![Jaguar Bahlum (~2012, Somewhere above Bibury) [Enemies Endure]](http://books.hitherby.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Jaguar_Yellow_PaperBG-2548888_130x130.png)
. . .
It’s not that she wants to die or anything. She’d rather live! It’s just that usually when a jaguar falls on you, particularly all the way from space, it doesn’t matter how ready your heart is or how strong you are. The flesh has limits to how much it can take.
So I’m scared for her, and I’m admiring towards her, because she’s gone out there anyway. She’s gone out to that waste at the end of the world, with its sticky trees, past that cow on its throne and the paper-tongued snake, and she’s calling the jaguars down.
She’s just decided that it’s time; and that somebody has to do it; and that she’s the only one who can possibly get it done.
So that’s pretty cool and all. Three cheers for Emily!
But this isn’t her story, either.
. . .
This story isn’t about how a jaguar hits her, and she dies; or how a jaguar hits her, and she lives; or even about how many jaguars hit her, to one result or another.
Nor is it about the triumph or even the tragedy of Johnny Pancake or how the world does or doesn’t get struck by a needle-thin ray from space, giving forth death and a terrible light.
This story is about Mr. Enemy.
. . .
His name sounds like Emily’s, so I could understand some confusion; but if you listen closely you’ll be able to tell the difference, which is actually, I think, in the long run, for the best.
– 4 –
Mr. Enemy is flopped back on his jail bunk. His hands are folded behind his head. He’s laughing.
“Mr. Evans,” says Special Agent Melanie Cook.
His laugh cuts short. Mr. Enemy sits up. His motion is smooth and even and he doesn’t hit his head on the bunk above him.
“I’m not Mr. Evans,” says Mr. Enemy. “Though I used to be.”
. . .
“It’s not important what your enemy’s name is,” says Mr. Enemy. “It’s not important what he does for a living. It’s not important who he is, really. What’s important is that he’s your enemy. Jeremiah Clean scrubbed me raw. He cleaned everything unimportant away. All the Linus. All the Friedman. All the Evans. So now I’m just Mr. Enemy. His enemy. If you know what I mean.”
Melanie looks at her notes. “You’re in jail for 1,427 counts of aggravated littering,” she says.
“90% of all crimes go unsolved,” says Mr. Enemy. “It should be 14,270 counts. But an adversarial legal system refuses me my due.”
. . .
Melanie frowns at her notes. “How do you aggravate littering, anyway?”
“It’s my special talent,” says Mr. Enemy. “Observe.”
He takes a cigarette butt out from under his pillow. He flicks it onto the ground in front of Melanie. The burnt end flares and begins to emit seventh-hand smoke — thirty-two times deadlier than second-hand smoke! Melanie quickly stomps it out.
“I’m not afraid of getting lung cancer,” she says, boldly.
He looks at her.
She looks away.
“I’m afraid of you getting lung cancer,” says Mr. Enemy, after a moment. “I’m not your enemy. But I have to be as messy as possible or I can’t count it as a blow against Mr. Clean.”
![Mr. Enemy’s Breakfast (~2025, Multijurisdictional Entity Correctional Facility in Renton) [Enemies Endure]](http://books.hitherby.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Icon_PBJ-1729604_130x130.png){kind=icon}
. . .
Mr. Enemy pulls half a sandwich out from under his pillow. It’s covered in greasy saran wrap. It’s a peanut butter sandwich, so it’s not clear where the grease came from. He bites deep.
“What do you need me for?” he says.
“What does it mean to you,” Melanie asks, “that you’re Jeremiah Clean’s enemy?”
Mr. Enemy gestures with the sandwich. Now there’s peanut butter on the cell wall. It’s a horribly artistic Rorschach smear.
“There’s an obstacle in everyone’s path,” Mr. Enemy says. “There’s a stumbling block. Someone or something who gets in the way. Someone who is the antithesis of what you believe in. Someone who means, just ’cause they exist, that you can’t have what you want. That’s what it means to be an enemy. That’s what it means to be bad, you know, in someone else’s world.”
. . .
“Not everything has an enemy,” Melanie says.
“If we didn’t have enemies,” says Mr. Enemy, “we’d be as gods. Look.”
He holds up the saran-wrapped sandwich.
“Thon-Gul X is the warlord of a distant star. He is the incarnate body of the wicked god of space, and he wants to destroy the world. He would do it, too. He’d destroy everything, if he had to, just to get at us. He would make himself into the warlord, the beginning and the ending, wrapped around space and time. But —
. . .
“Saran wrap clings between Thon-Gul X and his plans. If he could destroy it, then he would be unlimited. But he cannot, because — well, ultimately, because saran wrap is another aspect of himself.”
Melanie squints at him.
“It was invented on Earth,” she says.
“‘If only it did not thus cling!’” Mr. Enemy quotes in satisfaction. “But it is clinging. Thus is the lament of Thon-Gul X.”
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