I. The Run and Its OmensRucky and Chung, being again on the run, discovered themselves not so much fugitives as exemplars of the human condition: that perennial oscillation between stability and dislocation, hearth and horizon. But before we speak of their actual sprint, let us speak of the omens that foretold it—omens so contradictory that they might serve as a primer on epistemological doubt.The meteorologist: a priest of isobars and Doppler radar, whose incantations of “high pressure system” and “chance of showers” are modernized analogues of entrail-reading. Here it must be noted that meteorology is not mere science but also economics, for every farmer with his crop futures and every energy trader with his natural gas options hangs upon its forecasts. To mispredict a storm is not merely to inconvenience picnic-goers; it is to move millions of dollars across exchanges.The newspaper: that daily sheet whose ink is less a medium of truth than of advertisement. For though it announces robberies and chases, its true client is not the reader but the advertiser, who counts upon the trembling eyes of those who fear crime in order to sell them insurance, locks, or sensational novels.The constable: who tipped his cap while wheeling forth his bicycle. Permit me here a full digression on the bicycle: invented in its modern form in the late 19th century, it revolutionized personal mobility, particularly for women, whose bloomers were as much symbols of liberation as their pedals. Bicycles transformed rural courtship, labor commutes, and even military logistics (the Swiss army used entire bicycle infantry regiments until 2001). That such a machine should serve as the herald of pursuit is not accident but allegory: modernity chases the outlaw at every turn.And then the final omen: the voice of heaven, booming “Yes” when Rucky inquired if they were indeed fugitives once more. But whose voice was it? The divine? The sheriff’s megaphone? Or the echo of history itself, which has a way of repeating itself until men despair?
II. Rum, Plans, and the Memory of SugarRucky had a plan, and plans deserve essays. His was meticulous, the sort of plan one expects from utopian reformers or obsessive chess-players: post-it notes arranged like constellations, blueprints drafted like battle maps, phone alarms set like church bells.To test it, he presented it to the constable, who received it while drinking rum. And here we must linger, for rum is never neutral. Distilled from molasses—the sticky residue of sugar refining—it was the currency of the infamous “triangle trade”: enslaved Africans sent to the Americas, sugar shipped to Europe, rum shipped outward again. To sip rum is therefore to ingest history, bitterer than its sweetness lets on. That the constable poured rum upon Rucky’s diagrams is thus doubly symbolic: the law itself drenched in the legacy of exploitation.When at last he judged the plan “the best since the civil war,” he left ambiguous which civil war. But is that not the essence of civil wars? They blur into one another: Rome’s against itself, England’s against itself, America’s against itself, Spain’s against itself, each a mirror where nations catch sight of their own fracture.
III. The Cactus and Its TheologyChung’s refusal before the cactus merits its own essay, for the cactus is no trivial shrub but a text of spines.A. Botanical AspectThe cactus, member of the family Cactaceae, numbers over 1,750 species, ranging from dwarf globes no larger than a coin to towering saguaros taller than bell-towers. Their physiology is adapted to scarcity: CAM photosynthesis, wherein stomata open at night to reduce water loss, makes them nocturnal breathers. Their flesh swells with water, turning them into ambulatory cisterns. Their spines deter herbivores, scatter sunlight, and in some species even collect dew.B. Economic AspectFrom cactus comes the prickly pear, a fruit of sweetness encased in armor, traded across continents. From certain cacti comes cochineal dye, harvested from scale insects, once the second most valuable Mexican export after silver. Cochineal red painted the coats of British soldiers, the robes of cardinals, and the canvases of Renaissance painters. The cactus thus bleeds not just sap but commerce.C. Religious AspectIn Aztec cosmology, the founding of Tenochtitlán was marked by an eagle perched upon a cactus, devouring a serpent—a trinity of predator, prey, and plant now immortalized on Mexico’s flag. The cactus therefore mediates between heaven and earth, predator and sustenance, history and myth.D. Tequila AspectFrom agave (kin to cactus though not strictly of its family) comes tequila. First ritual drink, then colonial commodity, then Prohibition contraband, then modern brand. Each sip bears the palimpsest of centuries: indigenous fermentation, Spanish distillation, NAFTA-era export. To drink tequila is to participate in an economy, a theology, and an anthropology.Thus Rucky drank, Chung abstained, and destiny faltered.
IV. The Saloon and the Problem of the “Shot”The saloon was their parliament. The sheriff declared: “For every shot, a mile’s headstart.” But here arises a mathematical and economic problem.A “shot” is no universal measure:In the U.S., it is 1.5 oz.In the U.K., a single unit is 1.0 oz.In Japan, the pour is 2 oz. Thus the sheriff’s challenge contained within it a problem of measurement, akin to the metric-imperial divide that bedevils trade and engineering alike. One might say Rucky’s miles were already depreciated before he drank.And drink he did: first one, then another, until his face reddened and his stomach rebelled. Chung abstained, shrinking into abstinence. The sheriff’s horse, however, consumed six or seven shots, perhaps reminding us that the line between medical tonic and intoxicant is thin: in the 18th century, veterinarians prescribed alcohol for horses to treat colic. Was this horse cured or corrupted? Both, perhaps.
V. Sperm Banks, Teslas, and Toy PlanesChung’s detour to the sperm bank deserves analysis as allegory. There, unborn financiers promised future returns: an unborn doctor, an unborn lawyer, an unborn coder. This is no mere absurdity but a parody of speculative finance, where profits are wagered not on existing goods but on derivatives of futures of goods not yet made. The fetus with glasses was but a hedge fund manager in embryonic form.The Tesla running on tequila stands as another allegory: the dream of biofuels, the attempt to replace oil with corn ethanol, sugarcane ethanol, even algae. That it slurred its turn signals demonstrates the problem of combustion inefficiency.The toy fighter planes launched from the steamboat: here parody tips into prophecy. For is not modern war increasingly gamified? Drone operators control their machines with joysticks; military contractors design simulations indistinguishable from video games. The line between toy and weapon has already blurred.
VI. The Fusillade and Bureaucracy in HeavenAt last the blockade: revolvers raised, Tesla weaving, sheriff commanding. The volley thundered forth.But bullets turned to tequila. Baptism not execution. Laughter not requiem. The sheriff’s wife photographed it for posterity; the unborn rushed to fertilize. And heaven itself—or perhaps a heavenly department of clerks—pronounced the job complete.Punchcards stamped. Salvation as loyalty program: eight punches for eternity. Even paradise, it seems, cannot escape bureaucracy.
Apprendix: On the Nature of “Again”When Rucky asked, “Are we on the run again?” and heaven replied “Yes,” the key word was “again.” For recurrence is the outlaw’s curse. Every escape is prelude to another chase. Every plan collapses at another cactus. Every salvation requires another stamp. Life itself is but a fugitive program—long, meandering, digressive, stamped but never complete.
The Officium Ruckianum(Being the Office for the Passing of the Outlaw Rucky, Companion of Chung, Fugitive Eternal)MATINS (Midnight Office)Invitatory Sheriff intones upon the porch: Come, villagers, let us watch beside the outlaw. The stars themselves hang fixed, announcing his hour.Choir (Villagers): Run, Rucky, run, even unto the grave. Stamped be thy card, eight marks toward heaven.
Psalmody Psalm of Pursuit (adapted): The engines puffed, the hooves thundered, The Tesla slurred its signals. Yet he fled through cactus, through saloon, through sperm bank, And his boots did not stumble.Antiphon: O dearest Chung, gone before, guide thy outlaw through heaven’s cactus grove.
PRIME (First Hour)Lesson From the Book of The Punchcard: “And lo, the clerk stamped the eighth hole, and the fugitive passed upward, not by merit but by mileage.”Response: O clerk celestial, do not smudge the ink! For the outlaw’s loyalty outweighs his theft.
TERCE (Third Hour)Hymn of the Sperm Bank Choir Unborn we were, portfolios unborn, Yet we spoke to him of futures. He robbed not merely vaults but wombs, And in his robbery was foresight.Antiphon: What is gold to a fetus with spectacles?
SEXT (Sixth Hour)Canticle of the Shadows Upon the dresser they danced, Cops and robbers in silhouette. His past became pantomime, His crimes became nursery.Chorus: Even memory plays at outlawry.
NONE (Ninth Hour)Reading from the Gospel of Broadway “And they trod their boots down Broadway, and all the passersby marveled, saying, Who are these men pursued by the whole police department, yet drinking openly at the saloon?”Responsory: Tell them, tell them of our youth! Tell them of our running!
VESPERS (Evening Office)Canticle of the Sheriff’s Wife’s Selfie She framed his bed in pixels, Tequila revolver glimmering like censer. Villagers blurred behind her, And the caption—now lost— Yet still whispers: Another job well done, boys.Magnificat of Chung (apocryphal) My soul magnifies tequila, My spirit rejoices in the outlaw, For he has looked upon the lowliness of fugitives, And stamped their cards eightfold.
DIES IRAE RUCKIANUM (Sequence for the Dead)Dies fugae, dies rota, Steam and Tesla, horse and quota. Run shall end in smoke and shot-a.Quantus tremor est futurus, Cum constabule venturus, Rationes examinat.O Chung, my pallid brother, Come meet me where cacti cannot prick. Tell the unborn of our exploits, Tell the saloons of our songs, Tell heaven’s clerk: stamp my card complete.
Conclusion: The Eternal RunThus ends the Office, though not the outlawry. For Rucky runs still, across constellations, Stamped card in hand, Toward a heaven paved not in gold But in railroad ties.
The stars all hung in place, as if announcingThe hour had come at last, and on the porchThe sheriff called the village-folk, pronouncingSweet stories of salvation, as the torchShone weaker by the moment, and insideThe constable and stately priest kept watch.O dearest Chung!, the bedded Rucky criedSince our just Lord saw fit thou yode before me,And leftest me alone, since then I bideMy hours before this hour. Now I implore theeCome, greet me when I join the chosen few.Already dims the light. Already, stormy,Beclouds the window in my fading view,And cops’ and robbers’ shadows on the dresserNow reenact my memories of you.It comes! Call quickly the confessorAnd tell, O tell, that without dearest ChungThe wily Rucky would have been far lesserThan any fool who’s ever deigned to run.O tell, o tell the sinners in the hallwayTell them of our exploits when we were young,Tell them of how we trod our boots down Broadway,Tell them, tell them—
