Okay, Little Hawk, here it comes, as promised. I decided to post it on this thread rather than "the end of the world is nigh" because that thread is getting so long it takes a long time to load, and I feel that this is too important for people to miss. Also, it does seem fairly appropriate here. However, by way of introduction, some folks might wish to pick up the background of the following by reading a couple of posts on the aforementioned thread (here), beginning with Little Hawk's of 22 Jul 04 - 03:30 PM, and on through subsequent posts.

This bit of Natural (or Unnatural) History was learned from a strange and awesome source. It occurred during a moment of great clarity that came to me a few nights ago, when, feeling relaxed, magnanimous, and open to all that the universe had to offer (and without the "aid" of mind-altering substances, I might add, other that a cup of tea [Earl Gray, hot]), I was surprised to find myself channeling an old, wise soul who informed me that he had reincarnated many times—and in various forms. He had been many people and many things during his long sojourn, and at times he had occupied non-human forms. On one of these occasions when he manifested as a non-human, he had adopted the name Cyril. Since things in this multiplicity of realms tend to form interlocking vortices, many of which account for strange coincidences in this world, it is not unusual that, in the form of the non-human, Cyril, he had been in Chicago some four and a half or five decades ago and he chanced to encounter none other than our dear friend Martin Gibson!

We talked of many things, and during this conversation, Cyril told me this bizarre story:—

To say that Martin Gibson had a dysfunctional childhood would be something of an understatement.

A few moments after he was born, she who bore him took one look at him, and her heartrending and bloodcurdling shriek of horror echoed and re-echoed through the concrete canyons of the great city. She scrambled frantically out of the Dumpster, ran down the alley, and vanished into the night.

Being forsaken thus could have meant the end for Marty. But he was in luck. Many animals recognize and seem to take pity on abandoned infants of other species and take care of them as best they can, raising them as if they were their own (there are precedents for this: strange though it seems, there are rare cases of even human children being raised by wild animals). For months he was suckled by feral alley cats, who also cuddled up to him and kept him warm on cold winter nights. This was not entirely pleasant for him, but being dined on by the fleas that the cats carried was preferable to freezing to death.

Eventually, the cats were driven away by a family if large and ferocious Norwegian rats (you could tell by the accent) who appropriated the Dumpster as their own. Once again, this could have meant the end for Marty. But the rats, feeling some sort of strange kinship to this odd, helpless creature, decided that, rather than eating him, they would take care of him. As helpless and pathetic as he was, and with his wrinkled, pasty grayish-white skin and long incisors, he reminded them of a creature that was indigenous to Equatorial East Africa, and who, also being a rodent, may or may not be distantly related to them:   the naked mole rat (here and here), one of Mother Nature's more disgusting creatures.

Thus, under these unusual circumstances, Marty thrived as best as one could. He grew fat and strong on the provender that seem to rain down with some regularity when the lid was lifted, blinding him in the harsh daylight, but leaving he and his rattus norvegicus family a variety of treats:   such things as orange peels, wilted lettuce, half-eaten Big Macs, and the occasional stale Twinkie. A major treat in his young life was when someone tossed in a nearly half-full box of Froot Loops. The nearest thing to square meals he had in those early years came in the form of a discarded box of moldy Pop Tarts.

Because he had learned many aggressive survival mechanisms from his two adoptive families (the cats and the rats), as he grew larger and larger, the rats became afraid of him, especially when he took to eating their newborn ("Uff da!"), so they abandoned the Dumpster to seek safer refuge.

I might digress at this point to mention that, since his birth, twice a week Marty went through moments of sheer terror when the Dumpster suddenly moved, and accompanied by strange vibrations and metallic growling noises, was lifted up, and turned upside-down, causing all the accumulated contents to fall out. He always knew when this was about to occur, because his rattus norvegicus family (and the feral cats before them) always disappeared shortly before this happened. He barely managed to keep from being ejected with the rest of the trash by desperately clutching the protuberances of dried, unspecified crud that had adhered to the insides of the Dumpster. His terror gradually ebbed when the Dumpster was righted and returned to its former location. On a plaintive and somewhat unsettling note, he always wondered why, when his rattus norvegicus family (and the feral cats before them) returned and saw he was still there, they rolled their eyes and sighed wearily.

Much to his credit, and standing him in good stead (sort of) in his years to come, Marty whiled away the lonely hours by teaching himself to read. A small bit of light dimly illuminated the interior of the Dumpster because the lid didn't fit properly, and one day someone tossed in a well-thumbed and somewhat sticky copy of Hustler Magazine. This constituted Marty's "First Reader," and goes a long way toward explaining his current interests and modes of expression.

Over the years Marty began to feel that there had to be something beyond the confines of the Dumpster, but cowering in fear at the light that blinded him whenever the lid was raise, he knew practically nothing of the Outside World until he began receiving regular visits from a raccoon named Cyril [AHA! Here we go!], who lived in an overgrown vacant lot several blocks away. Cyril first dropped in (literally) to examine the menu du jour of the random but fortunately plentiful semi-edibles that rained into the Dumpster almost every day. Urbane, worldly wise, and a bit cynical (as befits a city-dwelling raccoon), but with a basically kindly nature, he took pity on the pathetic creature that inhabited the Dumpster. Now that the rats were gone, the poor creature's only companions were a horde of surly and uncommunicative cockroaches, the usual swarm of flies, and an occasional yellow-jacket that found its way under the ill-fitting lid.

During his regular visits, as they dined on leftover pizza crusts and licked the Omega 3 oils out empty kipper-snack cans, Marty told Cyril of his life in the metal box (not much to tell) and Cyril told Marty of the great world outside, often regaling him with tales of his many wonderful adventures. Marty's normally watery, squinting eyes opened wide in amazement as Cyril told him of the humans that predominated in the city, and instructed him in the ways of these humans, since, after eliminating a number of other likely possibilities, he judged Marty could possibly belong to that species. Finally, exhibiting tough-love, Cyril urged, encouraged, and even threatened Marty until he fearfully ventured out of the Dumpster, cowering and blinking, into the light of day. As he crouched bewildered and trembling there in the alley, he was overcome with something akin to agoraphobia. Although he wanted to desperately, he was much too nervous, shaky, and confused to figure out how to lift the lid and crawl back in. As he curled up in the fetal position, leaned against the Dumpster, sucked his thumb, and whimpered piteously, he had his very first encounter with personal hygiene. It began to rain.

It took years of long and bitter struggle as he gradually learned to adapt to the outside world, but eventually Marty was able to walk the streets of Chicago with no one really being the wiser about his strange beginnings in life. Despite the loose, grayish skin, the drooping, rheumy eyes, the overlong incisors, the tendency to drool, and the peculiar vocabulary—and because one meets some pret-ty strange people in a big city, he managed to achieved general acceptance as merely another human being [Biologist's annotation: Let us not forget that this classification has not yet been fully tested and that so far, we are relying on the random speculations of a raccoon!].

As fickle fate would have it, the vortices of happenstance (as described above) have swept Marty into that quadrant of the cyberspace galaxy in which Mudcat resides. And that, in essence, is the story thus far, folks.

Considering his unusual upbringing, it is understandable that his social skills may be a bit—well—trying at times. But knowing of his strange background, I'm sure that, in our greatness of heart, we will all take pity on him and therefore be willing to cut him a bit of slack.

Don Firth

P. S.: Undoubtedly there are those here who might wonder, "Doesn't Firth have something better to do with his time?" Well, certainly. But Cyril urged me to post this. He thought the world should know.