Tea For Two, and Two For Tea

Rorschach's journal

September 15, 1985

Rorschach felt low that morning, so low that he decided to put on his outfit first thing in the morning. He couldn't stand to look in the mirror without it. When he walked out on the street, women screamed, men ran away, and little children laughed. He picked up The New Frontiersman and the newsvendor ran straight up to his apartment building without a word. After that, he came to his favorite restaurant, and everyone looked horrified.

Typical, thought Rorschach.

The city is a waste. Basest human life forms known to man wallow in its uncanny valleys. Pity we don't have a gigantic hair dryer to blow it all away. What I wrote down made me chuckle.

Rorschach stopped writing and began to reflect. He put his thumb and forefinger on the right side of his face and began to think. It was hard coming up with new things to write about when all that existed was misery and grime. Just then, a hurried-looked man in a waistcoat, vest, and tan suit pants walked in the door and absently sat across from Rorschach.

"Oh, hey, neighbor," said the man. "You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"

Rorschach surveyed the stranger, but his attention cast a longer glance at his curly red hair than he ordinarily would have. Redheads were hard to come by in this city, and he looked certainly unusual. After this, he looked at his lime-green eyes. That was even more unusual. Also, the man had a nervous, worried look about him, as if someone was continuously watching his back. Rorschach jotted down a few quick notes in his journal.

Man just sat across from me. Has a troubled frown. Wonder what I can do for him, but there is nothing I can give him.

"Oh, hey, mon," he said with a smile, pointing at his sign. "I love that sign! The End Is Nigh. Very fitting in these times."

With a sharp glance, he appraised this man. He was wearing normal, ordinary clothes. He shaved. He kept himself in decent condition. There was nothing volatile or even temperamental about this man. Rorschach wrote some more notes in his journal.

Should I tell him I punish filth? Maybe he's an outcast like I am. No… better not say anything. He wouldn't understand.

Rorschach took out his New Frontiersman and started reading. Argus took out his copy of it, and Rorschach snorted. Some hurdy-gurdy middle-class yuppie decided to see what the "undesirables" read for a change. Now he knew why he "loved" Rorschach's sign. He was making fun of him.

"Absolutely incredible," muttered the man. Rorschach sighed, and frowned. "Pure genius!"

Rorschach stood up and shouted, "What?" much to the alarm of everyone there. "But I'm…" When he noticed everyone's worried glances, he sat down. "Er… hurm. Only one who buys that paper."

"I prefer The New York Times myself, but The New Frontiersman is an excellent editorial," said the man brightly. "You can't get much more anti-Communist than that. God, I love that. I love this country." He kissed the paper, read the last few sentences on the back, sighed contentedly, and threw it in the recycle bin. He turned to leave, but Rorschach tapped him on the shoulder.

"Do you punish filth?" asked Rorschach.

"Yes," said the man.

Rorschach was a trifle awed and very embarrassed. Here was a proper gentleman, and Rorschach had the gall to sneer at the man's very clothes. He was about to apologize, but then remembered he hadn't actually done anything.

"Well, mate, let's talk," he said. "You must strike up a lot of interesting conversations carrying that big old sign of yours."

"No," said Rorschach, unsure of what to say next.

"Well, to tell the truth, I've been wary about nuclear war since the 1950s, and before then, I was worried about getting my head blown off anyway, so it's always best to be prepared," he explained. "Plus, Communism is a highly dogmatic ideology."

"What about stigmatic?" asked Rorschach.

"No, a stigmatic policy would be one of their policies, but you can have a dogmatic ideology. Communism is highly one-sided and leaves no room for political debate and freedom of expression," he explained.

Rorschach was careful to write down notes in his journal in case any leftists would confront him with opposing views. He wrote,

Communism dogmatic. Policies stigmatic. Strange man a raving genius. Need his assistance in punishing filth.

"Say," said Rorschach, "I need assistance."

"For what?" the man asked, showing a full grin. "I'd be more than happy to help with whatever you might need."

"Punishing filth," said Rorschach bluntly.

"I'd love to," the man asked as if Rorschach had asked the weatherman if it might rain. "Now when can we start?"

"First, name," said Rorschach, "And meet me at dumpster in alley near 5th Avenue and Broad Street."

The man wrote down notes, and said, "My name's Argus, Argus McConnaught."

"Good… good," said Rorschach, smiling creepily, since he hadn't in years. But first pay visit to Daniel, thought Rorschach. Starving.

Argus took something out of his back pocket. It smelled suspiciously like a sugar cube… and it was. Rorschach snatched it out of his hand, and Argus snatched it back.

"Next time, ask first," scolded Argus.

"Uh… please," said Rorschach, scowling.

"That's a good boy," said Argus, handing him his packet of sugar cubes. "Now it's getting late and I must go. I can't wait until tonight!" he finished brightly, and then turned and left.

Rorschach munched on his sugar cubes happily and felt light as a feather, more at ease than he had been since the Keene Act was passed. He went to "home"… actually, his living area, and wrote down in his journal.

Now have a partner in punishing filth. Learned so much today about human condition. People are like me. Wonderful.

Later that night, Rorschach donned his outfit and went where he had instructed Argus to wait. He had been waiting for Rorschach for the past five minutes. Rorschach wrote down,

Argus is punctual. Very good indeed.

He reflected on how his journal, once sparse, was now crammed with notes, but decided he would reflect on it further later.

"All right, let's go out and do stuff," said Argus. "Got your machete ready, mate?"

Rorschach flicked it out, and flicked other things out while listing them. "Knife. Blowgun. Hot glue gun. Torch. Sugar cubes."

"May I have one?" asked Argus.

"…Yes," said Rorschach strangely, because no one had asked him this before. He gave Argus one, and he swallowed it in one gulp.

"Ah, delicious," said Argus. "Now, please continue."

"That's it. Oh, yes, and grappling hook gun," he finished.

"Great," said Argus, "Now, let's go. I'll drive."

"…Drive?" asked Rorschach.

They walked down an alley, and hidden behind a row of trashcans was a black Honda. Both of them moved the trashcans out of the way, and they drove through the night. The windows were wide open, and Rorschach looked ill at ease.

"Urrrgghh. Carsick," said Rorschach.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH, GET YOUR HAND OFFA ME!" shouted a high-pitched feminine voice. She couldn't have been older than fourteen.

Rorschach vomited his dinner through the window. Argus continued further.

"Almost there, mate," he said, completely unfazed by what had just happened. They found the alley, and Argus lunged out. Rorschach tottered behind him and fell to his knees. Argus helped him up.

"There's a rapist mugging a girl," said Argus.

"…Hurm?" whimpered Rorschach, feeling extremely dizzy. When he saw the rapist, his blood boiled and he instantly snapped to attention, his mind's gears shifting back to normal. He growled like a wild beast…