The 9 lives of Cats and Gods (Merry Men Book 1)

Life 1

1.
Bash
"Why do people have such--such a hard time, being people? Like we're all the same all of us, we are all in this together, and none of us are getting out of it alive. It just, it doesn't make any sense to me how people an be so--disconnected like it's like they don't even realize everyone else is there, or don't even care that everyone else is going through the same things like they don't think they don't care that--that somebody could be having a bad day, or a bad week, or even just a bad life there's no compassion there's no order. And we already have moral law established, existing to help each other to ensure that the right is upheld and they just--disregard it. They're all out for themselves no one is willing--no one cares to do the right thing if it would inconvenience them even in the slightest that's not--they don't even care about other people. What is it going to take what does it take to get through to them to make them see that they're just human, like the rest of us?" I ask, staring at the stained white popcorn ceiling of the dingy office, hanging my head and arms off the back of a gradually decaying blue leather armchair.
"Not everyone has the same level of moral commitment and empathy you do, Bash," my therapist says, his voice is gravelly and calm, as ever. He clicks a pen and then rotates the cheap plastic in his hand.
"I'm not saying I want everyone to be me--that would be horrible no, but does it does it really take that much to throw litter away when you're two feet from a trashcan--or park properly in a parking space? Like--what is it costing them to simply be kind--simply abide by the rules of a society they themselves participate in and profit from?" I ask, scrubbing my face with my wrist.
"Bash, if you can figure people out then you'll win the Nobel prize. People are very very complicated and many of them are just plain selfish. We're here to figure Bash out," he says, gently.
"I understand me. I understand them too— I just don't have to like predisposition for chaos and disregard for moral order. They may not want to do good in this world, but I do," I say, as the ceiling fan clicks overhead. I close my eyes and squeeze them shut but it doesn't help the sound ticking in my ear.
"On that note, Oak Harbor PD called. You need to stop calling them with your theories---,"
"Why? It's anonymous tips--they should be thanking me--,"
"Bash--Bash, because you are sixteen. You need to figure out school, and yourself, and girls, and having fun," he says, "Not--,"
"Serial killers? Who take dozens of lives every day? Who endanger the American Public? Who I could stop if anybody listened to me?" I ask, sitting up in the chair to sit cross legged and hang my head down to my left knee.
"Yes. It's great that you want to stop crime and you'll be a great detective someday. But today you're getting ready to be a junior in high school. Crack that case first, huh?" he leans forward and his rolling chair creaks in protest at his shifting bulk.
"What if I can't?" I say quietly, "What if this--this is the thing I'm meant to do. If you saw your destiny, counselor, glistening before you, separated by nothing but infinite space what would you do? Wouldn't you reach out and take it? How could you wait for the promises of a tomorrow that may never come? How could you expect a future kinder than the present?"
"Your destiny to help these people will come. In time. You're very smart, Bash. You worked very hard to get your scholarship. You know police officers and lawyers and FBI agents study for years. You're on a very good track," he says, clicking the pen again.
"Yes," yes I am on a very good track. A very good path I must say.
"Now, what is all this about? You are fixated with other people's crimes, other people's morality. And this week you're worse than normal. Is this about your parents?"
"No--but it can be if you like. Sure, let's go there, why was crime more important than me? Me? Their own child, who they contractually agreed to care for--what was so important about breaking the law that it was worth losing me and jeopardizing my life?" I ask.
"That's the point Bash. People are greedy, awful, and selfish. There's not going to be a rationale for it," he says, shifting in his chair, smooth dockers against rough fabric. "What they did was wrong. There isn't going to be some great meaning. I wish there were. I wish I could give you an answer. But I simply don't have one. People are and can be terrible sometimes."
"I know. I don't have to like it though. And I can still want a motive I like motives. I just can't see why any physical motivator like crime could be better than your own child," I say, tipping my head to my right knee.
"It shouldn't be. But people are going to fail, they're going to let us down. That probably brings us into a good segue into talking about your foster home--,"
"Oh that's neither here nor there. They stay out of my room that's all I ask," I say, shrugging.
"Your foster mother says you haven't spoken to them all week--,"
"I left a very nice note on my door requesting they keep the noise down," I say, "That counts as communication as I recall."
"Why don't you talk to them?"
"I only speak to people I have things to say to. I speak to you because it's required," I say.
"You know, people can be worth it sometimes if you give us the chance."
"Oh I take chances but I take them wisely. Don't concern yourself with my socialization, counselor," I say, shifting to lie with my head hanging off the chair again.
"It's a, kind of my job Bash. I want you to be happy and successful and sometimes socializing with other people is a part of that. You've expressed to me that you have had sexual thoughts in the past and do desire a partner at some point. Why don't we talk about some ways you plan to meet people and date in the coming school year?"
"Or we could stare at the walls and not speak and breath as quietly as possible that's also fun."
"Bash. You love making plans and analyzing data, you're very good at it. How about we make a plan for you to meet people and make friends at your new school?"
"Oh, I plan to meet many fascinating people over the next few weeks, counselor," I say, stretching a little.
"That's good. I'm sure you will. Perhaps by this time next year you'll have girlfriend."
"Counselor I have done the math. Believe me. I've analyzed all the data. The odds of anyone dating me voluntarily are less than 2%, once you factor in IQ, life history, sensory processing issues, as well as suspected but as yet due to underfunding of healthcare for foster teens, undiagnosed spectrum disorder," I say, rubbing my face with my wrist, "I appreciate your concern and it is noted however I'm aware of the odds."
"Bash, you know not everything is down to just 'odds'. You know, the ancient greeks had an interesting theory of soul mates. That man was originally born with two heads, four arms, four legs, and Zeus split them apart, because man was too powerful with his other half. So now we are destined to wander the earth looking for our missing other half," he says, thoughfully, clicking his cheap plastic pen.
"You know the ancient greeks had another pleasant little story, about a Titan, who sacrified his own godhood to descend and grant man the gift of fire, the gift of life, a gift that saved mankind from the destruction it faced in the dark. You know what happened to him? Zeus had him chained to a rock, and everyday eagles pluck out his liver. I am well aware of greek myths, couselor. And I am solidly a Prometheus. I like myself that way, even if I know my end," I say, tipping my fingers in front of my face. Oh yes, my end is signed, sealed, written, and plotted. Everything is laid out. All we have to do is play.
"Why do you see yourself as Prometheus?"
"Oh isn't it your job to analyze, couselor? Let that be a treat for you," I say, "Figure it out, who is Zeus, and what is my fire? You know how I love puzzles, and riddles, and games especially of my design."
"Okay, yeah, we'll talk about that next time. You know last time you said you were feeling disconnected."
"Oh that's constant I just brought it up last time because I'd been thinking about it lately," what with my impending death.
"You said you didn't feel male. Do you feel female?"
"I said I didn't feel like a man. I meant mankind. I don't feel like a person at all. I feel like something other that isn't usually thought to be sentient but is in fact old as time. Like a tree. Or a rock, or just stardust," I say, staring at my hands laced above my face, "I don't know what everyone expects me to be, or if everyone feels this immortal all the time but I don't know if I"m anything at all."
"I think that's a part of growing up. You have to discover yourself first. You know you spend so much time trying to understand other people, take a little time for Bash. You're very smart and you want everything fixed up right the first time, but life isn't that simple. I know you've never done this before, and I know people, we, are hard on you sometimes. But remember we've never had a Bash before either. And we're doing the best we can too."
"That's what my aunt said. That I'm the only Bash she's got," I say, quietly.
"I know she was doing the certification so she could get custody of you."
"Oh yes that's probably not going to happen," I say, dismissively, "I've told her not to bother."
"You're not a bother to us, Bash. None of us."
"Yes, but, you know, I'm fine I think I'm where I'm meant to be," I say, sitting up, "Thank you Counselor."
"You can call me by my name--,"
"No I can't, we're back on 'counselor' 'patient' basis since you brought up moral relativism last week we did discuss this. I've put in papers to have a moral absolutist counselor who understands my world view of justice, and order," I say.
"Yes I know you did they don't know what that means."
"That's part of the problem," I say, rubbing my face, "Isn't it about time?"
"Yeah, yeah it's about time um--I'll see you next Friday then? You can tell me about your school week?"
"Definitely. It should be entertaining," I say, crawling to my feet and picking my faded black backpack from where I hunt it on the coat rack.
"Good, I'm glad you're looking forward to it."
"Good Afternoon," I nod, leaving the office and walking right past the distracted secretary. My bike is chained outside. Deep blue with a wide basket for my books and things during the year. I can't ride it all the way to the new school. I shall have to take a bus part of it. No matter. It won't be for long I don't expect. And I'm not usually wrong.
I have a letter to mail. Because I'm about to start the rest of my life. Everyone else can be content about not doing things. They can call be complacent.
But the wicked will not go unpunished.
I take the crisp letter out of my bag. It's addressed to my prime suspect in a series of kidnappings and murders in the southwest. I've been on this fellow's trail for weeks, in a cyber manner of things. I final nailed down his locations and lack of alibis.
And so he became my first life. One life condemned and dozens more saved. I gave all this information to the police however naturally they disregarded it. As have the FBI. And so. More drastic measures must be taken. They won't see reason, they won't accept this evidence. They'll just need a bit more evidence. With maybe another victim.
My letter reads as follows.