First, she flatters the hell out of him by choosing him as the man to impregnate her. What sheer elation this flattery is!; not because it means sex(though that too), but because this flattery is the highest form that can be bestowed upon a man(or especially a boy) by a member of the opposite sex, whose attention himself and all his peers have wanted but thought either out of their reach or, in his case, marred by a general disdain for women excepting this one. Thusly flattered, he does so almost unquestioningly. Then when the baby is born and he begins to wonder what he has gotten himself into and whether he can even handle it, she bids him to task in a way that assures him "you can do it.." and in a way that gives him even the will to do so along with the confidence. Discounting maybe an exceptional moment or two, what he sees looking down at his offspring usually is... a baby; he doesn't even like those. But what he sees looking upon her nursing and holding the baby to her bare skin is a bond that he knows he can never touch but one that he can promote and protect. That becomes an end and purpose in itself. She offers him her chastity as ongoing motivation and as a continued gesture of confidence in him. And what can a man offer a woman more worthy of her chastity than a sincere and forthright effort to father her children, and what motivation to man can be more powerful than a woman's chastity? She reaches out her hand to him and offers him her tenderness to soften his heart and cultivate his love for the child(as if some of what transpires between a mother and child can be transferred to him by touch). What a fool he is who thinks himself so self-reliant and confident that he turns down this tenderness. He will feel it for sure when she stops offering! He will know that what was offered was no invitation to join her in weakness, but an invitation to share with her in the task that her heart can touch in a way his never fully can. Irreplaceable.

"What the hell does this thing say? Piano museum? Piano medium?" Some people with, I suspect, an unhealthy relationship with alcohol find themselves staring at little plastic dollar store figurines for extremely inordinate amounts of time trying to discern the irrelevant writings on a chipped inscription; others go to bars or nightclubs or whatever extroverted people do. Yours truly is of the former camp, for better or worse. "Why are the windows blue?" he asks himself, knowing the question is also a pointless one. Momentarily distracted from the most irrelevant question ever seriously pondered by an intelligent human being he hones in on his tinnitus and breathes uneasily; he suspects, ironically, that more of the alcoholics in his own camp are afflicted with tinnitus despite having a fraction the noise exposure as the other. "Well, I guess I'll figure it out tomorrow", he said to himself, knowing that he wouldn't bother. His attention now turned to other matters, ones more likely to explain the fact that he is awake and drunk in the middle of the night staring contemplatively at a piece of plastic. Before he begins the endeavor a wave of self doubt, alien to him before the business his mind was set to tackle, overwhelms him. Whatever he's thinking is almost certainly wrong he knows before even beginning. He stops.

"Damn you Peter Pan!" He said to himself, recalling a line from his favorite contraband kid's movie that he often used, with great versatility, to express anything ranging from intense frustration, to contemplation, to comic amusement. The aforementioned movie is not a Kaizenstani movie; no, in fact it is very much a movie by its arch nemesis nation, hence its status as contraband. He found all contraband fascinating and much of it enjoyable, even kids' movies, but there was nothing lighthearted about the use of this expression right now. This time he was up shitcreek. You see, at this particular moment Otto found himself staring, beads of sweat dripping from his temple, at a nearly hopeless situation. Queen pinned, both Bishops lost; what hope he had of attaining fatherhood seemed to be very much slipping away. Tentatively he moved his remaining Rook into a position that he hoped rather than thought might be of some use to him and then shot a glance at his opponent whose expression seemed calm yet eager to capitalize on another bad move. “Damn you peter pan…” he whispered softly to himself. Why the hell was he so bad at this game he wondered? Truthfully speaking, by international standards at least, Otto was quite the pro. You see, Kaizenstani boys are trained and primed from a young age to be good, nay, exceptional, at the regal game. One thing each and every Kaizenstani boy has in common is that, at what often amounted to the most critical moment of his life, his father had won a game of Chess. Attainment of coveted Kaizenstani Lordship was not possible without it, and reproductive licenses were not granted to proles. Prole! Oh, what an indignity! It wasn’t really, of course, considering both that it constituted the overwhelming majority of the adult male population and that the economic services Proles provided to the Kaizenstani nation were indispensable to its continuity and relevance. Still, Otto, like most other Kaizenstani boys, had aspirations to a more dignified life than that of a Prole. His contemplations were interrupted by the word he dreaded to hear, “Checkmate.” As if disconnected from reality, in stunned robotic silence he stood up, looked into the eyes, and shook the hand of his opponent, whose expression was a combination of deep relief and sincere contrite; relief at having survived apart of the challenge that could soon accomplish him the status of his father, and contrite at having severed forever, from a man whom he held no ill will towards, the hope and ambition he understood as intimately as every Kaizenstani boy.

Otto felt sick to his stomach as he began the seemingly long but actually short walk to the nearby status issuing administration counter to formally be recorded on the Kaizenstani Citizen Census as a “Prole” and receive the associated identification. The counters would remain staffed all day and it was standard process for the losers to take a spot in a line after their game has ended; to Otto it seemed a remarkably streamlined and unceremonious process for the gravity of the situation. Still, he could appreciate that the annual contest was such an enormous event that the process could not, for practicality’s sake, stand on ceremony, and really needed to be streamlined. Auditoriums, schools, gymnasiums, country clubs, even parks and golf courses(weather permitting), and indeed anything that could be temporarily repurposed for the occasion were used. Hordes of bureaucrats were brought in whose job was the simple and impersonal task of filing the paperwork and issuing the identifications that would indelibly impact the lives of thousands upon thousands of young men. As Otto waited for his turn with the bureaucrat servicing his line he wondered if the staffers at the Lordship counters were possibly more jovial, if the position was coveted; perhaps it was a tenure thing and the more senior bureaucrats got the privilege of filling out paperwork for the incoming Lords. The bureaucrats themselves are Proles; perhaps that was a job he might be interested in. Of course career paths for Proles were determined by the P.O.A.T.(Prole Occupational Aptitude Test) and it wasn’t really up to him anyway. As the fellow in front of him was called to the counter, Otto realized that these thoughts had been a distraction tactic to avoid emotionally processing the crushing blow of his failure; at least he was able to maintain his composure. Finally, it was his turn to dutifully answer the disinterested questions of the bureaucrat processing his paperwork; after doing so he was issued his identification papers and directed to one of the many tents setup not far away. As apprehensive as he was about the surgery, he had prepared for this eventuality. While hopeful that he would both checkmate his opponent and go the distance in the boxing ring, Otto appreciated going into the contest the possibility that exists as an insecurity residing in the deepest recesses of all Kaizenstani boys and adolescents, that his best might not be good enough. Still, the thought of getting his scrotum sliced open and… whatever else they did, made him feel less prepared than he previously imagined he would be. The self-assurances he had been told and kept repeating to himself about it being a routine operation with virtually no complications was not as reassuring as he had hoped it would be. Despite these concerns the operation, seemingly, went smoothly, and his balls remained in the same sack they had always been in. Although he wasn’t feeling “normal” down there by any stretch, he was walking out of the tent the same way he had observed while in line the others who had left. Otto proceeded to the final stage of his formal transformation into a Prole, the personal processing of the implications thereof would have to wait, into yet another line. Apparently sensitive to the ordeal of the slicings, this line came with the courtesy of chairs. Presenting the paperwork the doctor who performed the operation instructed him to hand over as proof of having received the vasectomy and of being in good health(meaning able to stand on two feet and no apparent gangrene) he was issued the two allowance tickets reserved exclusively for the privilege of Proles; one was a weekly brothel pass and the other a weekly alcohol allotment. These were the two slips of paper he had dreaded from a young age to ever hold in his hands and now that they were he didn’t know what to think, so he decided not to. He’d think about that later. All he had to do at this moment was make his way back to one of the buses that had been appropriated for the event that brought him to the contest, a contest held at the convention center where he played his first(and last) game of Chess.