Part 2 - Censorship and Grievance
The Adventures Of Jubjub In Delulu Town - Part 2
Jubjub pounded the pavement in a flurry. He was aware of the gripping flight or fight response as he aimed for the mountain and put his head down. It was always the mountain he went to, high above the town and out of reach of the fishermen and paupers he was safe. He would occasionally catch glimpses of his ilk up there, among the pines as they bustled past in silence with a respectful nod. He knew very little about these strange people who recklessly scrambled rocks and rivers in the early twilight, but he felt an odd kindred connection with them, as he had grown up at the foot of a mountain and had the persistent and primal urge to also scramble to the top of mountains too.
It was an oppressively hot morning as the sun beat down on the grumpy and the content in Delulu Town. Jubjub had learned to embrace the culture of grievance and censorship that he brought along on a leash everywhere he went now, casting a dark cloud over his head. He smelled the summer air and felt the iridescent green reflection of the sunlight off the lush foliage as he beat the tarmac up the hill. It really was beautiful, he thought. The forests, the side walks and the roads were immaculately and painstakingly manicured into a kaleidoscope of friendly emerald blossoms. The worker bees that seemed to tirelessly beautify the town for the residents had been hard at work. Jubjub worried that it was a thankless and even despised job that the worker bees carried out. Jubjub considered the morning's sunny brunch interaction as a local frothed at the mouth in an apoplectic fit as she regaled to the table the abuses she had suffered at the hands of the worker bees, through the pages of newspapers and infinitely scrolling media. Jubjub was no stranger to municipal abuse and now recalled it wistfully as he nonetheless leaned forward during the brunch conversation. He would learn how to do this, how look out at this beautiful town and see the effort the worker bees undertook to keep it that way, to which he explode into a shaking rage accompanied with tears and spittle as he wailed his story of grievance due to the worker bees success at keeping the streets clean, the water flowing, the street lights burning brightly and for administering high voltage electric shocks through the tips of cattle prods applied regularly between the shoulder blades of the residents of cardboard boxes at the intersections of the busier streets of the town, until they left with shaking heads for less oppressive climes. After all, he had to assimilate eventually and this would be the quickest path to social acceptance in this town, he thought as he took a break by a trickling brook shaded by huge and ancient trees.
He thought a little about the reef. The pangs of guilt were becoming less frequent, but he still missed his countrymen. They were here too, but squeezed into smaller parts of town and well trained to sit up and extend a paw and nod vigorously at the latest asinine instruction to feel oppressed. Jubjub longed for a fist bump, or a complicated handshake requiring double jointed digits and concluding in a genuine clasp of the hands and a sincere but brief embrace. This urban indulgence left a gaping hole in his heart that was filled with bright delight when can came upon someone who spoke this tactile language. Jubjub breathed in the fresh morning air as he misted over in reminiscence.
He could get used to this village life, he thought. There were some critical skills he would have to acquire, but as another recent semigrant had told him, those from the reef generally had the aptitude to make it work anywhere. He weighed these options in his mind; obviously there was a deep Stockholm Syndrome that had formed the basis of JPTSD, but at the same time this was the basis of his dynamism and ability to adapt, or so he thought.
Jubjub would bask in the green glimmer here until the urge to be productive overcame him to which he would bolt back to his desk and hustle away.