The Chronicals of Alaraf

     Wolf D’Artagnan used to be a pop star, but he had since retired to a lazy security job at a college full of shape-shifting, vaguely Muslim Katzen.

     That did not stop his brother from taping a life-size “VampenWölfe” promo over the back of the door to his office. He debated keeping it precisely three seconds before clawing it down.

“I thought you looked pretty good in that, Akhi,” said Mango from the cat bed under the desk.

“I don’t need to know what I looked like over a decade ago. I need to know right now if I have something in my teeth or toilet paper dragging from my boot: a poster is useless.”

Mango was intentionally useless at this moment, yet adorable. Once again, his toebeans were skyward as he cleaned Mango purée off his foreleg fur from his last human class.

“What do you need to look good for anyway, as a security guard? I hang out here to be a cat and not worry about the opinions of human beings.”

Wolf simply rebuttoned his shirt, re-adjusted his badge, and leaned toward Mango to state, very carefully:

“I need to accompany the new Dean regarding a pre-existing dispute between the Vice President and the new Ombudsman.”

“Oh,” replied Mango, who temporarily stopped licking himself. “Oh, that is not good. Please do not include me.”

“Granted. Stay here, Mango-Katzen. Guard the office.”

“Aye-aye,” said Mango, giving a fluffy little salute.

… and Wolf reminded himself this was warmer, yet somehow weirder, than Wolf’s recent tour in Siberia.

“Unstable.”
“Crazy.”
“Obsessive.”
“Uncontrolled.”
“Dangerous.”

The adjectives repeated themselves with bureaucratic devotion.   The string of libelous documentation spreading back over a decade regarding Officer Alex, who had since left entirely for a different position: but the precedent was already set.

The new Ombudsman, Sheikh Commander Baron Leto۳, chose the very smallest office deliberately: on the second floor of a small white building at the edge of campus, facing the road with the ornate wrought-iron street lamps and the very best view of the parking lot.

In the window was placed a gloopy-looking blue-and-black borosilicate vase, fumed with silver, with intermittent particles of gold and silver. It was far too large to hold plants practically, so it sat empty, casting long navy and gilded shadows across the whiteness of the walls and aging bookshelves filled with Khalil Gibran, Al-Ghazali, and Marcus Aurelius diatribes.

Baron had a candle lit and a stick of incense he totally did not purchase from a head shop, but directly from a fancy retailer in Khorasan: drop-shipped.

He was creating an outline on “The Practical Application of Psy-Ops” as he absent-mindedly flipped his pashmina scarf over his shoulder and removed the rings he wore on his middle fingers to write more clearly.

One ring was a radio transmitter; the other was a complex, very red Sharaf al-Shams, with the entirety of Ayat al-Kursi inscribed on the stone.

It was cracked; he hadn’t even punched anyone in the face with it yet. However, it did survive a bonfire where his other, prior ring proved to be made of an arsenic composite.

His eye never recovered from burning it and remained horribly discolored due to arsenic toxicity; most people simply thought the bifurcation was fancy (and unnecessary) contact lenses.

The door was closed, as always.

He heard a gentle knock and clumsily located the overly fancy, clearly antique key, allowing Officer Wolf and Dean John McRose to take the nicer of the two blue plastic chairs; both in constant battle with the pretentious cerulean and navy Persian rug beneath.

“Hello, Dr. Leto,” said Dean McRose as he extended his hand.  He was an older gentleman with shocking white hair, of what was left of it, a matching white goatee & mustache, and glasses with perfectly round lenses that lent an air of benevolent observation & discernment.  He was neither tall nor unfriendly.

Baron declined the hanshake by placing his hand over his heart and bowing slightly. Baron was wearing a slick black button-down shirt with matching black slacks, a black leather belt with a Buckaroo Banzai buckle, a red scarf, and, for some inexplicable reason, brown work boots that matched nothing.

“Dr. McRose, it is a pleasure to see you again, truly. What seems to be the concern this afternoon?”

Dr. McRose examined the room and realized nothing was out of place: right down to the dark coat on the hook by the tiny closet on the left, which may or may not lead to either Narnia, Nazareth, or Gehenna, depending on the story.

… and that was exactly the problem.

“Baron. There is a problem. The Vice President feels you are stepping on his toes with these new changes.”

“Sounds like the Vice President needs better conflict-resolution skills, versus sending goons to speak on his behalf. Anything else?”

“He claims your very existence is plagiarism and that you constantly insult him.”

“I find that difficult to believe, as we dress nothing alike whatsoever. He prefers pastels and matching his glasses to his coffee cup. We are not remotely similar. As for insults, it seems we have files going back to the year he was hired as a pre-law professor, through the last restructuring, of him insulting his closest loved ones to his colleagues… and vice versa.”

Baron leaned back and vaped directly in front of the Dean, whispering a short ‘Bismillah’ prayer first.

“It seems you have a wild, tenured administrative liability on your hands. Alex left his notes, by the way… what a horrid way to leave.”

Baron raised a single eyebrow.

“Any final complaints?”

Dr. McRose sighed. “Your course schedule… Intro to Tasawwuf, Advanced Psy-Ops, and Cold War Radio… is popular. However, Vice President Leto2…”

“Teaches none of those exact topics. We cannot trust Intro to Tasawwuf to just anyone. That’s why I teach it.”

“I understand that. However, why is every other class on Sufism now taught by Mr. Butler from the Mango channel…?”

Baron shrugged.

“Nepotism, clearly. If he does a good job, he might make a good Butler Leto⁴.”

Duke Leto2, who was listening remotely (because he never un-bugged his prior office), felt no better after setting up Dean John McRose to speak on his behalf with campus security.

Nothing changed.

/end

Mango POV — Companion Piece [Anon Submission reply to above]
—

Mango Guards the Office

Mango had been instructed to guard the office, which meant two things:

1. Do not leave the office.

2. Do not ‘improve’ the situation.

He accepted this responsibility with the seriousness it deserved and rotated once in the cat bed, so the warm part was under his kidneys.

The poster was gone. This was good. Posters caused trouble. Posters remembered things that did not need remembering and never brought snacks.

Mango cleaned one toe, then another, and considered the soundscape.

The building hummed the way buildings did when humans were anxious but pretending to be professional. Air moved through vents that did not know why they were there. The floor vibrated faintly with the footsteps of Important Shoes.

Mango listened. Right now, he was doing his very best to be as cat-like as possible.  Being Mr. Butler was complicated

Mango was very good at listening. Cats always were. Humans often mistook this for not caring.

The door remained closed.

From behind the door came voices. Mango did not understand all the words, they were muffled.

…but he understood patterns. Humans lied in patterns. Fear had a smell. Paper had a smell. Old accusations smelled like dust and hot toner.

Mango flicked an ear.

He remembered Officer Alex. Everyone remembered Officer Alex, even when they pretended not to. The adjectives had followed him like a bad weather system. Mango had once attempted to chase them, but they were not real objects and refused to be bitten.

Bureaucratic devotion, Mango thought, though he did not know the phrase. He only knew the behavior.

A human passed in the hallway. Mango did not look. Looking encouraged conversation.  He did not want human conversation right now.

The desk vibrated. This meant Wolf was leaning on it somewhere else in the building. Wolf leaned carefully now. He had learned that weight drew attention.

Mango approved.

A door opened far away. Another closed. Somewhere, someone adjusted a tie as if it were a talisman.

Mango stretched one paw into the air and admired the curve of it. He was still guarding the office. Nothing had caught fire. No one had screamed. This was a successful watch.

The Vice President’s voice did not appear. This was also a success.

Mango yawned. His teeth were perfect. This mattered.

Eventually, the building exhaled. Meetings ended the way storms did: not with justice, but with fatigue.

Wolf returned later, smelling faintly of outside air and old carpet.

“All quiet?” Wolf asked.

Mango blinked once.

“Yes,” this meant.
Also: Nothing changed.
Also: That was the point.

Wolf sat on the floor with his back against the desk and closed his eyes for exactly thirty seconds.

Mango allowed him this.

The office remained guarded.

Mango purred, and Wolf joined him momentarily.

…after he shed his own human uniform.