The Mad Hatter Gives Advice (p269-273)

(Setting:  The Mad Hatter attempts to console and counsel the drunken Head Honcho after the slaughter of protesters by the Juggernaut).

The Head Honcho was also deeply troubled. He returned to his private cabin to lick his physical and psychological wounds. The stark reality of being shot at terrified him. He opened another bottle of Old Bushmills and eagerly drained it, hoping to quell the fluttering fear in his heart and the strange sense of isolation in his soul. The darkness of his curtained cabin matched the darkness of his conscience.

The alcohol coursing through his veins numbed his sensibilities so much that he thought he saw someone move inside the cabin, even though he thought he was alone. Another pull on the bottle dimmed his awareness further, but he saw movement again. Dread gripped his heart. Only the damnable Coffee Account Dues Collector would invade his sanctuary like this. "Go away!", he commanded into the translucent darkness. "My coffee account is up to date." He took another tug on his bottle, fully expecting the shadowy figure to depart peacefully.

Unfortunately, the shadowy figure moved closer. "Your coffee account is not my concern", said a nasally voice in the darkness. "I'm a Hatter, not a brewer."

The Honcho's head fell into his hands. The last thing he needed was a visit by the Mad Hatter, who could dispense more tortured dialogue and nonsensical reasoning than even politicians. "Shit! I thought you were the Coffee Account Dues Collector."

"A common error." The Mad Hatter stepped out of the darkness and sat down. He was wearing a tall black top hat with a price tag still attached and a bow tie with red polka dots clasping a heavily starched white collar. A red waistcoat covered a red and white checkered shirt, which matched his red and white checkered pants. The pants were much too short, exposing pencil thin legs clad in tasteless yellow socks with red stripes. His stringy hair dangled shabbily out from under his hat. His much too prominent nose shadowed his grey, thin lips, which blended into his skin’s lusterless pallor. "How are you today?" he asked cheerfully.

"Just great", said the Honcho sardonically.

"No you're not", contradicted the Mad Hatter. "You're going to be beheaded."

"What for?"

"It's really none of your business. I'm quite certain of that."

"How can it be none of my business? It's my head!"

"Oh very well. I'll tell you what for", said the Hatter, who was actually quite anxious to tell the Head Honcho what for. "You see, none of us have forgiven you for killing the Dormouse."

"I didn't kill him! Bureaucratic inertia did. Besides, what's so important about a lousy dormouse? I just ran over hundreds of people with a train."

"Tell it to the judge", said the Hatter. "Actually, you shouldn't tell the judge about killing hundreds of people with a train. You might lose more than just your head."

"Who's the judge?"

"The Red Queen is always the judge." The Hatter pulled two envelopes out of his waistcoat. "One is the summons for your trial. The other is an invitation to play croquet. You have to pick." He dangled the envelopes tauntingly in front of the Honcho.

The Honcho grabbed the envelope in the Hatter’s left hand. He tore it open and anxiously read the contents. It was the summons for the trial.

"Don't be too disappointed", said the Mad Hatter. "The other one was a summons for the trial, too. I was just kidding about the croquet invitation."

"You bastard!" growled the Honcho.

"No need to flatter me. I've already agreed to be your defense counsel." The Hatter unleashed a smile reeking of licentious mischief.

"What do you know about the law?" asked the Honcho skeptically.

"Nothing at all."

"Then how can you be my lawyer?"

"It doesn't matter who your lawyer is, because I'm quite sure that you're guilty."

"How can I be guilty? I haven’t even been tried yet!" The Honcho felt the familiar surge of frustrated disorientation that invariably resulted from conversations with the Mad Hatter.

"Everyone tried by the Red Queen is automatically guilty. The trial is just for sentencing, which is also unnecessary, since the sentence is always a beheading, which brings us right back to the beginning of this conversation. You've just wasted a great deal of my time", concluded the Hatter, as he pulled a watch from his waistcoat to check what day of the month it was.

"You're mad!"

"Of course I'm mad", agreed the Mad Hatter. "I'm mad. You're mad. We're all mad."

"How do you know that I'm mad?"

"How many other people have conversations with me?"

The Honcho moaned as his head fell back into his hands.

"What do you do for a living?" asked the Mad Hatter to lighten the conversation.

"I'm a U.S. Senator."

"Very curious. Very curious indeed. What does this occupation involve?"

"People get up to speak and say nothing to an audience that doesn’t listen, and then everybody disagrees vehemently."

"We call that a Caucus Race in Wonderland", said the Mad Hatter. "The race contestants line up in random positions around a circular track and run madly with no apparent objective. After a while, everyone abruptly stops, whereupon they all argue about who won. It’s a mad spectacle. Our greatest fear is that the Red Queen might someday pattern Wonderland’s government after the Caucus Races. Wouldn't that be a disaster!"

"It certainly would", acknowledged the Senator, who intuitively understood the mechanics of a caucus race. "It would be even more disastrous if the Red Queen designated some of the caucus racers Democrats and the rest Republicans, who would then govern by running in circles, by constantly arguing over undefined objectives, and by endlessly debating which of them is likely to reach these undefined objectives fastest."

"I've think you've got it! It's unfortunate that you're going to be beheaded, because you would have done quite nicely as a politician in Wonderland."

"Where do I go from here?" asked the Honcho despondently.

"Where do you want to get?"

"I don't care", he sighed with alcohol-laden breath.

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go", replied the Hatter serenely. "What else can I do for you?"

"Can anything save me from a beheading?"

"Hmmmm." The Hatter pensively rubbed his chin. "Why don't you try this?" Out of a seemingly bottomless waistcoat pocket he pulled a glass bottle with a dangling label that said, "drink me".

"What good will that do?" The Honcho suspected it was the infamous treacle that the Hatter never had but always offered.

"It will make you only ten inches tall by shutting you up like a telescope".

"So then I won't be beheaded?"

"I really couldn't say", conceded the Hatter. "But it might be more difficult for the executioner. Maybe he’d just lop off part of your shrunken head."

The Honcho shivered and pushed the bottle away. "Isn't there anything else?"

"Perhaps", said the Hatter, pulling out of his bottomless waistcoat pocket a glass box containing a small cake with the words "eat me" written in icing. "Try this."

"What good will that do?"

"It will make you ten feet tall by opening you up like a telescope."

"So then I won't be beheaded?"

"I really couldn't say. But, the awful thud of your enlarged head plopping into the basket might disgust the Red Queen enough to abolish beheadings. After yours, of course."

"That's nonsense!"

"Of course it’s nonsense", agreed the Hatter. "Everything in Wonderland is nonsense, just like everything on your side of the looking glass."