Through the black rectangle, Thursday, formerly known as Azalaan, climbed for a while up the ladder in darkness that led to a dim rectangle above. As he climbed, he allowed himself to doubt the sanity of his spontaneous decision to become Thursday, though he couldn’t help but smile at his own cleverness for seeing and then seizing the opportunity when it presented itself. If he was going to stop his enemies who wanted to do away with the status quo, he would have to outsmart them. He couldn’t be sure that the investigators who recruited him could be as smart as he was, so they wouldn’t be able to stop whatever madness Sunday had already unleashed on the country.
The man who was Azalaan became an unofficial special investigator of the US Attorney General’s Office Special Task Force on Domestic Terrorism shortly after his encounter with Marlo Charles almost a year ago. As he left the bar and headed to his dorm that faced the Hudson, he decided to take a walk along the river in the park that stretched for blocks alongside it. Azalaan sat on a bench in the comfortable warmth of summer and he eyed the park around him while he contemplated the strange experience he’d had with Marlo.
The park was mostly empty, he saw only one person jogging and then he listened to the sounds of the city in the distance. The trees moved eerily in the wind and they looked like skeletons against the dark violet of the sky. The moon hung largely in the sky over the distant shape of the New Jersey skyline and was tinted a distinct shade of red that was reflected in the dark waters of the Hudson. The river seemed to be a river of blood and Azalaan worried about Sunday’s threat to end the world.
As he fumed on the bench, a police patrol car cruised down the pavement of the park. They stopped when they noticed him alone and two police officers made their way over to him, one a black man and the other white.
“Why are you out here at this time of night?” the black officer asked.
Azalaan looked at him with anger and stood.
“Why are you a policeman?” Azalaan asked.
The black officer seemed to have fielded that question before and he answered angrily, “Police serve their communities. More black people need to become police officers so we can avoid the problems that we see in policing today, that’s the only thing that can solve the problem. You probably one of them police abolitionists, fooling yourself into believing that you don’t need us and that you can police your communities any better than we do. But if that were true, you’d already be doing it and the police would fall back because there’s no crime for them to try to stop.”
“I’m sorry,” Azalaan said, “I should have been more specific in my question. Obviously you’re a cop because you didn’t do all that well academically and the job pays well enough with good benefits, and that’s enough to ignore the obvious that the police force is designed to funnel criminals to designated bad communities that minorities usually call home. I understand that, what I mean is why are you a police officer when you can’t possibly keep anyone safe from the real dangers to life as we know it? Everything you do, like patrolling this park and hassling me, is just a pantomime designed to placate the masses. While you harass drug dealers and prostitutes, there are Idiots out trying to undo the progress we’ve made as a democracy in the name of equality, supremacy, greed, naked spite, and who knows what else. I know that you all are here doing your jobs and after my night, I can appreciate your stated mission more than I could have yesterday, but I wonder why you do it as the darkness is encroaching and there seems to be no one capable of stopping that advancement.”
The black officer insisted on searching Azalaan, mostly out of anger at the things he’d said that the officer took as insults, despite the fact that Azalaan hadn’t meant any insult but was only speaking sincerely. The officer was rough with the search and he threw the contents of Azalaan’s pockets to the ground. When it was obvious that Azalaan possessed nothing of interest to police, the white officer pulled his partner away and sent him to their car. When they were alone, the white officer turned his attention to Azalaan.
“What is the greatest enemy of the Idiot?” the officer asked.
Azalaan’s ears perked up at his pronunciation of the word Idiot.
“You said earlier that the real threat to life is the Idiot,” the officer continued. “I agree with you, and there are others, others with the means to stop the threat and to right the ship.”
Azalaan stared at the officer skeptically.
“In order to save the future, we must employ the greatest threat to the Idiot.” The white officer pulled a wallet from his back pocket and displayed a badge that seemed to be the only thing inside. He handed it to Azalaan.
“The Order of Sound Reason,” Azalaan read aloud.
“Meet me here at sunrise and I will take you to them, they are always looking for investigators to find out the true scope of the Idiots. You seem to understand the threat better than I do, they’ll welcome you with open arms.”
Azalaan watched the officer walk back to his car and then drive away. It was only a couple of hours until sunrise and Azalaan decided to wait on the bench as he pondered the new information. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who was worried about the threat to the status quo, but would they be any match for Sunday?
The white officer walked to the bench where Azalaan sat and he looked different without his uniform.
“Come with me,” the officer said, “I’ll introduce you to him.”
“To who?” Azalaan asked as he followed the officer out of the park and down the avenue.
“The man in the dark room.”
Azalaan followed out of curiosity, but also with a hint of hope that he would be reassured that the world had protectors who could oppose Sunday. They arrived at a deli that had a stairwell in front that led down to the entrance of the restaurant. It was dim inside and the officer led Azalaan to a back office that was darker than the main room, but not completely dark. The officer went inside the office and then reemerged to stand next to the door. He motioned with a hand for Azalaan to go inside.
Despite the Darkness, Azalaan could see the figure of a large man standing behind a desk. The face of the large man was obscured by the darkness and when he spoke, the bass of his voice seemed to vibrate the air.
“Sit, Azalaan, it is nice to meet you. I hear that you and I have the same fears about the future. The investigator outside recommends you for recruitment with enthusiasm.”
Azalaan sat and stared at the dark figure.
“What exactly am I being recruited for?” he asked.
“For the most important job of all. You will be the eyes of our Order of Sound Reason. If you encounter anyone so unhappy with the present that they are convinced that a better tomorrow can only happen at the expense of a chaotic, Idiot present, then you report them to us and we will take care of them.”
“There is a man named Sunday…” Azalaan started.
“Ohh, so you are familiar with the ring leader? Do you know about the organization around him and the truly diverse cells that he unites in their common goal of ending the civilized world? The investigator who brought you to me will brief you on the relevant information, if you would join us.” The figure placed a silver badge attached to a leather wallet on the desktop in front of Azalaan. “I have heard of you Azalaan, the Idiot God, you are quite popular among some of the circles that follow this Sunday like a messiah. As an undercover investigator, you can no doubt learn a lot about the Idiots and help us stop them for good.”
“And that is what you really want?” Azalaan asked.
“I have children, grandchildren, great grandchildren on the way. I won’t let idiots or Idiots compromise their futures, and I will partner with Chaos himself to protect them. Welcome abroad, Idiot God.”
Azalaan took the badge and was briefed by the officer, but he didn’t believe any of their intel could be true. Not until he was in the basement of the church becoming Thursday.
When he made it up the ladder, he was in what appeared to be the furnished attic of the church. It was organized like an office and there were people there who could have fit in with the crowd in the basement room. Azalaan had removed his wig and he had sweated off most of his makeup, but he still wore the dress as his picture was taken and he was given identification that officially recognized him as Thursday.
“Take that ladder to the roof, there’s a helicopter waiting,” someone said to him when all of the paperwork was in order.
Azalaan climbed to the roof that was too small for a helicopter to land, but he climbed a rope ladder a short distance under the winds of the hovering craft, and someone helped him inside.
“Welcome Thursday,” the person in a helmet that obscured their face said. “We will take you to the dinner celebration in your honor.”
Azalaan sat back and enjoyed the ride, wondering where the helicopter would take him.
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