ADAMSONIAN

It was one of those ordinary days while I was reading a love-hate pocketbook when my Aunt Lucille called. She was asking for help because her youngest daughter was missing for days. She started to cry. I told her to calm down and I promised her that I would do my best to help her.

The following day, I personally visited all my police friends for help. They all promised me that they would check their records and they would contact me as soon as they could get some answers. It was good that I kept good relationship with my former buddies. I was a criminology student before until a series of cerebral quakes shook my path and drifted me to journalism. I ended up as a crime reporter in the nation’s lewdest tabloid. Last week, we featured the nude photo of JAV star Maria Ozawa in our front cover. She was so hot. With such cover girl, our tabloid was indeed the best when it comes to obscene photos.
But some didn’t like what we were publishing. I recalled the suicide note of my former editor after he had sliced the throats of our section editors. “We are already showing pornography and writing sensationalized news. We always demand that freedom of the press should always be upheld. But look at us now. All I have been seeing in our covers are nothing but big tits, big boobs, and big butts of lewd girls, and those worthless and shameful scandals of our politicians. I don’t care if Kristine Hermosa is pregnant or if Oyo Boy has a new girlfriend. I am sick and tired of kicking the butts of our senators in my column. It is useless. Better to ask me to literally blow their asses into pieces. Are you joking? Is this really my next assignment? Sorry but I will not write an article about Kokey. Who is that freak? Why are we confident in publishing such crap? Is it just because our society likes reading it and that all of our issues sell like hot pancakes? Damn it! Our paper is a big trash. We are abusing press freedom. Press freedom is not absolute for there is no such thing as absolute freedom. If we start to think that we are free to do or write anything, freedom itself will soon imprison us. I despise people who want freedom so badly. I despise those people who read showbiz articles only. I despise this world. It is hopeless. My readers are not in this world. Follow me in hell!”

Within a week, one of my friends in WPD responded. He informed me over the phone that he had some leads on my cousin’s case. He told me that I had to visit him in his office in Kalaw to personally check the files. His voice was shivering. He stopped for a while as if he was waiting for something. I did not hear any sound. I was clueless. He spoke again and he asked me to leave immediately. He told me that he would be waiting for me in Osario instead. He changed his mind. I asked him what was happening but the phone went dead. I didn’t know what to think. Everyone seemed to have some life-threatening problems.
On that same day I rushed to Manila from Bacoor to see my friend. There was traffic all the way and it took me three painstaking hours to finally get to Paco Park. We used to take photographs in that park in our high school years. Nostalgia was seducing me again. “Will you come or no?!” the woman in the booth said. She looked like mad. She was really mad actually. I immediately gave her a five peso coin and the wicked witch of that park gave me an entrance ticket.

When I reached Osario, which was located at the back of the park’s chapel, I did not found Raphael. I look around and encircled the entire park. There was still no sign of him. I asked the guard if he saw a fat man went here. He said no. I went back to Osario. Still, there was no sign of him - only birds, vines, and small tombs. That serene place was a resting place for dead babies. It was also a playground for their condemned souls - poor innocent babies. They were already born with sins. Sinful babies, with their very delicate little hands and very soft feet, what kind of sin did they commit to this world and to God?
I decided to leave the park and went to the police station. Maybe Raphael was still there and he forgot that he had changed the venue. His office was on the second floor. But the police cordons hanging in front of his office door surprised me. Someone was killed. Reporters surrounded the area with their big cameras and were infesting the newly-appointed WPD Chief Rolando Araneta with a blitzkrieg of questions. The chief said that one of his men found the cold body of SPO3 Raphael Gutierrez just an hour ago but he had estimated that Gutierrez may have died three hours before. Further, Gutierrez’ body was found lying in a pool of blood and a gun wound on his forehead killed him. He said that the bullet came through the rear window. The chief also added that the bullet was shot by a professional sniper positioned in the penthouse of a nearby university. Some of his men were already sent there and they had confirmed that it was the lair of the assassin. They also reported that they found the assassin’s rifle, stacks of newspapers and magazines, old computer parts and scattered floppy disks. One of the investigators asked me if I knew something. I told him that I was talking to Gutierrez few hours ago on the phone and he told me that he had some party invitations to give. They said that they didn’t notice any invitation cards and that they only found a folder on the floor and it was empty. They asked me if I knew more. I simply said no.

I didn’t mention my real transaction with my friend. I was afraid that I might be caught by the hassles of the postmortem investigations. Worst, they might consider me a prime suspect. I knew the rules of their game and I knew how dirty they work. Also, I had that gut feeling that maybe it was an inside job and the crime was done by one of his comrades in uniform. Perhaps the murderer was among the investigators who were earlier sent to the penthouse to investigate.

I suddenly wondered if the killing had some connection with the case of my missing cousin. “What shall I do if there’s a bigger issue hidden here, and what if all of these policemen are involved in the killing of my friend? What if the killer was also the one who kidnapped my cousin? What should I do?” I asked myself. I was starting to get paranoid. “What if there is a conspiracy behind this?” Again, I was imagining things.

I left the crime scene and drove my car to the said university. Its penthouse was visible from the station and was only a few blocks away. I saw students walking out of that university. All of them were in high spirits of whatsoever maybe due to the suspension of the afternoon class. Some went inside the nearby church. Most of them were headed to Taft Avenue. I noticed two young lovers called a taxi cab. The girl stared at me. She didn’t look like a college student. She was more of a whore to me because of her heavy make-up and big earrings. The man called her to get inside the cab. The girl gave me her middle finger. The slut-looking girl immediately obeyed his two-headed master and off they went to make orgasmic love, I supposed. “Where else would they possibly go with a taxi?” I asked myself.

It took me five minutes to be in front of the university gate. I spotted two police cars outside and again lots of media people. I showed my press ID and the semi-robotic guard allowed me to enter the school premises without any fuss. I quickly went up to the said penthouse. It was like climbing a mountain. Students would not dare climb such altitude for it was too high. When I reached it, while catching a mouthful of air, I saw bundles of dusted newspapers along the stairway. Some of the items that were told to us by the chief were scattered there. There was no way I could enter the office for it was sealed by reporters. I decided to go to the terrace. It was on the left side of the penthouse. In its center, a bamboo pole stood. It was tied to one of the balusters. In the flag attached to it, there was an inscription but I could not read it. I came closer to it but the sunset view beneath it stole my attention instead. I feasted my eyes on the panorama. From there, one could clearly see the splendid view of Manila Bay as the sun sets off on the horizon. Thin layers of clouds were in its majestic symphony with the synthesis of the sun and the polluted bay. From orange, the scene was gradually mixed with hues of violet and finally it all ended to monochromatic black. Black was my favorite color before because it was also the favorite color of God. “But I learned that black is not a color so I changed my favorite color to apple green.” I told myself.

I almost forgot the penthouse. Unfortunately, I was not permitted to come inside because it was off limit to reporters and civilians. Investigators were still gathering evidences. I couldn’t even have a peek through the corked up door. I remembered the southern window located in the terrace. Through it, I managed to have a nice glimpse of the room. It was pretty small to be a publication office. Only three persons could accommodate it. There were no appliances inside. From one of its windows, one could see the church and the police station. With such view, it was indeed a perfect tryst for that sniper and the angel of death. The rifle was still there with its telescopic lens.

I caught a glimpse of a small door half-covered by an empty book shelf. Perhaps it was a typical access door for electricians – quite unessential to be noted. But maybe it was the assassin’s access door. I went back to the main door. Reporters were still there. I then noticed a small white fridge in a corner. I opened it and all I saw was a phalanx of cockroaches. Some were crawling, some were already dead and some were pretending to be dead inside an empty glass mug. Their antennas were oscillating as if they were transmitting some message to me. I rubbed my forehead. I then thought that those insects were only the possible living witnesses that I could have. There was a big possibility that some of them were inside that room when the assassin did his dirty trick. Maybe they were still talking about that assassin before I discovered them in their sanctuary. If I could only speak to those cockroaches I could surely got myself some leads. Could a cockroach be presented in the court as a crime witness?! Shit! I was worse than Nakata for thinking such a ridiculous thing.

“They will not tell tales. Even if you try squeezing their thorax out, they will not communicate with you for they are tougher than the dinosaurs and more cynical than any man. They are the mightiest creatures that have ever plagued this planet. They don’t need evolution to survive.” From nowhere, an old man suddenly approached me. He told me that it was once the office of the student pub. It was closed by the administration five years ago because of some financial fiasco accused to its former student editors. After two years, an inquiry was called by the administration. Actually, it was initiated by the student government. The objective was to discuss the alleged missing funds and to revive the student publication. But the editors didn’t make a show. He added that it was impossible for the editors to appear because they were already reported missing for years before such call was made. “How can you wait for someone who doesn’t exist anymore? They should have tried a séance.” he said.

“Are you sure that they are already dead?” I asked.

“For five years up to this very day, their parents are in constant remorse. Until now, there have been no clues about their possible whereabouts. The publication was kept closed by the administration for years despite the outcry of the student government to re-open it. It is only now that I have seen that gate open again after so long. Ironically, not to reincarnate but to disembowel it.” The janitor sadly told me while staring at the steel gate. I felt that he was very affected with the publication’s closure.

He looked at his watch and led me to the lockers located downstairs. He opened one of it and found a tennis racket and nothing more. In the next locker he found a shoe box which was covered by old magazines. He took a peek of it and as if he found what he was looking for he immediately placed it in his bag. He looked around and he then silently signaled me to follow him. I followed him in the hallway. I asked him why. “They might notice us.” He answered. He started to narrate again. I just listened as if I was like a child attentively listening to a fairy tale. According to him, the fiasco was just a façade to cover up the real reason behind its closure. He was quite talky at that time. I asked for his name. He told me that his name was Julio Morales and he was really caught up and concerned with the misfortune of that publication. Before it was closed, one of his fellow janitors reported that he had heard some noise coming from the penthouse but he couldn’t go up because its steel door was kept chained from 3 pm up until the next morning. His fellow janitor insisted that there was really something happening in that office but he was terminated instead. Afraid to be fired also, Julio told me that he forced himself to keep silent and deaf for years until the publication was formally locked up. He told me that those editors were his friends and he couldn’t belief what had happened to them.
When I asked him the reason why the pub was closed, he told me that one of its editors made a fatal betrayal. That female editor went straight to the administration without the knowledge of the editorial board. She told them the publication’s alleged underground operations. She also divulged that their being social activists and communists were only stickers. They did not mean it. The Administration was very happy to learn those things. For decades, they were dying to finally get rid of that publication. The office of the student affairs immediately made a demolition plan. They started it by conducting a survey. Out of the 100 student respondents, 76 of them said yes for the abolition of the pub without knowing why. With that trivial survey, the pub was closed. What a very effortless and unbelievable way to eradicate a long-fought institution. Most students were so apathetic when their pub was closed. No one really cared if the pub was closed. During the last years of the pub, most of its writers were believed to be writing for the communists. Julio said that there was a misconception that if you were a writer, you were also an activist. And if you were an activist, you were assumed to be a communist pig. So with this communism stigma spreading around, their real arcane identity as an underground cult was very easy to conceal. Communism was just superficial for those writers. Communism could only work with ants.

“I beg to disagree. Those are fallacies. I believe that all writers are all activists in their own ways. We write because we are not contented with what is happening around us. Sometimes we are not even contented with ourselves. And being an activist doesn’t mean that you are also a communist. I myself don’t believe in that communism thing and perhaps even the new breeds of Chinese and Russians themselves too. But what the heck, who cares? We are still in democracy.” I said.

“Sorry if I offended you.” The man said.

“No need.” I said to him after I had realized that I got emotional. “Honestly, it is I who should be sorry for I forgot that all of us have our own opinions. No matter how different they are from ours. I respect their beliefs Julio and yours also. Belief, fallacy, myth, lie, fact, and truth are the six faces of a dice. The answer just depends on how, who, when, and where the dice will be thrown. Your belief may be a fallacy to me and your fallacy may be a fact to me. And maybe we are both wrong and the one who could really tell us the truth is not born yet. I don’t know everything. You might be surprised that maybe after ten years I would probably swallow my beliefs and see me as the future leader of an NPA group. Only our Great Cosmic Puff Daddy knows. So going back to our main story, where is that traitor now?” I asked.

“After the closure, she was hired by the administration to be the adviser of a student organization. She stayed there for few months until she was reported missing. One morning she was found dead. Her decaying body was located inside the big water tank in the terrace.” I noticed that water tank earlier. That was creepy and it made me tense. Julio was about to spill more but one of his fellow janitors called him for an emergency meeting. He handed me an old photo from his wallet and said goodbye to me. I asked him for what that photo was. He just simply fled.

I look at the photo. It was a sepia and could possibly been taken back in the 70s. It showed three boys and four girls posed side by side. And as I perceived it vaguely, the backdrop was a cave or a tunnel. I was not sure about that. I was not even sure if the man in the center was really a he or a she. I couldn’t identify that man because he/she was wearing a mask. They were all nude except for the masked one. I put the picture near to my eyes when one of the reporters approached me. He asked what I was holding. I said: “Just a mug shot of a priest pretending to be saint with his phony smile that could make anyone vomit. This is a worthless item and unworthy to be published. Even a dog will not care to look at it. You want this cursed photo? You can have it.” He just laughed and left.

It was already past 10 pm when I decided to leave the university. I went straight to the nearby Jollibee outlet to have my late meal. As usual, I ordered Value Meal No. 5 which was a combo of chicken piece, a cup of rice, and medium-sized soft drink. There was no root beer available so I drowned my thirst by ordering Coke. While my mouth was munching the food, my brain was busy analyzing the facts - the missing of my cousin, the mysterious documents of my friend and his murder, the assassin’s identity, the closed penthouse and its missing editors, that janitor who seemed to knew so much and the photo he just gave, the flag and its cryptic message, and even the secret breading mixture of Chicken Joy all swirled inside my head. I ordered again a cup of rice and requested for another fill of gravy which I immediately poured over my rice. Those mysteries made me hungry. It felt like I was in the shoes of Belbo for connecting bits of information and I was assuming that all of them were in some way connected to one another. Furthermore, that there might be some kind of conspiracy going on by some Templar-influenced cults and I was so dead curious to uncover it or be a part of it. But of course, without offering myself to be their human sacrifice.

I remembered Aunt Lucille. After a deep gulp of my drinks I dialed again her number. I wanted to remind her to be careful but her number only rang once and it stopped. I dialed it again and the line was totally cut. I started to munch an ice cube in my mouth. Goosebumps suddenly appeared on my skin. My heart pounded more rapidly for no clear reasons. My body was shaking and it seemed to have a brain of its own which I couldn’t control. It sometimes worked without my permission. Perhaps someone had placed a device inside it and was controlling the movement of my cells and the functioning of my organs remotely. I finished my meal and left the fast food chain at past 11 pm. I walked aimlessly to nowhere. My thought seemed to be floating again in a sphere of nothingness. “Where am I heading Casaubon? You should have an idea by now. If only I could have Abulafia to help me with this puzzle.” I told myself. Eco had really hooked me up for nights although I was disappointed after finishing his book.

I rubbed my eyebrows. I listened to the conversations of the people around me. Then a thought hit my mind. “I need to find things myself.” With my car, I was off to Sorsogon that night. I was resolute to find my cousin first. When I was about to start the engine, someone from the back seat suddenly appeared. His head was covered with a bonnet and he was armed. He aimed his gun at the back of my head. Instantly, I was numb and I couldn’t even lift a finger. I could feel the coldness of his gun.

Silence started to laugh at me annoyingly.

“I don’t want to die, not now, not here, and not by this way. I don’t even know the name and the motive of this wretched shit who is about to end my life. Is this the end? What am I telling to myself? I am not afraid to die! I am not afraid. Shit! Bullshit! But still, this is really that real damn thing and not the usual surreal deaths that I had before. After he pulled his trigger, I am no more. I will have no more memories and feelings because my brain and my heart will all be eaten by hungry worms. But that would only happen if I would be buried in the ground. What if this demon has no clear plan after he kills me and he would just throw my body afterwards to any dumpsite he likes? And if he is too diabolically insane, he might cut my body into pieces. He might throw and distribute it to every cities of Metro Manila. My arms in San Juan, my legs in Quezon City, my dick in his next soup, and he might throw my torso in Pasig River. I don’t want to be found floating in that river bloated and infested by maggots and flies. What about my head? My head, my blasted head, perhaps he might burn it to ashes so the policemen will have a very hard time identifying my slaughtered body. With my broken skull as a fractured remnant of my once existence, they will need the expertise of a paleontologist to at least determine my age. What a very tragic way to die! I don’t even know if I have a soul. I should not think like that. What if this demon is a hematophobic? He might put me in a steel drum instead and he will fill it with concrete. After the concrete mixture strengthened he will dump it in Manila Bay. By that method, it will be too impossible to locate my missing body. Only God and this demon know. And maybe these two also have their conspiracy. What will happen after I die? Shit! I am really frightening myself now. What else can I possibly do and think in this moment of great despair? I have no choice. While Death is comfortably sitting in my back seat, I am here as cold as a corpse already. God! This is the real thing! I don’t want to die! Not now, maybe some other times but not now. I don’t like surprises. I am totally doomed! But please not on my head! Please not on my head…” My fear of death made me terribly insane just like the rest.

“I am your savior and your destroyer!” The silhouette had spoken.

It was my signal and I made my last deep breath.

Tags: Literary

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