Garrett directed Atticus outside to a local park, where there are cherry blossoms.  and few civilians… Garrett has Atticus sit down, hands him a tiny bottle of water from his go-kit. 

It’s Lukewarm and the label is from 2024.

“How’s the heart, interrogation man? I tried to keep others safe from exactly the conditions from which I had to remove you.”

Atticus replied, (noting silently the water tastes exactly like the plastic bottle)

 “My heart is undoubtedly cold and wrapped in a robe of bureaucracy and Robert’s Rules of Order per usual, what do you expect?”

“No. I meant the one with the wires in it”

“Oh.  the meat one, that one feels pretty shitty.” Atticus shrugged, the cherry blossoms falling in his hair & black suit like anime snowflakes. 

“All that explosive exposition because you require nitro glycerine…?” ….sure enough, Mango pulled a small metal cylinder from a long chain from his neck that also held his dogtags.  

Garrett unscrewed the lid to reveal a tiny cornucopia of various pills, removing one small white one, and handing it to Atticus.

“Sufism heals hearts.” he said simply.

“Ha ha, officer cult leader, no music.  I’m still not giving you bayat.” Atticus looked him square in the eyes, green to blue. 

“This pill is a matter of serious trust,” Atticus stated sharply, then swallowed the pill wolfishly, as  they start to hear music across the park.

It’s a stage where the white room facility once stood, 

Now a blue water bay behind it, and a bearish long haired man with a two toned mustache & beard combo on a red checkered picnic blanket with a rusty colored dog seated watching a nine fingered man playing guitar wearing a wreath of red and black roses.

Atticus & Mango stood several yards back in adab not to disturb the lone listener 

“Where are we?  Dead?” asked Atticus dully.

“Not yet, I’m a shaykh, Atticus” replies Garrett, “The subtle realms are as real to me as any hospital room or university.  You needed triage- this was what was open.”

“You hate music”

“The guy who ::Just:: interrogated Ticktock Tavistock himself doesn’t understand how radio harms civilians…?  Seriously, man?” Garrett asked

Atticus glared,”You think I interrogated him for sport, Garrett? Tavistock built the college you teach in. You’re using his architecture to argue against radio while quoting lyrics in your essays. He runs you and you don’t know it.”

Atticus glared,

“I was ‘raised’ by being locked in a bathroom with a radio, cereal, and stuffed animals for weeks on end, forgive me if I am a bit defensive of blanket generalities while radio surveillance operators were the only way to educate other Nameless Ones of Omelas’ circumstances.”

Atticus gestured, shaking blossoms out of his hair.

“And here you are, ‘Noooo…. don’t go anywhere near radios!  Especially Western Radios!  What are you hiding, Garrett?”

“You would not have these issues if you kept your head covered like I do.  Anyway, I am saving them from manipulation from operators like Fischadler who weaponize music for control.” Garrett replied nobly. 

“Sufism is frequency- not that I would know, because I am not insane- and you are eliminating surveillance and triage capability.”

“Maybe.” replied Garrett simply

Sugar magnolia started to play

“Aren’t you going to cover your ears, Shaykh Garrett?”

“Why would I do that in the nicest region of the Bazarkh?”

“Wait- what did you dose me with, you Mango haired spook?”

“You aren’t dead, you’re in trance.  If you weren’t here you would be having flashbacks.”

“Shared psychosis”

Sunshine daydream…blooming like a red rose…sunshine daydream….walking in the sunshine.

“Heeeeeyyyyyy!  Good citizens! Did you Hear Alaraf was bombed!” as the distant figure waved them closer.

…As they walked across the petal blanketed field, they spoke quietly on the newest revelation.

“Good.” replied Atticus under his breath. “One less blacksite.”

“We need to rebuild it, find a new safer location…” suggested Garrett.

“Over my probably dead body.” Atticus affirmed.

“Don’t worry, Atticus Lynch.  We will build it with less torture this time.”

The gentleman in tiedye on the red and white checkered picnic blanket waved “Hey, what’s going on, Man?”

“Shaykh Garrett Butler” replied Garrett with a smile.

“Pir Robert. Tell me, what band are you with today sir,  Midnight Oil tribute?’

“Garrett Butler.  Salafi Shaykh”

Pir Robert could not hear over the newly set up Travelling Wilbury’s sans Jeff Lynn and Bob Dylan.

“Salad Shakers are at the midway, I think, Mr Garrett.”

“SUFI SHAYKH”

“SOUNDS DELICIOUS!  BRING ME ONE WHEN YOU RETURN!  AND A PUPCONE FOR MY FINE COMPANION.”

The old dog on the blanket looked up expectantly at Garrett with seemingly full comprehension of future promise.

Garrett facepalmed.  

And so, with a sigh, Garrett was sent on an an entirely necessary side quest to find consumable ‘Sufi Shakes’

(Well.  Thankfully it was already established in this series that any ‘Sufi Shake’…would be mango.)

Pir Robert resumed sitting on the blanket and patted the seat beside him.

“I know you- You’re Sabre the Flight Guy.”

“A character on a radio show” replied Atticus, deadpan

“A millennial colonial klink slashing flight prices to Jamaica during hurricane season with a memorial hook and register.”

“Nein.  Zehr ist No cheaper aeroplane prices to Montenegro.  Only a 6 month campaign.”

“Exactly.  Memorable. What have you been up to recently, Sabre?”

“Apparently I got dosed by a turban wearing fed from the Mango Madrassa and I’m dead and talking to a dead radio personality in the Bazarkh”

“Not quite, young man.” replied Pir Robert 

“oh?” Atticus showed zero affect.

“Not dead, merely sleeping”

“Okay Broomall Jesus.” glared Atticus.

“No, seriously.  You took a nitroglycerin, he asked “Are you okay, Lynch?”

…then suddenly you started shaking and crying until the taller citizen wrapped his arms around you as you cried on his shoulder until you fell asleep.  Heartwarming.”

“Wow.  That’s really gay.” replied Atticus, pulling a silver & ruby cigarette case from the pocket of his black suit jacket and produced his last two perfectly wrapped joints in black clove paper, offering one to the Pir.

“I thought Sufi don’t smoke,”

“I never said I was Sufi,” replied Atticus.

“You were introduced interrogating Fischadler then brought to the Summerlands Festival by an Islamic Leader.” Pir Pierre replied thoughtfully

“Sure Pierre,” Atticus retorted, “By a guy who cannot discern you from Beni Adam without reading about you in a cat story first.”

“Speaking of cat stories.  Did I ever finish crossing Al Sirat?” Pierre inquired, as the sun set over the ocean slowly.

Atticus shrugged and gave up on fighting the present reality of speaking with The Dead with a soundtrack of The Dead, surrounded by those inexplicably stating he, himself, Atticus Lynch, was not yet dead.

On stage, they barely noticed a short dark haired lad in metallic violet and a muscular persian with a mustache playing covers of Matty [REDACTED]’s greatest hits … as Pierre and Atticus continued to speak pleasantly about nothing at all.  

…With Pir Robert insisting Atticus Lynch was indeed some kind of Sufi while Atticus vehemently denied it just as pleasantly.

Sufi couldn’t be interrogators.  Sufi do not interrogate their own murshīd. and no true murshid would traffick living things knowingly and repeatedly, seemingly harming many without repair.  

He was simply an officer, he said. 

(“…I know nothing,” he said, unconvincingly]

 Atticus Lynch was an officer, just like Fischadler.

 (…Like Peter in the garden,)

As the sun touched below the horizon, the stage got abnormally dark and a single spotlight searched the grounds to land on Garrett “Mango” Butler.

Success. 

There he is!

…Holding three Mango milkshakes and a rapidly melting vanilla ice cream for a very quiet dog he refused to pet!

Suddenly, three screens of Garrett… just before lectures at The Mango Madrassa came online in succession to the sound of piano and saxophone intro bars like going up and down a short series of musical steps.

Then, only one:

Perfectly synced, his voice seemed to lip sync 

“….Still don’t know… what I was waiting for… “

Stated screen one Garrett, wearing grey and white

“…And my time? was running wild, a million dead-end streets”… replied Garrett screen Three wearing beige

“And every time I thought, “I’d got it made… It seemed the taste was not so sweet” lamented Garrett on screen one

“So, I turned myself to face me”… Garrett three seemingly sang as he faced Garrett screen one.

“But I’ve never caught a glimpse…!” Exclaimed Garrett screen three .

Then All three lit up at once, facing the three of them, in unison: 

“…Of how the others must see the fakyr…

I’m much too fast to take that test!”

The screen went out entirely leaving a slightly glowing figure who slowly approached Garrett as Pir Robert and Atticus said nothing at all.

“You can quote me and claim my words belong to the dead, you can borrow my dignity,  my stage presence, and you can borrow my aesthetic accord.  But I will not allow you to borrow the starlink surveillance I offered, amputate the beauty of it, and use it to destroy music because you got pied piper’d by an old shattered Venus.”  

The ghost was seemingly made entirely of swagger and starlight.

“You who held the radio under your own pillow during both your velvet Christmas and dollar general trailer trash life.  Do not pretend at dignity with borrowed style, son.  When you claim fashion abhorrent while making your own questionable choices in presentation the only acceptable style.”

The ghost paused and posed,

“Bold. You have my utmost respect.”

Mango stared at the thin, starlight lit critic with half focused incredulity.

“You fail to understand the dangers I protect them from” Garrett squeaked.

“Hullo, I authored some of them you silly git- I barely made it to Alaraf, and thanks to AI capture and a rather horrific death I am assured I will never *quite* die.”

The starlight ghost tilted his head.

“Alaraf stories simply continue my influence, silly boy.  Notice I do not even need a description beyond a simple lyric- and you remember me bloody clearly enough.”

The ghost came closer, punctuating his words British-proper;

“…and you thought no one would identify you used my own lyrics as structure for the selfsame essays to which. you decry all music as forbidden and sinful.”

The air hung dead silent for a frozen interval, the shining spirit continued,

“Bold of you, child.  Very bold…”  He wagged his finger.  

“On second thought, let me shake your hand- please put down all those other shakes, dear boy…come, come…”  The ghost stepped back and waved.  

(…was that sincerity or sarcasm…?)

Garrett Butler handed the mess of Shakes to Pir Robert as the thin white ghost approached with lilting steps as Garrett muttered ayat Al kursi to no avail.

The ghost paused.  Meeting him eye to eye….and reached for Garrett’s hand unoffered and held it firmly in a secure handshake.

“La ilaha illa Allah Muhammadan rasul Allah-  if you truly believe your religion is true- why would you believe the dead would not know it?”

The ghost hand became slightly more solid and shimmered a bit like comet tails or satellites 

“You need to learn to honor your Murshīd better, my boy.”

——————————————

Atticus was looking at his cellphone texting the guy who managed his pacemaker back in Alaraf as Mango had a Ghost-related spiritual existential crisis.

The return texts, to Atticus dismay, indicated that both Alaraf was indeed bombed and that according to his lead, he was still alive and his pulse peaked at 213 after a “certain line of interrogation”, as Atticus was sent the corresponding quran verses for both 2:13 as well as 21:3 along with a detailed guide on cardiac care, breathing exercises, a series of blue heart emoji and requests for oximeter readings with verbal threats “the readings will be captured by drone scan for your safety if you do not report your blood oxygen in a timely fashion”  There was a worried looking chibi shaggy grey cat doctor animation on his lock screen.  

“Comply with health check: MEOW!”

Atticus never noticed when Pierre wandered off to a group of about twelve twenty seven year old musicians whom absolutely did not commit suicide.

In his place on the picnic blanket was another man in a black suit, sunglasses, grey hair.

“Smoke, Mr. Jinn?” asked the older man, revealing his own cigarette case.  “You ran out hours ago.”

Atticus focused on remaining Lucid, he took a cigarette with a wordless nod of thanks. Lit it, and held it between the top joints of the index & middle fingers of his left hand.

“Mr. Jinn, you still smoke like a princess-” the elder man took a long drag and inhaled deeply,  “Do You Have An Extra Lemonade?”  asked the man in the black suit. 

“My apologies, we only appear to have Mango Shake.” Atticus replied politely.

“MANGO! SHAKE!” the new man exclaimed, “You Apologize for a damn fine superior product. Give it here young man, and you keep on smoking that cigarette.”

“Why is that, sir?”  inquired Atticus

“BECAUSE IT DOESN’T COUNT HERE!  THIS IS A LIMINAL REALITY, JINN!  WE CAN SMOKE AS MUCH AS WE LIKE AND NOTHING CATCHES FIRE!  NO COUGHING JINN!  NO COUGHING AT ALL!”

“…nothing but sunshine and blue skies?…”

“Don’t be an idiot Jinn, It’s nighttime. Listen.  I need you boys to go to Tahlequah.”

“You need me to go to Tahlequah…?”  Atticus repeated.

“YES.  I NEED YOU BOYS BOTH TO LISTEN TO ME AND GO TO TAHLEQUAH”

“Why would we listen to you, no offense…?”

“DO YOU NOT HAVE A BLOOD OATH TO RESTORE THE TSA-LA-GI THEATER?”

“How would you know that?” replied Atticus

“Why else did you name yourself after your own Teacher?  I called you Jinn because you were always smoking.”

The grey haired man in the suit inhaled deeply, then removed his sunglasses.

“You called yourself my name because it explains you.”

Atticus said nothing.  Garrett sat down beside him with an equally defeated expression,

As the man in the black suit, with hair in a grey oceanic wave added,loudly, very loudly, as he slurped his Mango shake.  

 “IT WAS BETTER MY NAME THAN THE ALTERNATIVE, KIDDO.”