﷽

Mango had adapted unsurprisingly well to the Juggalo daycare once he realized the greasepaint stains from the baby juggalos were less sticky than typical children.

He still eventually solved the problem by providing tiny black and red nitrile gloves to each child and taught them not to touch their faces after they put on their aggressive clown paint each morning to repulse the adult predators at their normie public schools.

It was well known predators avoided students that could fight back and they were often less attracted to less socially cohesive children; educational environments were full of predation- by making the children entirely immune to shame and embracing murder clown love cohesion- typical humiliation rituals found little purchase on Juggalo children.

Shaykh Mango Milenko still wore Jorts, black sweatsocks pulled to his knees, an immaculate white t-shirt, white Crocs, green and yellow poncho, and tied a bandana into his turban to appear more like a homie. He was already pasty pale so he only placed dignified little diamonds above and below his eyes and one as a beauty mark, ringed his eyes in Kohl, braided his thin rebellious little beard into tiny inner city weaves of gingery white above his perfect Butlerian mustache of mango hue as he wore a little crimson honky nose, when requested, for only the most important lectures.

He would honk it three times to gain immediate attention on his words he would not get otherwise.

Atticus…just sort of abandoned him in Tempe many chapters ago and Mango adapted by starting a hobby of creating tiny enamel kitty cat clown pins for others to wear on their Crocs and inventing “clean clown juggalo knock off juicy juice” where students learned to drink tea or orange juice mixed with LaCroix nicely from cups instead of habitually spraying each other [and daycare faculty] with neon-tangerine Faygo.

Today Mango Garrett was seated cross legged on a red and black quilt and surrounded by the entire laity of tiny juggalos ages four through eight years of age.

Since many already came from broken homes from the worst parts of Tempe, these children were far too responsible for their ages, despite the clown paint.

It was Storytime, so all the children shed their remaining humanity to sit patiently as kittens in their tiny juggasocks as Mango described how he ended up educating the Juggalos. Which will be described in a later story, because as much as Mufti Mango Garrett John Butler is loved & appreciated by his own Musawīr, it was more important to speak on another story first.

This time, without cats but with dogs.
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Mr. Gallant J. Allen was a blondish Spitz looking fellow in a polo shirt and khakis, drinking a glass bottle Coca-Cola as the printer behind him printed paper after paper.

At the table in front of him was his nephew, [foster nephew?] the burgundy-coloured fox, and a small bulldog of a man in an entirely grey suit with a light blue Calvin Klein button down named Dr. A.S.K. Mizan, Sovereign operator & living cryptid.

For some reason, the septuagenarian doctor brought flowers which he placed on the table in front of himself and the fox who was wearing a black satin jacket, a red dress shirt from Express, and thrifted tuxedo pants that barely hid the fact his rear paws were in black cowboy boots.

The vase was thin, wavy, green, and shaped like a drunk ribbon and only held a Bird of Paradise blossom, a stem of green orchids as well as one stem each of red and white gladiolas.

“We are on camera, are we not?” asked the elder man, as if that suddenly explained the necessity of the flowers.

The meeting was awkward. Both men served as uncles to the middle aged fox politely sipping alkaline water who had written the report, printed page by page behind them, in excruciating lassitude.

“This meeting was planned entirely differently, I thought?” Inquired the fox, who was just Atticus Lynch.

Again.

Mr. Allen simply stared then rubbed his temples.

“I thought our family ruined both your lives.”

“He only met them once or twice,” offered the elder, “more would require leaving his office.”

“Reichhörnchen was actually the one with more regular contact- Sorry Gallant.”

“Why sorry…?”

“Because now you have to read all about squirrels and the Pennsylvania Deitsch. Compare it to the Hildebrandt-Jaeger stuff from Nana Gloria… you will find almost nothing resembling our childhood. Entirely fabricated.”

“Printing a book for the English with fake remedies is normal” said the bulldog. “You should witness the outcome when we trained CoalDog Barks to read Rumi”

“Same difference, for an eye infection, use cow dung. Place cold stones in your pillow for headache- that sort of thing?” the Spitz inquired.

“Possessed hexerei voodoo doll scarecrow you dress in the beginning of the year, introduce to your friends and property…and that subsequently haunt your ass if you don’t set them on fire each October” The fox stated deadpan with a raised brow.

The fox had shaved arms & a sleeve tattoo, it was of a red wolf wearing a blue uniform taking up half his arm surrounded by fire, blue roses and one calla lily. His other shaved arm was a single feather and a Lucifer sigil. He wore a heavy silver ring carved with an extensive prayer in Arabic in what may have been garnet on his index finger of his left hand, on his other hand, a ring of woven tulips in stainless steel from Shady Maple Smorgasbord.

The fox placed his pen betwixt his forepaws like an imaginary cigarette and gestured, “So yeah, again, you dress a guy up all fancy, introduce him to your fields and community then cremate him to ash in October. Can I vape here, please?”

“This isn’t the 1970’s, kid.” replied the Spitz in the polo shirt.

“YOU WERE TRAINED BY THE GREATEST PHYSICIANS IN VATANAM. WHY WOULD YOU SMOKE?!”

“Because I don’t drink or have any other serious vices outside of interrogation.”

“He was?” replied Spitz inquisitively, “Who taught him?”

“Myself. I’m Great.” replied the Doctor.

“However, the elephant in the room is Dr. A. Tura”

“I don’t see anyone else here, gentlemen.” replied Atticus.

“I really wish we could have a conversation with your agency that doesn’t remind me of being slowly poisoned or of others unnecessary death by datura,” smiled the fox. The more uncomfortable he was, the wider he smiled. …As he moved the rather silly vase to hide his eyes behind the Bird of Paradise.

Dr. Mizan retrieved the vase to its original position and patted Atticus on the back supportively.

“Tell me about how you met Dr. Tura.” asked Gallant. His eyes were blue and he was wearing a Gritty Philadelphia Flyers analog watch. It was literally Gritty, the Mascot pointing at Roman numerals. When Gallant moved his wrist, Gritty’s tummy shook all jumbly-like.

“I was sent to his office by Canada and told I would meet someone important after my project fell through in Saskatchewan. It wasn’t safe here for him.”

“They were right. Pussy.”

“For fuck sake.” replied Atticus.

“So, briefly, what happened?”

“I transferred under his direct supervision. He changed agencies and we remain functionally estranged since 2011 as he decided to take a one way surveillance gig on my life without my consent as he explored urban pharmacology as a contractor for Saint Alaraf’s hospital. He ended up as Cousin Tammi’s therapist for a while. See, I don’t count aliased contact as “real”- It’s just diet estrangement.”

“He would disagree.” replied Dr. Mizan.

“If one cannot respect or care enough about me to defend, support, or approach me openly then what is there?”

“A man who has been there for you nearly daily apparently, who can’t attend this meeting because he claims you are the reason for his nervous breakdown.”

“He can cry about it with his high salary in his cushy desk chair in his corner office. As I continue to enjoy my diet of chelation agents on a perpetual AmeriCorps stipend eaten mostly by his shitty NGO as he complains my tone of voice hurts his widdle feelings.”

“Atticus. Be reasonable.”

“I would really like a moxy cartridge, something citrus THC live resin diamonds. High Myrcene, if possible, low pinene. If it comes in beta-caryophyllene that would also be acceptable. I really enjoy Clementine or Super Orange Tangie. No Diesels.”

“Atticus. No.”

“You cannot ask me about 2011 without a buffer. It’s not like it ever fucking stopped. He got his shiny CIA job, started writing to me as a girl, and as soon as I found out he had no intention of stopping I turned him in. I got accused of stalking him.
Then he pursued me with fake profiles, compromised my perimeter constantly, insulted me to his colleagues each time I objected, and allowed others to prey upon me as I tried to sort out his legitimate nervous breakdowns from my oversight in London, and the two of them from every single bad actor in both their networks who targeted me time & again as an easy way of hitting a lyrebird & a peacock with one stone.”

“Can you keep OPSEC and identify your UK supervisor?”

“Lord Wimbofee Tenders of Lambridge University & Sanatorium in Wundon, United Kingdom as part of the Brotherhood of Perpetual Indulgences ” replied the Fox; fidgeting.

“London?”

“Wundun. You said keep OPSEC”

Dr. Mizan kicked Atticus under the table.

“Fine. Tura saved my life, most of the time, outside of the persistent aliasing he was my best friend.”

“Is”

“WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?!” objected Atticus. Vehemently.

“The side of Accuracy.” stated the bulldog, cleaning his glasses with the tail of the green flannel ribbon tied around the flower vase. “Just because you’re pissed off doesn’t mean you get to rewrite Reality.”

The room was suddenly filled with small mice dressed as circus clowns dancing to “Just Can’t Get Enough” by Depeche Mode.

“Feck dieu.” replied Atticus.

As the rodents danced, Atticus related for yet another time the same, unchanging, painful story of the man who shoved him into a box of poverty for the career interests of a Jackal who claimed love and respect existed while aliasing to Atticus, a man born in Munich, who only viewed love, care, respect, and kindness as something given in real life, directly, without shadows, games or aliases. And had endured otherwise because he was given zero other choice.

Atticus could not escape his own CIA agent and that agent sold his soul to avoid being Real since 2011.

And there was absolutely nothing Atticus could do but pray, talk to his uncles, and write fucking cat stories about it as the man wove fantasies around every aspect of existence so profoundly the only way to breathe was to write truth with animal costumes.

The dead guy would have just punched him.

That was likely one of the many reasons the dead officer remained dead- up until his last breath he never sold out his self determination or the lives of others for social approval, money, comfort, or the illusion of fame.

“ATTICUS!” the doctor shouted and slammed both hands on the table.

“…and I love him very much.” replied Atticus, “What the fuck do you want from me.”

“Patience.” replied Gallant, his tail wagging once, “If you were wrong about any of your beliefs about Dr. Tura, would you want to know and to re-evaluate your stance?”

“He talked shit on both me and the scary doctor here for over a decade. He allegedly was closest to us both.”

“Easy there, kit.”

“I wasn’t asking for cannabis for recreation, You know what your family did to me even before this bullshit I have horrific PTSD. You don’t make a Fox into a neutered showdog and expect puppies. I am just trying to function, dawg.”

“Atticus.” Stated Mr. Gallant the Spitz.

“What.” The Fox Replied

“You sound like Goofus.”

“That’s what happens when you raise any creature in your brother’s house. You get smiling sarcasm because the tears were beaten out by his hamfisted wife as he watched like a voyeur. The amount of people in my foster family worth my time I can count on a single paw and still have unassigned digits. You only saw my side after they treated you the same as they treated me. The same way that Jackal treats me.”

“…Atticus…” Dr. Mizan growled

“I am treated like a fucking fox among hounds. I want honesty, direct communication & in person reconciliation or nothing at all. I am exhausted from being confined by other people’s shitty life choices dominating my life without my input nor consent. If he truly views the time he spends in surveillance as “real” then he can spend that time in person instead of hiding like a bitch behind masks and botfarms. 15 years has only made me bitter, not more accepting of inauthentic bullshit and pretending that choosing those who hate me over me is ‘care’ instead of contempt.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

A four-year-old in black nitrile gloves raised her hand. “Did the fox get his in-person?”

Mango honked his nose three times.

“Not yet, homie. But he said it out loud, and nobody can paint over that.”

“The fox still loves him?” asked a small juggalo, frowning through his paint.

“Yeah.”

“My dad’s like that too.”

Mango honked his nose once, softly, and poured everyone orange juice and LaCroix.

“May Allah make it easier on him.”