will never retrieve from life.”

Skorsjeld clapped slowly and sarcastically, “Oh. Bravo, Diarsing, Bravo. Why Shakespeare himself couldn't have- Well no. He could have. Let's be honest. Had we employed the poor Human himself to be his worst critic, we would still have been entertained to a height beyond which your feeble mind would have collapsed under the weight of its own ignominy.”

Diarsing made to object, but Skorsjeld put up a hand, “Oh do shut up. It is widely known that you are pressing the Autonomous Democrax Authoritons to have the Humans sterilized, and all of your bland protestations about them lead only, and repetitively, to that. Be honest, Citizen. What are you threatened by? Look. I have mine here. Lannis is one of their finest dramatists.”

“I see you do not proscribe the leash for it,” Diarsing said.

“Lannis is neither base vermin nor pet, I will have you know. He comes and goes reliably as I need him- without command. We will not follow you into your usual traps my dear Diarsing. No discussion of their status today. I propose a test. Lannis will stir up sentiment using little but Shakespeare, and between us we will decide the fate of your ridiculous proposal right here and now.”

Diarsing sniffed, “Done! Here and now. Your creature will put on his show, and settle the issue.” There was little to sense from the alien's great glistening compound eyes, but within the vocal inflections, it seemed apparent that Diarsing barely disguised his duplicity.

For his part, Skorsjeld seemed not only aware of it, but relished it. They cleared the small table and moved their chairs around to create a seated audience all facing the table, upon which Lannis the Human would perform.

Skorsjeld turned and began addressing the unstable, highly mobile alien crowds going by the cafe.

“What are you doing?” Diarsing said with some alarm.

“Oh,” said Skorsjeld, “Surely you did not imagine that I would leave it up to you and your bootlicking cronies did you? How democraxic would that be? No no. My beloved Diarsing, we shall have a proper audience, that we may get a more accurate and unbiased sample of popular sentiment.”

“Citizens!” cried Skorsjeld, “Citizens of great Citron. A moment only of your time. Spare a moment for the briefest entertainment, that I and my Esteemed Citizen may settle a dispute that has plagued us.”

“As any who live in great Citron are aware, my fair and balanced companion Citizen Diarsing presses the Authoriton Tribunal to declare Humans an unclean verminous threat to the Austere Cleanliness of our Empire. It is a matter even now under consideration, yet in complete honesty I cannot, as an Esteemed Citizen myself, stand idly by while such questionable cogitus goes undisputed. Therefore we stand before you with a singular challenge: One Human offering a solitary speech will demonstrate a basic worthiness. And this one soliloquy will either arouse the empathy of this most discerning audience, or in failing to do so, its antipathy. We will thus decide the fate of Diarsing's proposal, the very fate of the Human, by popular support. I have for you a Human of only the greatest talent and skill, a youth of sublime ability hand picked to satisfy tastes only discovered in great Citron.”

It was a speech found quite satisfactory and drew a much greater audience than anticipated by either Skorsjeld or Diarsing. They stopped and gathered around the small group. If one were to be brutally honest, one would have to report a certain amount of positive anticipation on the part of the crowd. It must be submitted that it seemed like Diarsing would lose his gamble before it began. Even so, he sat quietly awaiting the beginning. One could not fail to note that the humans on leashes nearby began looking at each other nervously. Their status in the Empire was already resting on weak foundations.

Lannis the Human climbed up on the table, undoubtedly the most miniscule stage ever produced because he could take no more than one step in any direction. Recall that Humans are much smaller than most aliens, barely coming up to waist height of Citizens.

“Citizens of Great Citron,” Lannis began, carefully with his pronunciation it must be added, “Most discerning patrons of our most humble arts, I must needs spare you the great lengths this artist went through in application for this once in a lifetime opportunity to stand before you today. As you must suspect, my patron Citizen Skorsjeld spent a year if he spent a day combing my fellow Humans for a group that could potentially apply for this one cherished opportunity. Even then whole groups of applicants were discarded, such were his demanding standards. Alone among all of them, this humble servant has been deemed worthy of relating this one desperate fragment of a tale to you here today.

“Let us utter one prayer now to the Muse, that this meagre fragment is enough to sate the thirst of my most esteemed audience, the great Citizens of Citron.

“Hear me, Melpemone!” he cried, arms wide, “Deliver your humble servant unto grace, that he might do justice to the needs of his august audience, that he may bring joy to their frayed nerves, that he might soothe strained tempers and assuage damaged peace. Hear me oh wondrous patroness and give us all the strength to hear what must be heard, feel what must be felt, and finally, at the last, to be as one again.”

The audience, which had grown at his words, was not marginally muted, having purchased completely the dramatic prayer uttered on their behalf.

“I bring for your entertainment today a fragment of the tale of Hamlet, Prince of a fabled land known as Denmark,” Lannis paused and somehow appeared to stroll around his very limited stage, “It is a tale well known to Esteemed Citizens of Citron- a favorite, it has been said. And in this tale your favored Prince suffers from the loss of his most beloved Father, who has been murdered by his brother, the Prince's uncle. In a hated twist of cruel fate, oh fair Citizens, the murderous Uncle then marries the Queen, mother of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Oh! Intuitive Citizens you must suspect, as I know in my bones, the intrigue surrounding our besieged hero does not end there. It cannot.”

Dead silence. One would swear, were any Citizen to utter an interrupting sound, be they lowliest Servant or Sacred Authoriton, the crowd would have torn them to shreds and asked questions later. Somewhere in the distance the grand city of Citron went about its business but here, everything had stopped, the audience wrapped tightly around the words of the oft debated Human.

“The beloved besieged Prince Hamlet knows he cannot trust any person in the Palace; Nay, not even his closest childhood friends. He hatches a plan that, at once mad in its appearance, at least disguises his cogitation to the conspirators. Ever empathic Citizens, could there be a more desperate plan? You know, as I do, there could not.”

“We take up the scene of our desperate beloved hero as he discovers a place to consider his plight, believing in error that he is alone. Gracious Muse, give me the strength to relate our hero's words faithfully!”

In the rapt silence, a breeze gently buffeted the Human so that his dark hair was like a plaything. He looked down as if to put his mind and heart into the role, and began.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer

The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,

Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep

No more; and by a sleep, to say we end

The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks

That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,

To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes Calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,

The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,

The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,

The insolence of Office, and the Spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his Quietus make

With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn

No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of.

Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,

And thus the Native hue of Resolution

Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment,

With this regard their Currents turn awry,

And lose the name of Action.”

The audience stood plainly and deeply affected. No sounds were emitted. No Citizen stirred, it seemed, even to breathe.

One had been watching diligently for the signal from Citizen Skorsjeld, and when he, himself, shook off the deep and moving aegis of the Muse, he ever so covertly gave me the look. I pressed the button on the device that killed all of the electronic personae worn by Citizens in the vicinity.

All at once the alien appearances of all of the Citizens nearby disappeared, leaving Humans, most of whom were completely naked because nakedness facilitated the alien persona devices that disguised them. Even then, however, most of the immediate audience did not notice right away. Beyond the audience, people could be heard expressing surprise and shock, but the effect shook the audience tardily.

Skorsjeld himself had seen fit to adopt clothing, as one had, and a number of others kept minimal covering over genitals and breasts, but many had nothing, and the discovery was a surprise. It swiftly took over the audience until Lannis spoke again,

“Great Citizens of Citron City! I am humbled to stand among you.”

Some clapping resulted that was infectious. Naked or not these Citizens had been moved; aye, some to tears. Diarsing's cronies were mopping their eyes much to his disgust. Soon the ovation was overwhelming and did not stop for the loss of the Personae.

One stood near Skorsjeld shortly and during the ovation, he turned to one and noticed only,

“It has finally begun.”