Humanocracy - Part 1

“Tenet of Our Race”

I met Jonsey Boy at the Quack House. The Quack House actually was a bit like its name suggests – a house full of quacks. Not duck quacks. Not insane quacks. Just quacks. Human quacks. Every person that came into the Quack House wanted two things. The first thing they wanted was the famous Quacktail – an odd drink that did wonders to a person’s soul. The second thing was good conversation. It wasn’t conversation you’d find at the local bars where men and women are trying to pick up men and women. This conversation was actual conversation. I think it was the Quacktails that caused this type of atmospheric condition.

Billy, the owner, was an 80’s pseudo-Merry Prankster, and still looked the part. He would come in to open the doors around four o’clock driving his refurnished mini bus. You could see Billy’s bus coming, and it smelt as if the fumes of the bus itself emanated an odor of peace and funk. And that is what Billy was. An odd combination of peace and funk. He would open the Quack House doors wearing his famous jester hat all green, red and blue. Even the bells on top still rang as he went about his opening ceremony. The first thing Billy did was start up the Quacktail machine. He would drink the first batch to make sure it was working properly. I think he did this to get him in the mood for the evening. Then, before he did anything else, Billy propped open the doors. The propped doors were the only way to tell if the Quack House was open. You see, Billy had the Prankster blood and would vanish for days on end for no apparent reason. Billy said he did it to feed his soul. He didn’t lie, so everyone believed him.

Jonsey Boy, Jones as he liked to be called, and I met one day as I pulled into the parking lot of the Quack House. It was a cool evening. I was bundled up in my trench coat, cigarette hanging out of my mouth. Jones was in the parked car next to mine wearing a Mexican parka and asked if he could bum a smoke from me. I said sure, and followed his direction to get in on the passenger side. I gave Jones a cig. He gave me a joint. Good trade, if you ask me. He lit up his cigarette. I lit up the joint. The two of us sat in his car talking of subjects I had only pondered about in my head. At one point, Jones started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing. I’ve never seen you here before. First time to the Quack House?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, if you can talk to me out here like this about these things, I can’t wait until you get inside, have a Quacktail, and let your mind really go. You think that joint is good. Wait until you taste one of Billy’s Quacktails and feel it hit your soul!” Jones let out a loud roaring laugh, handed me the joint, and continued, “Let’s go in.”

I hit the joint one last time, snuffed it out on my way in, and put the roach in my cigarette pack for later. Jones opened up the door, and we entered the Quack House.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I got in. There was Billy in his jester hat behind a small bar with this big machine behind him. The bar was full of empty glasses waiting to be filled. The rest of the room was full of large, long tables. There were a dozen or so people at the tables with papers strewn all across them. No one looked up when we entered, because they were too intent on their Quacktails and their conversations. Jones walked up to the bar. I followed. Billy poured us two Quacktails, smiled, and said, “Good hunting.” I followed Jones to an empty table and sat down. He smiled at me and began to speak.

“Just remember one thing, it’s all a dream.”

“What?” I questioned.

“You’ll see.” Jones raised his drink up to toast. “Here’s to the breezes that blow through the treezes. Where we dig for bones, down on our kneezes. Which reveals a spot that oh so pleases, but confuses us completely by Jesus.” Jones looks up and toasted the sky while he said, “Thank you, Christoph.” He looked back to me and went on, “so, over the lips and through the gums. Watch out stomach here it comes. Born in a sweathouse, raised as a slave. Talking and drinking, that’s our trade.”

“Here, here,” the room bellowed as they all clanked their glasses and drank their Quacktails.

“Here, here,” I said following suit.

The Quacktail tickled as it went down my throat and sank into the depths of my stomach. No sooner than it hit the lining did I feel my world begin to spin. It took a moment to catch my bearing, and as I began to focus once again, I saw the largest smile I had ever seen on a person gleaming from Jones’ face.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure, but for what?” I queried.

“Stop for a second. Look around. Let your eyes see what they see.”

I looked around. Besides the scene I have already explained, I began to see other images surge out from the background. Above Billy, on top of the bar, there was a sign. At first I didn’t quite catch its meaning, but later on, as you shall see, I caught its full effect. The sign read:



There was another sign above the mantle of the fireplace. This sign was more of a definition, and I completely understood its meaning but didn’t understand why the sign was in the Quack House. It read:

It was at this time when my eyes began to burn. Jones just told me to close my eyes, as the sensation would pass in a few moments. While I closed my eyes he told me to listen to what he was about to say. He said if I listened carefully the pain would subside.

“Fall down fair sons

upon thy knees

soak in the essence of eternal existence.

Space-time, a mind creation,

is a limitation

of the physical self.

Tap into the corporeal

the arena of the conscious mind;

tap into the consciousness of everything

all is related and interdependent

all is energy.

All is what one is . . .

when one becomes the moment.

Tamed silence is all that exists

in an enlightened mind.

Nothing matters.”

At the end of his prose, the pain was gone. When I opened my eyes, it was as if a Kaleidoscope had been placed in front of me. Everything was swirling in colors. Everything was emitting its energy, and I could see it. I began to panic, but Jones quelled my anxiety.

“Don’t worry, friend. It’s all good. This happens every time you drink a Quacktail. You eventually get the hang of it.”

“What does all of this mean?” I asked.

“In due time, my fair son. In due time.”