Christopher WunderLee

Moore's Mythopoeia

for a muse

Imagine there’s no heaven

It’s easy if you try

No hell below us

Above us only sky

Imagine all the people

Living for today…

Imagine there’s no countries

It isn’t hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion too

Imagine all the people

Living life in peace…

— John Lennon

* * *

A voice they could all remember spread out over the city. Through it, all things were explained; without it, nothing was known. It is life, and that life is the light of the city. The voice resonates in the bourbon dawn, but the light has not understood it. It is familiar to them all, but no one could say where they had heard it before.

The crowd is listening, they’ve stopped with shopping bags in their hands, with bagels and cream cheese hovering inches from their lips, with Styrofoam cups steaming in the cold morning air, with confused eyes, and whispers. No one will say what they are thinking. This is the voice of an individual, speaking. This is something I’ve heard before, but not in my lifetime. The crowd is listening, teenagers in uniforms, popping bubble gum, shifting book bags, forgetting to think about the way they look to others; tired mothers with exhausted children sniffling over a toy they weren’t able to buy, a piece of candy their hateful parent refused to purchase for them, the women intent on grocery lists, dry-cleaning that must be picked up, children that must be driven to soccer fields, friend’s houses, dinner that must be prepared, appliances that must be received from fix-it stores; businessmen who are hurrying to high-rises and meetings. The street is frozen in time, no one can move. The voice has caught them like the corner of a desk grabbing a loose sleeve, jerking them to a standstill. Car doors are open, but no one’s gotten in. Buses are waiting for their passengers, but no one’s taken the first step into the cabin. A policeman, directing traffic, has stopped the entire intersection, his arm lifted, his whistle still attached to his lip by dried saliva.

The voice is coming from within the crowd. It is on the sidewalk, below a tenement, it’s still talking, still forcing them to listen. They have had time to realize what they’re hearing, time to consider their inertia, time to contemplate the words. And the voice dies away, fluttering into silence like the sound of birds leaving for the winter.

Nothing is ever too late, nothing can be absent for too long. Progress proceeds in a mechanical fashion, there is no morality, no ethics, no considerations. It must proceed for the good of all. If one or two are killed to make a safer automobile, so be it. If a few men fall to their deaths while constructing a bridge between two great metropolises, their deaths were not in vain. If a few thousand people are impoverished so that a corporation can save itself money, continue to build, to produce, than their sacrifice is holy. This is the writ of capitalism; this is the republic for which it stands. In business we trust. Out of many, one.

They move, again. They take steps into buses, trolleys, into buildings and into cars. The policeman removes his whistle from his mouth and signals for a line to go. A businessman throws down a cigarette butt (non-carcinogenic) that burned in his mouth without a single drag and swears to himself. A mother pulls the arm of her child, who stumbles over the curb, and begins to cry again over the shiny lollypop that he could taste in his mouth, at the counter of the supermarket. The mother goes back to the article she read in the tabloid about the famous Graham Greene, he may be a transsexual and has requested a sex change operation. She returns to her revulsion as though she had not been interrupted. A young girl, in a pressed, argyle skirt, with navy blue stockings and penny loafers, smacks her gum, and twists a string of her hair in her middle finger. She looks over to see an ugly boy watching her and she scrunches her nose, spins on her heel, and walks away, muttering to herself.

The movement of the city does not stop again. It had never stopped for anything before, it will forget that it had that morning. The city is an organism, a colony of smaller cells that each perform a function to facilitate its continued existence. The men, the children, the wives, the police, the fire department, the government officials, the service workers who pick up garbage, clean the streets, blow leaves back into the autumn, and clip tree branches that grow into the thoroughfares, contribute to the life of the organism. Each person’s duty is integral for survival, from the smallest act of a child behaving his parent’s wishes, to the city council arguing over a new proposal for mass transportation. The city cannot have dissension anymore than the human body can allow its cells to make their own decisions. There must be cooperation, subjugation, agreement, and coordination. The body cannot exist without the collective functioning properly, in unison, without derision, without discussion. The city exists because of the collective effort of the many, it cannot change without general agreement, it cannot alter itself without referendum.

A voice like that, out here, is dangerous. Be quiet. Do as you’re told. You have your instructions. Follow him and he will follow the one before him, and he the man before him. The line must hold, remain moving. The machines cannot stop, immobility means decay. The voice could turn off the lights, the voice could cause a car accident, the voice could stall the printing press, delay a meeting, confuse, change, pause. The voice is unclean, irresponsible, circumspect. The voice does nothing for the continuation of the city’s efforts, it is for the speaker’s own purposes, it assaults citizens’ ears without asking permission, it is invasive. Can the voice light the street for you? Can the voice provide you with employment? Can the voice protect you from the darkness? Does the voice have a freeway to the suburbs? Does the voice have a phone company, a gas company, an electricity company? Do you think the voice can provide shelter, clothing, entertainment? Move along, now. The voice is over. Forget you ever heard it, it said nothing of importance. Move along. It is over — nothing more to hear here.

There are no existentialists in utopia.

* * *

“I can’t get all that. And you know that. You’re very reasonable, not like certain people. You know I can’t get all that, not with a bag this size. You’re reasonable, the both of you are.

“You’d never expect me to get all that. I’ll just bring it along, some of these things I’ll be able to get but not all of it. I’m not even sure we need all of it. You’re very reasonable. Theo, I can tell you’re a little judgmental, I can tell by the way you look at me, but you’re not unreasonable, not by any means. Your judgment is sound. I know I don’t play with you enough, the litter boxes do get a little out of hand before they’re cleaned, I know you feel trapped, stifled here. That’s all very reasonable. Being judgmental and unreasonable are to very different things, very different, indeed. But Theo, you have the qualities of a very reasonable kitty cat. You don’t expect me to get all this stuff, not by any means. You’re a very reasonable kitty cat, the both of you are and I appreciate it. I appreciate it very much. That’s why I’m going to feed you before I leave. Yes, I might be back in time for dinner, but what if I’m not? Who’s going to feed my two lovely, very reasonable kitty cats? Not the wind, not the unreasonable people who make these grocery lists, not by any means.

“So, thank you for listening, Theo and Casey. Thanks for your patience, thanks for being reasonable. Now, I really must go if I want to be home in time for dinner. I’m going to feed you before I leave, but it’s not a reward. It’s just for being the best two cats any man’s ever had, for being listeners and not the authors of unreasonable grocery lists.”

* * *

Joseph Moore, a fellow nearing forty with an emasculating lack of hair (despite the topical solutions), which is not to say that he is bald but simply has a weedy scalp, with one eye a mahogany brown and the other a fresh water blue, a chrysanthemum shaped birth-mark on his left hand, an orphan of the ardor of life (i.e. distinguishing love without knowledge), like so many men in their late thirties, who have seen the spirited thoughts of youth pass up the ladders of the purgatory of time, where life sits like an ancient craftsmen whittling away their ignorant fancies, and apart from the true consciousness he’s willing to recognize, for it is of the most human of minds to cling to notions of purpose and meaning, was plummeting down a gorge head first, his chest thrust forward as if he had the clavicle of a bird or a prehistoric raptor preying on dinosaurs long forgotten in the preservational sediment, after crossing a bridge he knew all too well and deciding, on a whim, to jump. He was smiling as he fell, for this was the answer to a gnawing question that had interrupted his sleep, taken away precious moments of reflection, raged within his mind as he attempted to concentrate at work, filled half bites of sandwiches and mighty gulps of sugary cola as he did not enjoy his lunch any longer at a park near the industrial complex and employee recreation center on the mock community campus of the goliath pharmaceutical, multinational megacorp where he was the Director of the Continuation of Isotopic Inhibitors (recognition of his ponophobia), a task that had been placed rather roundly upon poor Joseph’s shoulders as a weigh-station, rest-stop, and waiting room for the rest of his phantom career, as though he was a paranormal witch-doctor prowling the ornamental hallways of a dusty mansion searching for not only evidence of a haunted wardrobe closet, complete with a peignoir that appeared to float on its own and seduce invisible lovers, but also static-electric vortexes where the visitor suddenly felt a draft so chilling it was though a low density tornado of wind gusts had collided with a high density air-stream carrying snowflakes the size of space saucers.

These were his last moments, symphorophilic, almost… arms spread, legs reeling, like Hermes hurtling over clouds, the erection, a long forgotten involuntary response, spewing life’s sap because of its final accomplishment, remembering all the insides it had conquered so long ago when he had such nightmare expectations and thought all the days were going to be spent in the marital bliss of a full-time vagina. Dear Joseph, he had unknowing prescribed his future, that murky bathwater distance he was propelled into without constraint, a rather romantic, intolerably Byronic, although by no means definitive, neophilic paradigm and when the limp crescent roll between his scrotum perked his ugly little eye to cry into a woman all his hopes, the repulsion and leakage that streamed down her thighs, coating perfectly clean bed sheets, signified the dead end of her womb, the repetitious nature of his origination was pool of pearly fluid that would be the sticky tack on his backside the next morning, and for this, as Joseph listened to the mechanism of air whistling around his crucifixion pose, his knuckly lobcock weeping after too many nights of rolled over backs coated in polyester bathrobes, just the faint hint of a warm canal for his little pee-pee to graze in through the soft wrinkles. He’d try to stroke her fleshy cheeks, ignoring the flabby rolls that jiggled like cottage cheese in sausage wrapping, only for her to slap his hand like a little lad caught in mid-reach for a dangerous propane canister, his only memory of the hospital, the old lady surrounded by the aura of stale smoke and the sound of a ventilator’s intricate valves striking plastic, but that was not his mother…

Oh Eve, had you fought off his biastophilic advances, only to be hand-cuffed to your own bedpost and ravished into submission, had you mistakenly accepted a stranger’s kind words and been fooled into giving up the unwrapped gift of your fuzzy womb?

There had been those snatches of women in his memory, those little pimple tits, but, for the most part, dear Joseph, who’d never been a real player in the game of love (not with his rather Wundtian demeanor), more like a novice spectator trying to commentate on the acts of others, had really loved the idea of her, having never truly met such a deliriously lovely mother, having been passed between deflated women as barren as patches of Arctic tundra, with only the footprints of passing life left in their bare skin, took the hand of the first woman who cradled his soft tears in her thighs. Later, in the bath-tubs of five different residencies, with two children belched from a torn crevasse between his beloved’s viselike legs, after initiating themselves into the qualification program for adulthood, bearing the difficulties of beginning a household, unveiling to this barely respectable man why all his preconceptions about the open-door policy of marriage, the reliance on another individual, the merging of lives into one cohesive, if not corrosive, purpose, was such a social fallacy. She had accepted him for the same reason he had accepted her and he was failing her for the same reasons she was failing him: disappointment based on superlative mythology they did not know was based upon a dead pantheon, the way things never were and this was the bathwater reflection Joseph glared at as he dropped leaden from the bridge. Now those bathtub, moist eyes were on her face as well, asking him in every demure look, even when she allowed that tricky snake access into her, even when she was cackling over something he had said. Joseph read this from her mannerisms, she did not leap off bridges, like he did, but she was a kitchen sink crier, that was her comforting place for a purging of all the failures she knew were absolutely apparent to everyone for her choices and her husband. She had been shoving him off the bridge for years now, he whose entire life was statically caught at the paracme. She was imploring him to it, with those careful rappings on the bathroom door, that disappointed and unemotional whisper asking him if he was okay, with those long soliloquies about his inabilities at dinner parties, with those hilarious jokes about him, at friends’ houses, while Joseph smiled meekly back at the other couple who carefully looked into his eyes before bursting forth in utterly abandoned laughter, they were all small nudges towards the gorge.

Joseph’s maternal great^15-grandfather Thomas (“innocent beard” as he was called on several different occasions) was beheaded by King Henry VIII after he refused to accept the unification of church and state on the ‘nowhere’ (ou topos) island of what was at the time called England in the midst of festival of speech that guided the audience from their own reasonable salvation. Thus began the selfish disillusionment of the More family line, who orphaned more smiling babes than the hundred-years war and poor Joseph was of course the recipient of an additional ‘o’ in a superstitious attempt over two-hundred years before his birth to avert such a nasty habit, although not exposing them to church hospitality in the form of the Jesuits had robbed them of their ability to comprehend dear grand-pa’s Encomium Moriae and Joseph could not see the irony of his own abandonment in a long line of Detstvo i Otrochestvo (as Tolstoy would have it, but probably closer to Turgenev when it was explored thoroughly, which it never had been) or Atom formulation influenced by climate, nature, and the weather of the warrior island, with such an unhalcyon atmosphere, Nordic sieges, Roman occupations, the invading brewers of stupor ales, Scots, Highlanders, Dutch royalty, all the way down to the dreary Battle of Britain by the V-2 lightning of the Nostradomian prophecies. Which was a very particular reason why Joseph (despite his wife and her family and all the frequent adverts [quite convincing in their pitches about branding oneself {“think of yourself as a unique product, with your own individual slogan, logo, design scheme; think of your person as brand recognition that represents the embodiment of all the information connected to you, as a product and services, which will create associations and expectations; your brand is your logo, your color schemes, your symbols, your sound, developed to represent implicit values, ideas, and even personality”} and seeing income increase with each signature, every roll call, every business card, every introduction] pleading with him to do so) couldn’t fathom releasing his name and signing on, despite the revenue one received when that last name was bought by the highest bidder, a walking, talking, living advertisement for Moore Air Conditioner Repairs, Moore Aeronautics, Moore Sealants, Moore Pavement Supplies. Joseph, who did not have the benefit grandpa had of discretio spirituum, had struggled like Hercules’ second in a duel with Hades with his straying life, which had colorfully been woven into the fabric of neural fantasies by an asthmatic old caretaker who gave him a Moses-like genesis, complete with baskets in rivers, kingly family seals (bought with usurers’ cash rather than public taste), and ambitious nobility supplements.

“You are the great-grandson of a martyr,” she always began in a fairy tale voice that should have narrated children’s books, as socially impoverished Joseph sat in a man’s t-shirt, his little naked body underneath, at the edge of his bed, the third one on the left of the attic of a hospital, with no other occupants, since orphans had greatly been reduced in numbers, his two dove hole eyes locked onto her voice as she gave simple objects the significance of an imagist master and would have made W.C. Williams blush in her rather diagonal explications of the animated parallels between the idea and the act, his receipt of a soul and his birth (the first of many disasters). “Lightning is only God taking pictures of us.”

Joseph had remained an urchin even in marriage and as he understood the Nancy movement he had suddenly embraced by leaping off the bridge (although the Fagan element was less vita Christi-like than he expected, “please sir, may I have More?”), he did not give the repetitious position he would place his own children in more than a momentary focus, for he was busy watching the craggy lines of the gorge walls as they sped by in Rorschachian significance (‘a snake making love to a duck’, ‘two men using lawnmowers like battle-axes in a deadly war over property rights’, ‘perhaps a whale reversing the situation and enticing a fisherman with a new automobile’, and probably the most psychosomatic of all revelations ‘an exhibitionist she-devil flashing the members of an impotent religious sect whilst they fast from sunlight’). Secondly, if not significantly, Joseph was attempting to enhance the despair of his rather stoic wife by making his timely passing an injury to family finances, causing tears to seep from the apex of her eyelids as she paid the undertaker, funeral home, florist, caterer, travel agent, gravediggers, and professional mourners. He knew quite realistically that it was the only way to make her express any emotion when she noticed his absence from the dinner table.

Done with the work of breathing; done

With all the world; the mad race run

Through to the end; the golden goal

Attained and found only to be a hole.

This scarecrow hope that intermingled with the ink-blot shadows of the cliffs passing at a comfortable rate of the universal gravitational constant (G = 6.67 x 10 –11 N. m^2/kg^2 or ‘pick a flower on earth and you move the farthest star’) sustained our dear hero through the distance and time of the fall (since the mass was completely out of his control, having long been taken over by his love for late night pastry feasts and since he was not a stone-cutter and thus, did not remove any matter from the earth) so that he had time to consider his faith in the idea of the death, a rather stunted belief without evidence he had been told by people without experience or knowledge.

* * *

The two harmatiological flyers of that numinous death wish and maddening treasure of gravity tugging angel wings from their roots met the very moment Joseph awkwardly solved the riddle of the fauna incognita of the sky, who had been swooping passed his head and chasing him like he was a raptor on the prowl for their innocent progeny, when Joseph returned his attention to the seismic pulses of the shadows in the gorge walls and noticed a rather bright, yet unnatural, almost swamp gas-like orb of star-light had ended its refracted path mid-air and directly beside him. From within this small portal of a ray refusing infinity its obligatory dues, a hand as thin as a winter twig emerged in an almost perverse stroking of the fabric of the air, as if the ghost (a manifestation of an inward fear onto a visible patch of reality, in Joseph’s opinion) had to seduce the ruling physics of the day and allow her access into their meaty recesses. Her arm, covered in a lover’s moon colored sleeve that’s translucence perked Joseph’s diminishing libido, followed and then, a t-square of a shoulder, until a tiny, yet floral head adjacent to a forfeited body was fully visible and he could see her falling beside him in totality — which is to say she was acomoclitic, and Joseph had the rare fortune of dying beside a bathycolpian, callipygian succubus sky ecdysiast. Seeing the transmutation of the seraphim within a pin-hole in the neurons of several fission reactions, had he been a true More and not a modern Moore, sans the additional ‘o’, so dominating in its linguistic illustration of a void, and the approximation of an ophelimitic vision, Joseph, in his infinite morosis, felt not uplifted, but experienced a strange few moments (precious ones at that) of malnoia. For the female messenger of a long forgotten deity who swam in the air like a dolphin toying with air-hole rings, whose omnipresent nudity reminded him of his supernatural genealogic awareness, whose strange moon-glow hue seemed to capture the embrace of all the stars, was one last signal from cynical fate that his life was not meant to be anything more than heartburn and migraines.

“I am fortune’s fool”. It wasn’t as though he could make a go of her while they plummeted towards the waiting river. She was arching her back (Joseph focusing more on the soffit than the arc), the lines of muscles of her flank the artistic vanity of a creator who loves his own work and wishes to surround himself with archetype models he can delude to create terrestrial citizens, her thin waist winding down in an abdominal knot into the home of dreamy paizogony. These amorous matters that so occupied the dying man’s illegitimate thoughts, were fed throughout the fall by the fairy (protected to this day by Henry III’s “Kyllinge, wowndynge, or mamynge” capital punishment ruling) as she danced (folklore suggests due to an addiction) provocatively around the man like a ballerina converted into Dionysian clergy and required to violently produce the kurva for his benefit. However, the pixie did not indicate any sort of forced provocation for performing it so rudely, nor did it appear that she was corrupting an otherwise pristine dance, but had chosen freely, willingly, and even happily, to twirl her nymph-like charms around him in a very purposeful attempt to alter the limpidity of his consciousness. Joseph, for his part, of which no one can blame him, considering his current situation, was both confused and more than mildly, wildly ravenous as the sister of Pan straddled his head with the unclenched, in fact grinning, fuzzy peach-odored maw of her body and motionlessly swayed against him as she slid down his chest and stomach, until she halted the pendulum motion of her hind against his pelvis and got to work grinding against the lumbricoid limb he had forgotten was naturally a denning animal, finding itself for the first time in many years quite near to a honey-soaked cavern perfectly placed for it to hide in.

“We are two wild eagles. Make love to me.” She was falling too. Her hair was golden white, her skin was brighter than the alabaster of the moon. Her eyes were a hollow blue, they looked like jewelry he’d seen in the window display, there were no flaws to the gems in her eyes. She was reaching for him, trying to hold his hand. “And then, I will kiss you.” He caught hold of it, feeling the smooth texture of her slender fingers, the warmth of her palm. “You don’t know what I’m going to do to you, my little suicidal honey.” She smiled, the saliva on her teeth sparkling in the moonlight. She looked at him as though she was happy to see him there. She pulled herself close to him. He could feel her body. Her hair wrapped around his face. He could feel her breath in his ear.

* * *

Aaron’s junk spurted into his wife Lilith one lethargic afternoon while she came off a high dose of Serenitimiphine, and although she had no recollection of this congress (she was lying supine on their marital bed in a perfectly suitable nightgown comparatively cataleptic) she became pregnant (note the Buberian tone). Within her formed two boys, one she named Joseph, the other Alvin. Now Joseph grew fat with his mother’s offerings and Alvin grew smaller. The mother looked with favor on Alvin and his sacrifice, but on Joseph and his gluttony, she did not. She was worried about Alvin and grew resentful of excessive Joseph (so like his opportunistic father, who had been required, of course, during a rather Augustinian confession, to explicate how exactly Lilith had become expecting).

She gave birth to a healthy boy. Then, the afterbirth. The doctor, Dr. Kunkle-Driad (of Kunkle-Driad Sprinklers), wheeled away from her akimbo womb. Aaron, the father, weeping, chanced, “where is… where is the other?”

“There is no other…”

“But Alvin?”

“No…”

“What have you done? The blood shrieks out to me from within him. Where is your brother? Where is your brother Alvin? Why did you not protect him?”

It was a failure of eugenics; the one was a marred product of the industry of birth. Sometime during gestation, Joseph had absorbed his brother. Acme Fertility & Births had stalwart guarantees and a lenient return policy. He was sent to one of their satellite hospitals in the city of Enoch.

* * *

The first experience Joseph Moore remembered was a hollow craving, not an event or word someone had said or a face, but a feeling, an overwhelming desire for warmth, the warmth of someone else’s body, the warmth of tender hands clinging to his limbs, the warmth of intimacy. If he had been someone’s child or if he was a different type of child, Joseph would have received all that he wanted, he would have had a mother who would allow him on her lap, cradling his little body within her own, possibly singing to him, or telling him stories, or just talking in a soothing voice, she would have laid him on her belly as an infant, he would have grown within the warmth of his mother and father’s breathing bodies as they all slept in an enormous bed, and he would have had a father, a father who would have lifted him up and rocked him in his arms, who would have photographed his first step, who would grin delightedly as the little boy stumbled towards his waiting arms, a father who would kiss his toes as he laid on his infant back. But from the very first, he had been treated as a patient by nurses performing a duty. Joseph wanted attention, he boorishly tried to find ways to receive it, feigning illness, performing tasks, grasping their legs whenever they halted their continuous movements, movements he could never keep up with, movements he had to watch, wait, and then, attempt to gain their attention. What should have been charming, what should have delighted his mother and father and grandmother and grandfather, what should have gotten him all that he desired, became annoying and unpleasant in the odd, magnified lost little boy; he was trying ever so hard for any of them to return his embrace, to wrap their arms around his lithe body, and say anything affectionate to him, but he was not their child, and he was not a fair child, he was odd, two different colored eyes, a dirty looking birthmark on his arm, a clinical boy in a clinical hospital filled with working women who spent most of their days taking care of others and who wanted no one else to rely on them. So, he was rebuffed, scolded, told to leave, threatened, and dejected, even as he watched the other children, the ones who came in for little operations or visited on field trips or came to visit their mothers on special days, as they were held and doted after and told, so many times he knew how each of the nurses responded to the sight of their child, how much they were adored.

The rejection made Joseph grovel, head shy, but still a beggar for affection, weary of any sort of recognition. He became aware of his deficiencies, when someone new greeted him, Joseph hid behind an adult’s leg and turned his head, hiding one eye, or he would simply place his hand over it, as though he was taking an eye exam and place his tainted arm behind his back, giving him an absurd salute as he returned their salutation. Joseph sometimes wore surgical masks too, for as long as he could, until some nurse noticed him and chased him down the hall demanding it back. He also wrapped his arm up, as though it had been badly burned or as though he had a large wound, covering his birthmark the best he could, until, again, someone noticed that the little boy had stolen some gauze or tape and forced him to return it. But Joseph did not want to be noticed, not at all, not anymore, and so, most of the time, he remained in the attic of hospital, in the room with fourteen beds (only one occupied) with his books and his toys and his invalid caregiver.

When Joseph was still quite young, he discovered a secret. At night, if he moved ever so quietly, if he was unnoticed, he could slip into the female wing of the hospital. He would wander the halls, room to room, gazing at sleeping women, until he found one that he liked, one that he, in his adolescent heart, wanted to be his mother, one that he could invent a life together with, one that was pretty and content looking, one that he could never imagine saying or doing anything cruel. The secret that Joseph had learned was that if they were lying just right, he could crawl in bed with them ever so carefully, and they would automatically, unconsciously encircle him with their warm body, even, at times, place their arm around him, and he could lay there, for just a brief while, within another person’s tenderness, and he could imagine she was his mother and that they had fallen asleep together or that he was only a baby and they slept that way every night. It was the biggest secret Joseph had ever uncovered and one he guarded with special care, he was an expert at not being seen or noticed, and he knew, even as a child, that he could never be caught lying there with them.

Joseph was able to keep his secret, until he decided himself that he wouldn’t continue, that it was meaningless, meaningless because he could no longer pretend and make himself believe any of his own dreams. Then, he simply walked the halls, checking in on them every few moments, but not allowing himself to go into their rooms and crawl into their beds and pretend that this woman was his mother and that he was her child. Over time, he became angry with them for not being his mother and for not inviting him into their beds and for not noticing him. He was beyond noticing and he made himself so, but his intolerable need for affection, for their attention, made him greedy for it, and selfishly he blamed them for what their negligence had made him.

* * *

That warning voice that some call instinct and others intuition, which he saw through to the end, when the dragon was set loose and came furious down to seek his ever-lasting revenge, his arrival was announced, acted as a tempter and an accuser, to wreak havoc upon the frailties of his losses. Beginning his most dire of attempts, he recoiled from the steps, like a cannon belching out a ball of fire, due to doubtful distractions and troubled thoughts, awaking within him sleeping memories of what he was, what is, and what must be worse; of worse deed worse sufferings must ensue.

Legs folded, hands cupped over swollen eyes, as the purr of her engine shifts room to room, his only bed amongst fourteen others, in the attic of the hospital, the dark crevices of light pouring in like smoke from his one window, a hermit of children, agoraphobic by exile, the lonely help-maid of nurses and janitors.

“I will be the custodian of heaven”.

Writing poetry to her, she that handed back the valentine, unopened, he wrote to her every night, long letters of his poisoned heart, his smoky eyes offended by the sight of her, filled with the fornicating verse of forbidden books. He spent every lunch hour against the fence, as near as possible, unwavering his gaze, never minding that she refused to acknowledge him even as her friends whispered into her ear and pointed towards him, or sang dirty songs about the way he looked at her, even as they ran up and kicked his shins, or taunted him with sharp statements about his two different colored eyes, his mask of exhaustion, his drunken gaze, all of which was because of her (a Lollyesq bewitchment), because Joseph Moore was obsessed with her, so obsessed he could not eat, he could not sleep, he did not bother talking, he had fits of vertigo and fits of tears.

She was a year older, a respectable girl from an A-list family who was in the midst of her adulthood bloom and wore grown-up clothing, a thick line creased the back of her shirt where her training bra met her skin, she shaved her legs and wore heeled shoes, she wore eye shadow and rouge on her cheeks. She manicured her black hair in the fashion of the magazines, always based on the queen of the moment’s sensibilities, she was courted by older boys and boys who were well known in the education universe. She had laughed and shown her friends his first letter.

Joseph was over-flowing with adulation for her, she embarrassed him, she laughed in his face, she even, at one chance meeting, intentionally flirted with him, when they were alone in the hallway, putting her rank arm around his neck, whispering so close to him he could feel the petals of her lips brush against the peach-fuzz of his cheek, only to discard him, denounce him, and despise him. For Joseph brought unwanted attention to her during a sensitive time, when she was uncomfortable with her contorting body, when she did not want anyone to notice the material stretching over her breasts, he was in love with her, everyone knew it, he did not try to hide it from his face, and if he would be so enthralled with her, it brought other eyes upon her, other eyes that would calculate her features, inspect her curves, rate her attributes, and this was for her, a cruel torture.

It was luscious and supreme misery, a plague that gripped young Joseph and left him bed ridden, repenting for ever seeing her, forever imagining her giving him a kind look or a kind word, and as he laid in his sweaty sheets, convulsing in his agony, he grew calm and quiet. His caretaker bending over him as if she thought he might have died or passed out from the pain, because the shock was over, because Joseph had made peace with it. He said farewell that day to hope and fear, swore to himself that he would never again try to be like a man, because all good was lost and he could not live in envy. He was paler than usual for a while, but slowly the color returned, his icicle blue eye, which seemed to have turned an ivory with flaws, returned to a brilliant blue, he stopped shaking, he slept, he ate, and he never again allowed himself to gaze upon her again.

* * *

It was the rituals that destroyed Joseph Moore, the daily routine of his domestic life. As a young man, completing his secondary education and impassioned by notions of the future, he had reasoned that he would find a woman with whom he could share the escapade of life. Joseph had been educated based on the arbitrary decision of a department clerk, since he had no familial records, it was not known if he was an A-lister, B-lister, C-lister, D-lister, or X. The clerk, a haughty man sitting in an elevated chair behind a large desk, compensation, in an obvious projection of his own failures, had eyed the youth for a few moments and scribbled down a pronouncement which would rule Joseph’s adult life — he was a C-lister, the largest demographic of citizens in the econopublic. That meant that regardless of his means, which were microscopic, since he was the one sole ward of the state in existence, he would be allowed four years of secondary education in a field becoming to his List. Joseph had no say in the field in which he would study; he was maneuvered by the phantom hand of the great bureaucracy towards the administrative sciences in the industry of biochemistry.

Joseph accepted this pronouncement as he had accepted all the seemingly fateful decisions of his life, for he had not been allowed to choose to be an orphan, he had had no say in his adopted mother, whom he revered as though she was the mother of all things, as she often seemed to him, since she had taken sole responsibility for his education, habits, and values. Joseph entered secondary education in his eighteenth year, fearing, like so many ill-bred young men, that he would not be fit for so much attention, and aware that this would be the first time in his life that he would not have a caretaker on-call twenty-four hours a day (which has been the cause of so many youthful marriages, ignoring the obvious Oedipal references) and that it would be the first time in which he would have unmitigated access to the opposite sex on a regular basis.

The day Joseph left for school, the hospitals’ twenty-eight nurses, all of which felt some seemingly tardy regret for not attending to him, now imbued a maternal connection to the dear boy that had lived amongst them for so many years, threw a celebration in his honor that spilled out onto the hospital grounds and caused more than a few problems for the hospital’s administrators. Joseph was tearfully appreciative of the attention, for he had always simply believed that they viewed him as yet another patient, a permanent ward that required more care than any of the others, he embraced each one as though they were his sole mother and spent an attentive hour with all of them so that each felt as though they had done their very best to prepare the young orphan for the outside world. However, it was the relic that received the most of Joseph’s appreciation, she had been useless to the hospital for almost a decade before Joseph arrived and had off-handedly been given the task as his primary care-giver in order to find something for her to do. She was the unfortunate victim of an experiment that had gone array.

Doctor William Mendelson Fiber Optics, the preeminent sexologist in the territory had become world-renowned for his comprehensive book on female titillation based upon years of research, The Feminine Eros. In order to best his award-winning, however scandalous treatise, Mendelson had decided to conceive of a machine that would calculate the exact response to certain stimuli on the female anatomy and in this way, discover the definitive Don Juanian mystery. The question proposed, of course, was why a woman could be requited in one instance by a ten-minute session, but then, in another instance, find this quick burst of ecstatic energy unsatisfying. Mendelson, like all great Casanovians, hoped to uncover the reason for this apparent paradox by using the much-fabled scientific theory of observation, experiment, hypothesis, and proof.

In order to treat each subject in the same manner, and to keep the experiment objective, as introducing different types of men would obviously cause different types of responses, Mendelson invented the most perfect (patent number 4,505,706,407) fornication machine the world had ever known. PAN, as it was called, was not simply a mechanic Bos phallus; it was a multifarious apparatus. It hung from a large circular frame in a complex hammock that looked very much like some device used to train astronauts and cosmonauts, in which the female subject was eased into, strapped in certain places (although not impeding movement), and wired to a wall of computers that monitored responses. The process was not the type of activity normally respectable women would engage in and after millions of numbers in construction costs, the entire operation was almost abandoned because of lack of female volunteers. It was then that the medical agency came up with the economical, if not circumspect, idea to use nurses. Involvement in scientific research was mandatory for anyone entering into the medical sciences; however, the work of Dr. Mendelson was notoriously the favorite of most. Chosen at random, first year nursing students were required to undergo strict regimens of chastity and the avoidance of any sort of sexual stimulation, until they completed their tenure in Mendelson’s laboratory.

Mendelson himself had handpicked Joseph’s primary caregiver when he had seen her in a local cafeteria (of course the rumors abounded of the respectable doctor’s decisions on subjects, as well as certain reputed stories of his own sexual Napoleonisms of otherwise decent young women). She had no right to refuse, although later in life she would tell others that she’d campaigned fervently to be removed from the project before her first session.

In order to not infect the subject with outside influences, each woman was required to strip naked in an adjoining room, be cleansed of any body lotions, deodorants, or other epidermal pharmaceuticals and was then fitted with a sensory headdress that strapped over her eyes, blinding the subject, covered the nose with a gadget that had no smell, and sealed her mouth. A conveyor belt then led them into the machine room, where technicians monitored robot arms that inserted the subject into the mechanic hammock. Once placed in position, the woman was tested for benign responses, in order to rule out mental disorders or other contaminants that may cause false results. It was then time for Dr. Mendelson to experiment on them. Using a plethora of probes, quills, prods, lubes, suction cups, spoons, dabs, whispers, tubes, protuberances, juices, barbs, flanges, whiplets, plungers, fur and whistles, the machine began an elaborate stimulation program. In this way, the scientist could determine responses with technical accuracy. As the machine continued, the woman’s heart rate, breathing, perspiration, excretion of bodily fluids and audition were monitored.

Mendelson worked for seven years on the project, publishing preliminary results in scientific journals that indicated he was well on his way of discovering the perfect arrangement of arousal to incite rapture every single time. Joseph’s caregiver entered the program in its eighth year, when the machine had been perfected and Mendelson was confident he could make any subject bleat in exactly forty-five seconds. She had originally followed directly along with previous participants, within thirty seconds she was near, fifteen seconds later, she quivered, and the evidence collected. However, on her fourth venture in the machine, two lengthy minutes went by before she shuddered with joy and the scientists shook their heads, for it was the first time anyone had been able to handle the machine for that long since its first year, when it had not been calibrated yet for maximum gratification.

Unbeknownst to Mendelson and his team, the subject had begun experimenting on her own with a variety of devices that they, themselves, were unaware of. Being men, they had never imagined that there was a lucrative trade in the back of questionable magazines that sold female self-gratification devices. The experiment had perked the young nurse’s interest in the subject (little for scientific purposes and more for the new found pleasure it brought the otherwise innocent young woman). Mendelson, though, could not very well allow one subject to destroy his life’s work and in almost a maniacal fashion, he vowed that he would make this rogue nurse cum in forty-five seconds or destroy the machine. He tried twice more without results, but with positive progress. However, in order to get the subject down to one minute, he had been forced to increase the stimulation to dangerous levels and the nurse was so enraptured that attendants feared for her health. She had to be helped out of the apparatus by a specially designed, cold metal chair that would not stimulate her any further, as she was so exhausted and still tingling from the rapture that she could not move and had trouble breathing. Mendelson would not be won over though and demanded, through humiliating pleas and threats, that the work be continued on this obstinate subject.

Her final session then, proved to be disastrous for both the experiment and for the subject, as Mendelson had perceived of the point of no return and had exceeded it before the woman had even disrobed in the adjoining room. Unaware of the doctor’s obsession with her inability to exhale in forty-five seconds and having thoroughly enjoyed the last few sessions to such a degree that she herself could not focus on anything else but to get back in the hammock and have the systematic process begin again, not even the outside assistance she had employed gave her the pleasure she now required, she had thoroughly lubed herself and while the attendants were diverted, avoided the normal cleansing. These factors led to her reaching such an orgasm in the chair that she had a heart attack and went brain dead in a millisecond under forty-four seconds. The attendants were able to reanimate the subject, but she remained in a unique coma for several months afterwards.

Conventional doctors could not figure it out, she writhed like a woman in constant intercourse, pealed with ecstasy every minute of every hour and excreted love juices like a well-timed city pump. It wasn’t until they hooked her back up to the machine, for monitoring purposes only, that they realized that she was still experiencing the faint impulses injected in her during her last session and that she would probably continue to for the rest of her life. No surgery was able to cure her of the perpetual orgasm, and the nurse woke up from her coma with the howl of a woman fulfilled by the perfect climax.

It was Dr. Mendelson himself, after conceding defeat in Bern at the National Medical Conference, that invented an opposing apparatus to dull her senses and allow her to lead a somewhat normal life. The device was based upon the chair that they had devised to remove her from the machine and sent opposing impulses through her body the exact second before she was to experience orgasm.

So when Joseph had met her, as a flailing infant discarded by grieving parents, she was a wired cyborg of science fiction novels who always seemed at the point of bursting into ecstasy but never completed and was relegated to a hovering chair with a ventilator attached (he thought it was a jetpack for many years) so she could breath normally. She could never detach the mask over her face or remove the plastic finger covers with wires running down her arms, because she would immediately fall into excruciating ecstasy and be comatose, so Joseph had never actually touched the skin of his adopted mother.

She could not allow him to come in contact with her (any outside stimulation was too much) and so she supplanted contact with vocal caresses. She adored the child, not so much because she could never conceive, due to her condition, but because it made her useful again. Years had passed since the fateful day of her extreme ejaculation and she had become a charity case at the exact hospital in which she had been experimented on. Unable to treat patients or work in an administrative capacity, she spent years simply roving the halls of the hospital, watching patients come and go, seeing nurses off to weddings and death, and desperately dreaming of some function she could perform. That was when he was delivered to her, like a gift from fortune.

The day of the celebration though was not a joyous one for her, Joseph’s departure after eighteen years of work, would leave her in the same state in which he found her, utterly useless. It was magnified by her adopted son’s actions that day, he treated each and every nurse as though they were his mother, and gave the one true caregiver the same hour he reserved for everyone else. In Joseph’s mind, he saved her for the last, a symbolic “save the last dance for me” homage to what he knew she had done. But the disabled nurse did not see it that way, for her he was already abandoning her and in a fit of melancholy that did more to combat the ever-present rise of sexual fervor, she invited the young boy up to her room one last time. Joseph believed it was just her way of saying goodbye, one last time in her room, one last visit, but when he arrived, he immediately understood she had other plans.

Since he was a small boy, Joseph laid in a bed she had specially made for him in the corner of the room, he did not sleep there, but laid and listened to her as she read to him or as the two talked about any number of subjects. She bade him to take his place in the bed and before he could offer an argument on the contrary, she had removed the finger gloves and the mask from her mouth, unstrapped herself from the chair and joined him on the bed. Joseph, who had been initiated into the ways of love by a now married nurse during a power outage, in which the young woman sought him out as he laid in his lonely bed and mounted him, quickly jerked against him like a cat in heat, and departed before he had time to realize what had occurred, felt his adopted mother’s lips touch his for the first time, felt her hand roam over his belly and down into his pants as the first contact with her skin in his entire life, did nothing but allow the event to take place. He knew that she was choosing death, but years of her wisdom and his subjugation, made it impossible for him to object. In less than a minute, at the first insertion, she uttered a guttural release that echoed throughout the halls of the hospital and collapsed. Joseph knew that she was no longer breathing, that she had disappeared from the body he was inside, but he could not let himself end the embrace, even after he had finished and felt himself slipping out of her, he did all he could to remain within her, remain in her tender arms.

The romanticism of her adopted mother’s death and his own actions did not escape poor Joseph. As he began his first year of secondary education, he mourned her death, but also couldn’t help anticipating what other extraordinary events would befall him in the coming years (being endowed with a Heraclitian perspective on things). The fact that nothing did, that was what ruined Joseph.

* * *

His conception that he would be ill prepared for education was completely false. Joseph was, in fact, due to the work of his dotting nurse of a mother, who had occupied so much idle time with books and imparted this practice onto her son (a Vallaian endeavor, admittedly), as well read as most of the professors at the college. He was allowed the unusual honor of skipping his first year’s studies and immediately entered into specialized courses.

It was in these classes that Joseph began to flourish, both as a student and a social animal. Years of isolation and access to only one other person for majority of his time, had made the young man pensive in overt ways and his silence amongst the loud and obnoxious majority of male students, who thought it becoming of young man to holler his ideas and force himself on other people, made him appear particularly appealing to many of the girls in attendance. He would listen to them, he would devote several hours of thought to their seemingly (although superficially) life-changing problems, and this enamored him to them to such a degree that he was not want of female companionship.

Most young men of Joseph’s age would have fallen into rather benign relationships with female confidantes, but Joseph had a rare gift for turning what appeared to be comforting caresses into arousing provocations that quickly made the girl forget her woes and focus on fulfilling the stirring need for gratification that had been slowly growing in her loins. This sensory foreplay of which he was naturally adept, was coupled with his poetic timbre, which could clandestinely change a few kind words of encouragement into a love ballad so romantic his prey often found themselves believing the young man was not after them sexually, but spiritually yearning for a union. They were obliging, in that they had not heard enough of these kinds of tricks yet in their adolescent forays into the tropics of desire, and accepted his words in their literal sense (not as they were intended). This also armored Joseph against accusations of mistreatment, for no one could conceive of his actions in any other light than that of friendship and honest sympathy, so perfect was his quiet demeanor.

Joseph had grown up in a hospital as well in the midst of a large pod of female nurses who were quite effusive with their conversations, which invariably always turned to sex and so, he was well versed in anatomy and feminine profundity. Women who had been attached to him during his college years had their negative opinions of him, but not one was based on his performance in bed.

When Joseph met his future wife, he did not fall in love with her at first sight, nor did he after several dates and several innocent fumblings in the dusty corners of libraries, dorm rooms, and park benches. In fact, Joseph, who was a successful bachelor, meaning he had sex on a regular basis, did not particularly like her. He had allowed her to initiate a relationship simply because he was of the opinion that one could not have too many mares in the stable, as they say, and her rather common appearance led him to accept the prejudices of her kind, or rather the urban legends of plain girls as nymphomaniacs. She was the polar opposite, a virgin at twenty, she was nothing special, most women her age had not given themselves to a man yet, and she followed stringently the social mores of the day, no sex prior to marriage.

They had met in a survey course on music appreciation, after they were thrust together by a befuddled professor who liked to have his students count-off and form groups. Joseph and Norma (his wife’s given name) were the only two who had been fives, and so they were forced to work together on explaining the difference between the popular waltz and the more technical one. They begrudgingly began their project with a meeting at her apartment, a few blocks from campus, but it was cut short by Norma after Joseph laid his hand on her naked knee, which she had unknowingly exposed.

Uninterested in waltzes or any other type of musical arrangement, Joseph had joined the class in order to fulfill a liberal arts requirement while his partner was a music major and took the course very seriously (having not yet been in secondary education long enough to realize its futility). Like many girls, Norma was free to follow her fancies, since her only real goal in college was to find a suitable fellow to support her for the rest of her life, as was the custom of the time, so she choose something that she thought would make herself more appealing to potential mates — music. She imagined herself singing a cappella in a large living room for relatives, a talent her husband could show off and pride himself on.

Norma was realistic, she knew she did not have the beauty to be a prime catch for one of the many wealthy gentleman, but she did not let this deter her, she would find other ways of being a trophy for her husband. Joseph was not on her radar, as it were, he was not well put together, the different colored eyes made her uncomfortable, since the blue one had fits of laziness and he never appeared to be looking at her when he actually was, he did not come from wealth or status, in fact he came from nowhere, a particularly frightening proposition for a standardized young woman of Norma’s age, and he had made a particularly offensive advance at her within five minutes of being alone with her. He was a tramp. She refused to fall into his traps, she would not tell him anything about herself, nor was she about to confess to him her difficulties or allow him anywhere near her so that he could concoct his wordy aphrodisiacs.

It wasn’t until Joseph had given up on Norma that she found out about his gifts. Joseph had taken another course for his liberal arts requirement, as well, painting, and had shown such a Da Vincian aptitude for it that the art department had officially requested the opportunity to study the virtuoso from the college’s vice president of student affairs.

Art was (and is) considered a past-time to assist tranquility, something executives, secretaries, scientists, and others practiced on Sundays to relax. It was not a profession, nor was it considered a viable option by the university for further study, so they offered two survey courses for those inclined and that was the extent of the flirtation with the arts. Joseph though had never placed brush to canvas before in his life and had achieved such a success that the product was like a portal into the universal subconscious. The figures were perfectly proportioned, the perspective was without flaws and had a geometrically significant position in consideration of the focal point, and the background was so carefully rendered one had to tell themselves it was only a picture so that they didn’t smell the bananas in the trees. While Joseph was receiving a considerable amount of praise, every piece he did was far greater than the first, which had appeared at the time to be the conceivable best (remarkably, however undiagnosed, Picassoian), Norma had also been told by one of Joseph’s previous conquests that he was one of only four people ever allowed to advance to the second year before ever stepping foot on campus.

For Norma this was symbolic of further success (Pygmalionian as it seems), and it did not hurt that her girlfriends related to her Joseph’s nocturnal abilities (although none of the them had actually given him the chance to prove the rumor, Norma’s crowd was quite different than Joseph’s). This caused a considerable problem though for Norma, she’d already rebuffed the young man and made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Without too many other prospects, once she’d lost the boy she’d spent a year entangling because his parents presented him with an expensively tasteless girl who came with her own money, she had little other recourse. Her last year in secondary education was the following one, and if she could not find a husband by that time, she was sure she would be a spinster for life (it did not occur to her that there were other single people older than twenty-two). So Norma decided Joseph was her future husband and with sheer will power, a remarkable feat considering Joseph’s enjoyment of hollow relationships and loveless fornication, she managed to convince him that she had only be toying with him before and wanted to begin a potentially sexual liaison. Joseph had accepted this as a devilish ploy becoming of girls like Norma, known for their inventiveness due to competition with more attractive females, and accepted the invitation. Norma was more creative than Joseph gave her credit for and quickly, within a few months of their first date, had maneuvered him into a monogamous relationship he was quite sure he had fought hard for. Her talents, much more than the obvious ones of Joseph, were so ingenious that she soon had him delivering to her an engagement ring and a solemn promise of future matrimony. Joseph, for his part, had been bamboozled voluntarily by what appeared to him to be his waning chances for random liaisons (orchestrated by her with simple rumors) and her continual promises for what their lives could be like (this ranged from her detailing a trip around the world for their honeymoon she had no intention of every embarking on, to detailed and erotically charged descriptions of the future, as though the two would always be young and always be discovering the other’s body). The couple was married two months after Joseph graduated and Norma did not have to attend school the following year.

* * *

It began immediately. “We must choose a theme.” She was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the walls, absently. Joseph slid up behind her and raised his eyebrows. She smiled coyly and escaped his grasp. “What do you think Joseph?” No one ever called him Joe. “Neo-Modernist or Neo-Classical?”

How I’d like to really to… push up her petticoats, pull down her pants, reveal her… that fine texture of her skin colliding against his abdomen… Christen the home with semen… her hair has fallen loose… her mouth is open, drawing in great gulps of air… she is groaning… home sweet, home… her eyes sparkle with ecstasy tears… her lips curl and convulse… she is drooling uncontrollably… the shag carpet’s friction burns his knees… this is how you say hello… she guides him with her quivering… he fills her… she says something vile… he plunges into her… she cannot handle anymore… he must stop… she can’t take anymore… he must keep going… she can’t hold herself up and collapses into her own arms, leaving only her ass in the air… stop, no more…

“Joseph, are you listening to me? What were you thinking about? We need to focus on the house, we’re having the party in two weeks.”

The ritual: up at six, two cups of decaffeinated coffee, shower, teeth, armpits, pills, and outfit, out the door by six-forty five, bus number 47 on the corner of 5th and Juniper Drive, read his magazine if he can find a seat or stand and stare at nothing, arrive at work at fifteen after seven, idle outside for a few moments, up the elevator to the fifth floor, turn computer on, get first cup of coffee, take pills, bring up reports, sip coffee, check schedule, work, lunch for an hour at café on first floor, take pills, back to office, inspect progress, meeting, buy a sugary cola at four thirty, take pills, leave work, await bus, find seat, stop at grocery store with list, pick up items, take bus 47 to 7th and Heather Way, two blocks to house, change clothes, favorite cardigan and slippers, turn on Virtuascape, answer wife’s questions, ask her the same, eat dinner, take pills, watch rerun of favorite show, drink seltzer water, take pills, brush teeth, into pajamas, take pills, in bed by ten. “It’s late Joseph, I have a headache.”

He can do nothing. It adds to the overt challengelessness of it. The period before the decay. You maggots are going to have a feast. The circle of life, a foolish explanation to allow them to believe in a purpose. There is no paradise; we are want of no angels.

When kicked by a jackass at eighty-three,

“Go fetch me a surgeon at once!” cried he.

That is the art of reason in strict accordance with the capacity of human misunderstanding, my friend. Lust after the mirage, the theatre of phantom characters like they are not shadows.

“I think pink curtains would really liven up the room, don’t you think Joseph? Should we put on some music darling?”

An ancient instrument of torture, an artless art for mediocre talent. “Let’s not.”

“Put on music or put up pink curtains?”

Both you tittle-tattle moth. I’m burning in your flame, your second in the duel. That is so inappropriate my dear, only an apron, cooking, how unsanitary. My, my, that’s not safe; you can’t expect me to eat that. Oh, is that for me? Turn around again. Every now and then I feel it again. It’s broken. I’m broken; you’ve taken me like a child’s toy and carelessly broken me. I can’t think, you condemn me for my failures; I am faithless in your thoughts.

“What do you think of these?”

I think we should make a naughty outfit out of them and fuck like badgers in a fight. “Fine, fine.”

“Cotton or polyester? Do you need more underwear?”

I am wearing nothing below these trousers, my dear, I can open my fly and insert as needed.

“How many lamps should we get? It’s so dark in the family room, don’t you think?”

Yes. Better to avoid you with. These are the shadows of my sanctuary. Where is Joseph? Has anyone seen Joseph? Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo. Has anyone seen Joseph?

“I don’t need any underwear.”

“I asked you that a half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t listening to you.”

* * *

Ergo, the day Joseph thought would never come. It was, rather quixotically, rather Marcusianally, of more import than he knew. When it did arrive, categorically, he thought the time in which he could give Norma her present would never occur. He waited all day, he tried to read but he couldn’t (Shermanly) pay attention, all he thought about was giving her his present. He tried to watch Macriblite, but he always left and went to the garage to make sure it hadn’t been disturbed, that no one had found it, and by the time he got back, he had no idea what he had been watching. He tried to work on some of his projects throughout the house, he fixed a whining screw in the back door, but it hadn’t taken him long and he didn’t have the energy to try anything else. All he wanted to do was bestow his present and receive her gratitude.

She knew she would be receiving something. She’d given him a list and she knew he had went out two Saturdays before and come home with an enormous bag and hid it in the garage and spent hours upon hours out there with it. But she was calm throughout the day, fixing up the place for the company that would be coming, a whole slew of their friends and family (her family), and making the great turkey they would all share.

Joseph went out to the garage, slid the canvas out of the bag, and stared at it. He had tried to pen a dedication for her that he wanted to put on the back but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to touch it ever again, one more brush stroke, one more addition, anything more could ruin it. He was proud of himself, it was the best thing he’d ever done and he looked forward to her opening it in front of everybody, just to see her face, that would be enough, but he also relished the chance to hear what everyone else would say, how they would praise it, how she would take it out, gaze at it in awe, unable to put words to the extreme emotions she felt, the ultimate gratitude for his efforts, and she’d walk away from the table (where presents were always opened), holding it out, unable to turn her gaze from it and she’d immediately have to decide where they would hang it and all the women would help her and they’d talk about it for hours, placing it here and then taking it down and trying it over there, and then settling on a very private place, a place that meant a lot to Norma and would thus, mean a lot to Joseph.

Should he give it to her in front of them? Perhaps it would be best, more intimate to give it to her when they were alone? He could pretend as though he had forgotten or give her something small, something he could go out and get that day and she would be thankful, a little disappointed but thankful, and then, a day or two later, he could quietly go up to her and say, “there’s something out in the garage I want you to see” and then he’d walk away and let her go out and see it. No, he wanted them all to see, he wanted them all to see what he had done for his wife and besides, the attention would be focused on her, not him, that was what he dreaded, what made his palms sweat and his mouth dry, that they’d all look at him and he’d be forced to say something and he might not say the right thing or do the right thing, but all they would do is glance at him, approvingly, and return their gaze to Norma, who’d still not be able to express in words her gratitude and then, she’d take over, she’d tell them all how grateful she was and turn it around so they could all see it and admire it.

At around four-thirty guests began to arrive and Joseph, hiding in the bedroom, listened as the low whisper of voices echoed down the hall, the salutations, the conversations begun, the congratulations his wife received, until she came and got him and he reluctantly went out into the living room. He smiled wisely, waiting for the time when he could give his wife his present.

Norma apologized for how long dinner was taking, but no one seemed to care, as they sat nibbling on appetizers and talking about inane subjects until the turkey was finally finished and they all sat down for dinner. It was a content affair, almost time to give her the present, and Norma received several compliments on her culinary abilities, which she took sincerely and appreciatively (and a little off-handedly) and served dessert, a big angel food cake with white frosting and fresh strawberries. Joseph did not eat any, he couldn’t stomach it, he was so apprehensive, all he wanted to do was give her his present and feel the joy of it.

When everyone was finished, Norma, with the help of several other women, cleared the table and brought out coffee for everyone. Then, people started presenting their gifts and Norma pretended she was surprised and said, “oh, you didn’t have to do that” several times and thanked everyone all at once and began to open them. Joseph, who had struggled for the time to finally come, felt a deep sense of calm, and he patiently waited for her to open all of their gifts before presenting her with his own. She pulled the string from a small box and admired a gold watch, thanked the couple who had gotten it for her personally, and daintily pulled open a larger box with a wide brimmed hat with a blue and white kerchief and tried it on and thanked that couple personally, until there was nothing more but ripped paper and a pile of goods.

Joseph left the party and went out to the garage, he pulled the painting out of its packaging and then, placed it back inside. He quickly wrote, “for Norma, love Joseph” on the outside and carried it inside. Everyone, who had thought the gift-giving was over, noticed Joseph as he came forward with an enormous rectangle in white wrapping and he blushed as he placed it down on the table, upsetting several coffee cups, but pretending not to notice and said: “here Norma, this is from me.” She smiled around the table, as if saying, “look at this, what a swell husband” to everyone.

“What is this?” she asked rhetorically.

“It’s for you, from me.”

She was obviously pleased. “Joseph, that is so sweet. I wonder what it is?”

“Open it.”

Norma slipped off the twine (which was more cosmetic than required) and slowly opened the white wrapping paper, finally revealing the present. She stared down at the painting.

“What is it?” a woman asked and the entire table leaned forward to see what it was she was looking at. Then, they settled back in their seats: “well isn’t that nice” and “beautiful, very nice” and “what a thoughtful gift”.

Norma hadn’t removed her eyes from the painting and Joseph watched her, pleased that she was still looking at it, waiting for the response that he had planned, he grinned slightly, in anticipation. “What,” she began, her voice sounding deep inside herself, Joseph believing she was about to get emotional, she was so appreciative, she’d weep right there in front of everyone, “what is this?”

Joseph stammered, swallowed, and replied meekly: “I made it for you — it’s a painting, I painted it for you — for your birthday.”

Norma didn’t take her eyes off it. “You made it. Why?”

“For your birthday,” he tried, “I wanted to do something… something special for you.”

Norma licked her lips and turned her head towards two or three of the people at the table, she took the white wrapping still around the painting and folded it down over the canvas. Joseph didn’t understand, she’d not pulled it out and shown it to everyone, she’d not gazed at it and started to cry, she’d not clutched her chest and said anything, she’d just looked at it and was putting it away. He heard her say: “thank you Joseph, that was very nice of you.”

As if someone else was saying it, “don’t you like it?”

“It’s very nice, Joseph. Shall we retire into the living room,” she said to the table. She still hadn’t met his eyes. Joseph could feel an intense fear rising from within him, that he had been foolish, that they were all thinking that he was foolish, that he’d disappointed her. Why would he give her a painting he had painted? Why would he give it to her in front of everyone like that? What was she supposed to do with it?

“I painted it myself,” he tried as they began to move away from the table. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Joseph,” Norma replied quickly, finally meeting his gaze, with a not-now.

“I, I — it took me hours to paint it, I worked on it for hours.”

“Then you keep it,” she shot back as she picked up two plates and began to follow the rest of the crowd into the living room.

“But it’s for you…”

“Yes…”

“…I made it for you…”

“No…”

“Why?”

Norma stood motionless, half in the other room, her eyes focused on something on the carpet. Her voice was slow, as if each word was a great effort: “I have one day a year,” she began, “one day that I can expect something, something just for me, not for the children or for you or for anyone else. I do all I can to make sure that my day is perfect. I cook, I clean, I invite friends over, I make cakes. All you have to do is stand there, that’s it. I give you a list of things I want. All you have to do is pick one. These are the things I want. You don’t have to do anything but buy one of those things and give it to me at the right time.”

“I did it for you,” Joseph tried.

“No Joseph. No, if you had done it for me you would have gotten me something from my list. Why would I want that?” she gestured with a dirty plate towards the rewrapped painting. “That was for you, for you to give me what you thought I’d want.”

“No,” he stared straight ahead. He could tell they were all listening from the other room. The women shaking their heads every time Norma said something, perhaps even grimacing at times. He stared away from her, like a admonished child. She had not liked the gift, he had been a fool, he was sure she was right, but he had planned it so carefully, he couldn’t let it be such a disaster. “No, Norma, I wanted to make you something… I thought, I thought it would be special.”

“SPECIAL,” now her voice had raised, “why would that,” again the plate dives over the rewrapped painting, “be speCIAL? SPEcial to whom? To YOU? NOT to me. I told you what I wanted. That would have been SPECIAL. Anything on my list would have been SPECIAL. This is your inability to understand that this is MY day. MY DAY.”

“I’ll take it and put it back in the garage and give it you later…”

“I DON’T WANT IT.”

“…when we’re alone and you’ll see why…”

“JOOSEEPHHH, I DON’T WANT IT.”

“…its special…”

“ARE YOU LISTENING?”

“…and tomorrow, I’ll go out, I still have… I still have your list and I’ll buy you something off of it…”

“IT’S TOO LATE.”

“…maybe two or three things off of it.”

“JOOSSEEPHHH, IT’S TOO LATE, today was my birthday, NOT tomorrow. I won’t want that ever, not ever, you could have given me something — something like our friends gave me — something I could wear or show off or use, but YOU didn’t, you didn’t, it’s over.”

Joseph felt asphyxiated, he was shaking, embarrassed, he felt guilty, horrible for what he’d done, his lips were chapped, his mouth dry, he lurched forward and grabbed the painting and dragged it out of the room, knocking over several chairs, he hurried, he felt as though he’d cry but he tried not to, he wiped the tears from his eyes quickly, he could not breath, not until he, not until he could get away. He threw the garage door open and pulled the painting inside, he left it leaning against the wall, he circled the cement floor, wringing his hands, wiping his forehead, trying to force back tears, trying to forget that there were people in his house, trying to forget that his wife had been disappointed, trying to think of anything else but his failure. He snatched up the painting and threw it down, lifted up one corner and twisted it until it snapped and he felt splinters collide with his shins and he kept turning it and yanking it and bending it, until the paint had cracked and the wood was broken. Then he folded it up as small as he could and forced it into the garbage can. He looked at the small portion visible, he looked at it and remembered the hours it had taken him to paint it, he felt the swelling around his eyes and the convulsions that started from his abdomen and he bent down on a circular rug and he let himself cry over it.

* * *

Joseph Moore, Director of the Continued Production of Isotopic Inhibitors for Immunex International, Inc., father, husband, and C-lister, was found dead at the bottom of Patoka Gorge, yesterday.

Joseph Moore was an obituary waiting to happen. This was his second attempt.

“Hello, thank you for calling Emergency Services, my name is Rick, how can I help you this evening?”

“My husband had an accident and cut himself on a piece of our fine cutlery.”

“I see, where is the patient injured?”

“His wrist.”

“And how did it occur?”

“He had an accident, I think he was cutting some ham for lunch meat.”

“And the knife cut one of his wrists.”

“Both wrists, actually.”

“I see. Are the wounds bleeding?”

“Yes, very much. He’s passed out.”

“Are the wounds running down his wrists or parallel?”

“Both are running down his wrists.”

“Please remain calm, I’ll send an emergency aid unit to your home right away.”

“Thank you, please hurry, the blood is running towards our new carpet.”

“They should be there in ten minutes or less or our service is free. This promotion does not include amputations, drug overdoses, or death. Arrival deadline is dependent upon clear driving conditions, the company makes no warranty, expressed or implied, concerning events beyond their control, such as acts of nature, acts of the government or accidents. Limit one free emergency service per customer per month. Claims should be sent to Emergency Services Claims Department, Attention: Tardiness of Services within thirty days of event. Any claim made after this deadline will be null and void. Company accepts no responsibility for the standard of care provided by the technicians, or for the instrumentation utilized by the technicians, nor for the technician’s ability to perform medical services. Thank you for using Emergency Services.”

Joseph Moore was saved, blessed god, and his wounds healed. The aid unit wrote up the report:

Male in early forties treated for lacerations on anterior wrist joints. A steak knife slipped in the greasy juice of a ham roast and penetrated the patient’s skin. Wounds required stitches and unit brought unfortunate male to hospital for treatment.

* * *

Beginning anew, alas our hero perished (a lanky climax but altogether a monticulous plot twist), Joseph looked down the span of the bridge, which he felt rather morosely had a banal architecturally motif, since it mirrored so craftily his own demeanor, a latter-day daemon who’d given ole Descartes and Apollo the fodder for their simple truths, an ingenious device to aid the deliberately ignorant in understanding philosophy, arguably the most popular occupation for idlers and idiots (written so eloquently in the Clouds, as they say), indicating self knowledge, simply. Monumental and phallic projections of robber barons and sweaty backs vaulted into the sky like they were invading constellations attempting to dampen the glow of the pre-existing disorder. For Joseph, the buildings had no fountainhead purposes for providing the garland-crown to an individual whose art is all but practical, the whore of aesthetics, the architect, followed nearly at heels bay by, of course, the interior decorator and the planner. Rather, as usurers to their creative gifts, the architects and even worse, since there was not even a flint of artistry, the engineers, had constructed a synthetic icon to their own taciturn poetry, symbols of democratic critics that no one truly tries to please, they were representations of unified accomplishment, but the glory had to be usurped. Joseph had nothing to do with their construction, just as he really, truly had no control over his own productivity. This effortless, albeit advantageous, commandeering of universal progress was of epidemic proportions. However, the true (a word used here in its finest sense) controlling factor of the fabricated paradise, obviously the greatest example of mass nastrophenia ever presented in the annals of history, was not social propaganda, leading to each and every man faithfully accepting the astonishing erection of yet another man-made wonder in the farraginous city as a direct reflection of the necessitarianism of the collective good of all, but the almost necromorphous attitude towards mental health.

Joseph took, Hippocratian in all of its glory, a stimulant called Revivoderm in the morning so that he felt rested and ready for the day. After breakfast, so that he remained calm and collected, he took a little purple pill called Blissegra. Once the day began and he was on his way to work, Joseph swallowed Inertiamex and Focaldrexodren, for consistency in his thought patterns and the ability to concentrate on the particular task at hand, respectively. At lunch, of course, Joseph took the dietary supplement Yoyofabrinamin, which assisted in his digestion and allowed him to avoid any discomfort. Because Joseph had fits of demophobia, he took three Xenophobolin tablets, and to curb his dislike of confined spaces, he popped two Cloisteramine pills. In order to remain focused and not grow tired after lunch, Joseph was on Gregarolex, as well. Because his doctor had observed Joseph’s preference for isolation, he was on Socialembracamininan and in order to assist him avoiding his tendency to express himself too emotionally, Joseph took Stoicindusemet. Once he was home and had eaten his dinner, Joseph had the tonic Randilodex to assist his libido and so that he could better enjoy the relaxing evening in front of the screen or the company the family had over, he would ingest Meditatolin. Because his hair was thinning, he scrubbed his scalp with Foliculaspermicide every night and to avoid the chance of acne, he wore an Aphroditalamine mask for an hour before bed. Due to the sometimes uncomfortable side-effects of some of the pills, patches and tonics, Joseph took Settlemypharon for his stomach, Regularisodex for his bowels, Nervisuppressimidicine to stop his hands and feet from shaking, Globbulenocide to counter-act the thinning of his blood, CardioValvoline to avoid heart palpitations and the small chance of a seizure, and Sniffocoldrinmex so that his nose and eye sockets didn’t bleed. Just before bed, Joseph took Snooz-O-Z, clinically known as Hybernatoriex, so that he could have a full night sleep. These seemed as though they were waiting for him, like the words of a speech.

Words, in the beau milieu connotation that was fashionable, had a singular effect upon poor Joseph and he used them like gambler who’s not yet been thoroughly defeated by the house and still believes in the highly colored stories of million point winnings in short afternoon blackjack games, roulette wheels, and slot machines revolving symbols (or, briefly in a strict Fregian sense). The vast amount and variety he had used over a lifetime were small coins lost in the mechanism, forgotten except those that multiplied, but the ‘meaning’ or as they say, the orchestra by which we comprehend the treasures of life, was lost upon him.

She stood across from him, her tight, sweaty palms pressing his fingers far too tightly, her face shrouded beneath a veil that did not disfigure the spirit of her pity or her supplementary concern for her decisions, but rather magnified the topographical emotions of acquiescence. She slowly formed the words and he repeated them, lifted the lacey disguise from her maudlin costume and felt her dry, apathetic lips contact his chin as the mediator held their shoulders, as if to force the two to savor some fictional pleasure (plaisir, definitely not) derived from the ceremony.

Propelling himself forward whilst sitting in her coughing automobile, the winter air gusts howling against the window panes, their third meeting, with nothing more than a peck on his cheek the time before, Joseph had offered the only contract he knew he could negotiate and she had straddled him in the passenger seat, after an uncomfortable few moments of removing shabby underwear off constricted legs, so that he was buried in a mossy warmth that enveloped him and sent spasms of pleasure into his pilgrim impressions. He’d spent a delusional load for a few uncontrollable moments and he was at peace with the idea until he caught sight of her, disconcerted, unimpressed, and altogether disappointed by the spontaneous consummation of his promises.

She had festive nights of sweaty convulsions (suggesting, without a doubt, a rather Aristippusian character, at times), she had eruptions of over-powering ecstasy pulsating from a manhood so intolerable it pulsed through her body, she had ravenous tongues entwined around stiff nipples, pianist fingers stroking the organ of her womb so that she sang like a perfect alto great lauds to god, her lover, and life (explaining, of course, poor Joseph’s pianist envy). He was a whimpering ejaculator that purged himself of pent-up spittle like a geriatric bloodhound, he fumbled with her desire like a man juggling too many packages, he tried for satisfied lust but only left her inconvenienced.

The spies of his emotions, those flickering, honest thoughts that sometimes gave themselves like martyrs to his mind’s furnace, begged him to love her, his children and his positionary righteousness, like an abbot entombed within the sacred altar of an abbey frequented by royalty. They further entreated him to grow a lawn as green as emeralds and purge the havenly meadow of infectious nuisances that buzzed the family’s outdoor dinner table during the cruelest months, il miglior fabbro, and to these poor Joseph replied in bedded down consistency that he wanted so bad, yes in a childbed honesty that is the bedfellow of egotistical fantasies of school girls propositioning the beta boys with winking promises of virgin wine tasting below the old, tractor tires of the playground, along with all sorts of other implements that would allow him to better fulfill a role premoulded for him by the blank machine that chugged out the fallacies of his life in a million Roberson Jeffers hawks and stones, nor were they the Housman replies to pessimism, but the very optimistic responses of a recipe craftily prepared to rise like leaven bread, the chainsaws, socket sets, leaf blowers, lawn mowers, weed whackers (which is not a well cloaked allusion to poor Joseph’s sweet snatch yearning), ban saws, and all the like so that the garage was an unused treasure trove of a large department store’s entire home improvement section marvelously replicated. The same, of course, could be said of his other possessions, which Joseph, being the Mahound of a magic vessel ferrying across the great divide a lesser divinity, which would later pit him against a much more popular, if not better created by the clergy in undying supplications, lord, stocked in drawers, cupboards, pantries, closets, attics, and sheds like trophies of his own inadequacies, but truly revealed, in an almost pluralist fashion, his own chimera of faith.

Joseph wanted to want these things, he’d tried ever so hard to care about the purchases, which he oversaw like a puppet dictator murdered in a failed coup several days before and now stuffed and pickled and positioned for the display watching audience to appear quite compliant with the whole switch-over, but he simply gave a sea sand nod and pushed the cart with the failing right wheel in a misbelieving daze of rainbow packaging. It was the same, meaning of equal value or importance, not, as in the conventional sense, identical, with the advertisements his family salivated over during their evening ritual of prostrating themselves before the view screen (intending, of course, that the information imparted was of a McLuhanian context). While they responded as per the intent of the ad, which had been meticulously designed to provoke a response, using Pavlovian techniques the Russian physiological pioneer would have found invasive and arguably, a contortion of his work, especially, theoretically, his later labors (experimentally inducing neuroses in animals), Joseph did not. He heard the noise, associated it with thirst or hunger or sex or power or whatever the advertisement intended, but he, for a reason unexplainable, did not crave the product on display thereafter, rather Joseph, who would always be immune, would watch in horror as his wife or children became so ravenous for the product, to the point of Sartrian mauvaise foi (as if the logo was an icon, although their awareness of their freedom was questionable), that he would rush out to purchase it to satiate their appetites. However, more likely, the Moore family would have these products on-hand, and once the advertisement was finished, minding he remained out of the way, Joseph would observe his family, in a very Skinnerian fashion (since the end result shaped their behavior), as they consumed a pint of rocky road ice cream, or a gallon of soda pop, or cooked a tub of popcorn, or made an instant meal, on cue, without considering for themselves if they were hungry, really, actually craved ice cream for some physiological reason, or needed salt, for instance, or were still quite hungry even after the enormous dinner Norma Moore had prepared only an hour before. For whatever reason, even as Joseph tried to feel hungry or thirsty or amorous or tried to believe that a pair of pants would make him powerful or tried to accept that an automobile would suddenly convert him into a playboy without children, without a wife, and without anything to do on a weekday but speed down an empty highway towards the great ball of the burning sun, it never truly worked, he didn’t feel anything but the recognition that he was supposed to, and that, the particular Sorelian understanding that he inherently had, made him uncomfortable, because he wanted to believe in it, for no reason but to be unburdened from the Tocquevillian abilities he knew he had.

When Joseph had become callous, which is to say he was endowed with the rare gift of bearing the inadequacies of others, he could not say (the Schopenhaurerian aspects not escaping him). However, in retrofitting himself with this rather imperturbable persona, having been born in the house of Venus, incredulously a morning star misunderstood from its first appearance on the horizon, and associated rather disreputably with the fallen general of seraphim suicides, Joseph had relegated himself to a background prop within the family home. Which is to say, whilst his personality may hold up porch conversations on the pantheistic materialism of contentment derived from accepting his very individualized position in nature, Joseph’s ability to quell his wife’s overbearing middle mind opinions was far from even deficient. Thus, he was forced to spend his diurnal sabbaticals and sabbaths roving the lengthy aisles of shopping centers fulfilling the ever thirsty spleen of his wife, who’s very worth depended utterly upon her own aesthetic impression upon those people who would not give her a straight answer on the period in which she was currently existing. Why dear Joseph was married to such a stereotype, which is an indication of her fixed, if not exaggerated, and preconceived taxonomy in society, although arguably a prejudice and not a fact, save the repetition of her rather Lippman-like personal ticks, he, himself, “a transient, horrible fantastic dream” that put him in the very precarious position as a bedfellow of Death, itself, could reply with any more than a theological expostulation, or as they say, a fool’s method of destroying relationships.

Joseph worked (implying a Parkinsonian belief structure that was hardly true) so that his family would be comfortable, seeing that he was an aficionado of the mythology of labor equaling a monetary reward. However, it seemed, a rather witty way our hero comprehended the illusion of life, very Eastern mystic in its pure ignorance, that he would never be able to work enough for them to have all that they needed. Thus, the year, as he understood it, was a period of three hundred and sixty five disappointments, which were directly proportional to his wife’s annoyance and inversely proportional to his own fulfillment. There was always more to buy (an imperfect pun, to say the least) to better their lives and he had to get those things for them, he had to make their lives more comfortable, he had to relieve his wife of some of her duties, he had to make it so his children’s childhoods were pleasant, without problems, without difficulties, without psychological scars that would later haunt them. Joseph had to help his family receive all that they deserved, which is to say they believed they deserved far more than he had given them, an almost destiny-like philosophy popular with his contemporaries that included an omnipotent force presenting the virtuous with materialistic rewards but actually an idiot’s explanation for failures and a conqueror’s justifications for crimes against humanity. They had only three cars, their house was only four thousand square meters, the yard was not big enough for two dogs, they could not afford all of the viewing sites offered by the service, there were only two computers in the home, there were not enough books and magazines, his children did not have the finest clothes, they had to go to school without the proper fashions. Joseph’s wife did not always have the haircut she needed, she did not have the money to adopt a new wardrobe every season (four lengthy periods of further defeat), she could only go in for a manicure and pedicure on a weekly basis, she was still waiting for a new, self-cleaning, power range stove that would allow her more time for her children and better able to provide wholesome meals for the family. She did not belong to all the book clubs she should, she was only a member of a few consumer purchasing guilds, she held only a weekly homemaking party, she could not buy flowers every day to delight the kids and enliven their home.

Joseph was not a perfect provider, a curious cousin of providential, or the unexpected benefit of fortune, very near linguistically speaking, if one can speak any other way, to providence, which of course had disappeared into the lexicon of Joseph’s progenitors and would have quickly united him to the creator, thus giving him a small flicker of authority and an allowance to shed his stoic robes and convert to a more Maussian like context. The public definition, now greatly withdrawn from the derivation from which it sprouted, think of the allegory of Zeus’ very wise daughter emerging from a headache, had three hundred principles and our hero had accumulated two hundred and sixty-three of them, but still, after two years of stably remaining at two hundred and sixty-three, he had gotten his family, himself, no closer to the situation that was expected of them (this is to say he was an exile of his own preferences, or that he was doing a service for his kind, but not as an official envoy). This was Joseph’s fault, he was the head of the household; it was his duty to meet all three hundred principles (as well as to remove any obstacles, admittedly very Ganeshian in concept, in order to attain his goals), to achieve harmony.

Joseph’s company, Immunex International, CTDLLC, was one of the most powerful corporations in the world; it had abundant opportunities for any industrious man who tried hard enough, wherein we unearth his deficiency, a judgmental term used solely by those who have plenty. But Joseph, even with all his effort, a mythologized promise of an effect fruiting from exertion (obviously, for any logical thinker, a fallacy), remained stationed in middle management, at the same position (the Sisyphusian aspects of his toil wearing on him), or the act of the fortunate (observe the lucky synonym) arranging the less prosperous into inadequate classifications, Director of the Continued Production of Isotopic Inhibitors. He could not seem to find his own unique gift (non-returnable, unfortunately) that would elevate him (although not to be equated with any sort of superstitious ascension towards a forth dimensional plain populated with the ass-kissers of a particular cosmological biographer) into a promotion. He knew that this was a problem (and one with no proof of a solution) that all men (very democratic in a Jeffersonian hypocritical fashion) were conceived (or formed as an image, very prejudice, obviously) with the ability (an aboriginal competence nearly never defined properly) to become wealthy (as in checkbook totals) and achieve true (based upon the perception of the observer, who had ruined the whole thing in an anti-Heisenbergian, indeterminable hypothesis) happiness.

The history of which, recounted in the doxography of the great cambists, in the most Baconian of methods, began with the Ecumenism Movement of the late nineteenth century, an industrial revolution created a market driven society and entrepreneurs quickly realized the benefits of collective commerce treaties, or agreeing to no longer compete but to communally swindle consumers who provided their livelihood. Immunex was the pharmaceutical company that manufactured Isodex, clinically called Dioxyribohydrophilocleen, the most revolutionary drug ever produced. Immunex had developed Isodex over eighty years before, and this innovation was credited with ending all human suffering, of a purely medicinal origination (no psychological glycogen or mental floss has yet to be marketed properly). Isodex could defeat cancer, in all its forms. The most dangerous affliction ever known was subdued, no one died of cancer ever again, however this was a conceptual success, especially in Joseph’s case, since he considered calamities very fortunate indications of a mass extinction he had been praying for that would justify the rise and fall of the human empire. Following the development of Isodex, another giant corporation and Immunex’s major competitor, Genetic Enterprises, ANEGLLC, debuted Homodexitrin, a drug cocktail deluded into one double-spiral pill that decimated the virus that caused Autoimmune Deficiency Syndrome. After Genetic Enterprises and Immunex’s technological leaps, other companies followed suit and disease, viruses, and bacteria’s began to be cured in record numbers, “All hail, Delusion! Were it not for thee the world turned topsy-turvy we should see”.

Dr. Ivan Turgenevelopoflough, the eminent biomechanical engineer, isolated the source of the common cold (evidently dictator microbes that breathed foul morning breath and drank snot for its intoxicating effects, which explained the duplicity of their ranks, since alcohol manages to make the desperate appear romantic) and took home the World’s Gratitude Emblem of Honor (which was later revoked by the World Congress when it was discovered that Dr. Turgenevelopoflough was infecting young maids with an ultra-hybrid of the cure which made them crave intercourse with such a fervor that they tore their own clothing off and began humping any protrusion within sight — the smart doctor ensuring he was always present).

At the University of Namibian Neurological Research, in what was then the Southern Equator States of Africa, a team of scientists developed a nervous system nano-protection program that could rebuild damaged cells, which was the first step in pis aller science, a groundbreaking field that should not be confused with the more colloquial piss ant, mistakenly used by the linguistically ignorant as a contemptible moniker for the less fortunate, such as Joseph Moore, even though it actually derives from puissant, meaning “powerful”. However, the nanorobes of UNNR, as “makeshift” solutions to getting worse, were giant leaps in controlling the runaway behavior of involuntary actions within the structure of the common homo superior. The former understanding of the aging process as a degenerative disorder that afflicted a person’s anatomical functions was thus redefined and aging became simply a celebratory rite of social justification, or more aptly put, suddenly the amount of busy bodies and checker players multiplied.

The magnus opus of the entire medical renaissance, as a self-congratulatory journalist from Beirut dubbed it, was without a doubt, the development of Epigastriomite (sold widely as Reclusimite or, more profoundly Belle Amherstide) by Professor Lumbar Benchly. The new wonder tablet cured the greatest enemy of the medicinal community, hypochondria, turning inane neurotics who plagued emergency rooms, doctor’s offices, and hospitals with fictitious ailments, fabricated disorders, and bizarre diseases into well-adjusted citizens who would listen to their doctors, no longer create their own illnesses, accept the diagnosis prescribed to them, and take medication for real sicknesses like Social Dysfunction Disorder (SDD), or Personal Worth Exaggeration Syndrome (PeWES), or Authority Inquiry Condition (AIC).

Within a few years, there were no life threatening concerns in the medical field, all diseases had cures, all viruses had antidotes, all bacteria’s had anti-serums. All children were immunized at the age of two and the great age of sickness became only an interesting footnote in history for scholars to ponder. Humanity had finally reached a great and wondrous pinnacle (should we say plateau our critics would argue with the ardor of pubescent delinquents that we are narrowly escaping a dimensional argument that altogether competes with fashionable reason), a god-like state, a pedestal existence, humanity was the ruler of nature (we use “humanity” in purely Millian sense), the great war between the two forces was over and humanity was the victor. Nature, like any conquered army, agreed to all the provisions of the peace accord, it left humanity alone (note: we are anthropomorphosizing the phenomenon for lucidity, it should be expressed plainly that no representatives from either side ever actually met and discussed this, we are accepting silence as acquiescence).

Thus began the age of correction, i.e. cui bono anum, a rather callous, and gifted, meaning we were suddenly capable of bearing the gift of good fortune, inurbane epoch (confusing as it may be, we are intent on suggesting both meanings). Now that they had defeated the enemy of the outside (epidermically speaking, of course), humanity turned into itself, an extremely invultuationary act if you believe in the self-serving paizogony of the entire race, to cleanse the demons that diseased the physically healthy, always considered a witchcraft sort of symptom of pantophobia brought on by the adumrations of a few seers of the new hell. Psychology and psychiatry, the greatest of humanity’s inventions, were given a new goal, a new purpose. At all costs, there must be harmony. The drug companies were their able assistants, producing brand new mood enhancers, manner purifiers, temperament equalizers, emotion stabilizers, anger managers, and peace inducers.

The field of genetic research was given large sums of funding to pinpoint the psychology of DNA and in a few years, Dr. Johan Wassermanning and his team, managed to figure out what microscopic genomes could be tweaked to bring about mental health. Children were screened while in the womb, their psychological future mapped like the plot of a novel and enhanced to ensure there was no conflicts, no problems, no instabilities. But some, unforeseen difficulties were expected, this was simply realistic and the development of mental assistance drugs became a multi-billion digit industry (rivaling only distraction in sheer revenue). With a little help from a pill, all humanity would be right (since left has been so yellow journalistically associated with communism and insurrection, and popular novels have depicted the dear Ramanov’s final hours so horrisonantly, the actual movement of turning towards the port side of the body was almost banned from usage, had it not been for a quick consubstantial essay by one and only Sigmund Moore, who contruded the entire directional controversy into a case of mass-malnoia). Government mandates (one should not assume outright that these were Metternichian) made it illegal not to have children screened, plotted, diagnosed and finally, cured. All humanity was medicated for its own benefit (a sort of forced Pearsonian system); there was harmony (in both the lypophrenic attitudes of mentality and the cacodaemon of health, as well as freedom to choose ones route on the compass).

Furthermore (we use this as a device, not as linguistic direction), for the sake of the goodwill of all, genetics enabled scientific classification of social taxonomy to be determined without prejudice, and as with all perfect cultural structures, a true pyramid of worth was constructed, with a place for every citizen, and their pets. Dubbed Vision 2020 by some very Hellerian bureaucrats (who did not obviously miss the irony), which reflected the program’s presupposed foresight as well as its deadline, witchcraft in uteri assisted in the continuation of the List, as embryos were genetically maneuvered to seek only those parallel to them on the scale. Thus, a C-list girl would not seek an A-list boy, fixing, as it were, the millennia of heartache that natural selection had tyrannically forced upon humanity, but would be quite content with a very friendly C-lister that would compliment her own capabilities (i.e. the alpha male no longer need bother with beta feelings being plundered, they would not seek him out, rather they would be quite busy chasing a beta male of their very own). This was the most humane, if not most realistic, human sexuality had ever been.

And to further the justice of the system, each and every citizen, regardless of rank, was guaranteed 15 minutes a fame at least once in his or her life, guaranteed. That meant the lowliest D-lister would, at some point, achieve the notoriety and status of an A-list citizen, even for just a brief while, become known, famous, that all-important designation that represents the true commodity of a just society.

The age of correction was a golden era (the association being a purely metaphorical allusion to economic abundance and not, shall we say, any sort of claim to Morian republics), for after the mind and body were clean, so was society (i.e. the collective prejudices of the majority equaling morality [in a rather insipid, yet definitive, Turgotian meaning]). Criminal activity sharply dropped every year, until it did not exist any longer, perhaps the only subjective extinction catalogued in the fossil record from which we garner our so-called truths. The last murder had occurred sixty years before Joseph was born (this being the infamous Claude Bonn Wexler case, in which the accused was prosecuted for drowning his dear wife of eighteen years in a rather circumspect and over-sized bowl of porridge — providing the sweet Fanny Adams term, finally, with an exact definition), the last rape in recorded history was eighteen years, four months, and ten days, before Joseph’s father was conceived (the alleyway in which the young maiden was so violently deflowered is now a museum of abnormal […adviseth a striving toward a straiter resemblance to the Average Man than he hath to himself. Whoso attaineth thereto shall have peace, the prospect of death and the hope of Hell] social behavior that rivals amusement parks in its annual draw). There had not been a robbery or burglary in over a century (meaning, of course, monetary larceny). Even fistfights were only myths, strange competitions read with confusion in storybooks and universally dubbed pugilistic jousts, a hybrid linguistic trick to further widen the actual events under inspection from the language used to describe them. There was no violence in sports, on screen, in music.

As a reflection of the culture, the Arts became great lauds to the wonderful achievements of a civilization that had conquered evil (that subjective moniker given to anything out of place and/or different than the norm). Comedies were the fashionable subjects of all movies, novels, and plays (however, this must be qualified and we hereby assert that for most of these productions, the laughometer never quivered measurably). Love was the primary subject of music and ballads the most popular form (if it can be believed that six men sitting in a conference room are capable of expressing this most mysterious of emotions). All music celebrated the institution of marriage, the sole fountain of contentment between the sexes. All was well.

Illegal drugs, once the scourge of urban centers, slowly disappeared from city streets. Dealers could find no one to buy their products, there was no need to feel different, to escape reality, for reality was now a utopia (induced, of course, from the narrowly different prescriptions doled out by institutionally recognized peddlers who took over street corners not with a violent, criminal coup, but with marketing campaigns and brand management schemes).

Starvation and homelessness also receded into the textiles of existence; new molecular technologies could produce food from atomic building blocks in an instant and possibilities for even the most reclusive person were abundant (we will not say here, due to the requisitions of powerful influences, that the specialized social, Emersonian colonies constructed near babbling brooks and pseudo-farming communities, out of the way, as it were, did not do their part). There was plenty of food for everyone. And, as mental instability was eradicated, so was the isolationism and madness of the bag lady, the hobo, and the bum. There was work for everyone to do, higher education was mandatory for all citizens, and a place in society as a well-adjusted consumer was guaranteed.

The only brief, yet significant, stumble in this riot of true progress was quickly quashed shortly before it arose by linguistic provisions writ into public laws. For juveniles, ever the delinquents of society’s promise, had mistakenly allowed errors in grammatical judgment to become so prevalent, they almost began to eclipse the very language required to do business. At first, it was subtle… a few errant clauses mingling with perfectly expressed complete sentences between teenagers. But then, the immensely popular pop-artist Delay Bovino picked up on the fad and turned it into an outright phenomenon. Before long, youngsters were linguistically so different from their elders, the two subcultures could not converse, so confusing was this new idiom. Experts called it headlinese, after its declarative, unpunctuated, immediate diction, and highly personalized use of contractions and abbreviations. “GF can aid concerns.” “Pep got no future.” “Fat to give up keys.” “Eating changes as Sim seeks ca-ching.” “Biz tempts new face.” “Refs attempt revival of old speak.” And so on… to the point that many of the Headlines, as they were called, could not converse with one another either, and regional dialects compounded the disconnect.

The matter grew worse before it grew better, as the trend evolved into a much worse ritual, that of sloganese, which rose up as a rival to the trendy speech pattern and quickly overcame its foe in prominence. An inquiry was held in the highest offices of the representative body politic to divine some solution, celebrities were brought in, linguists, neologists, language professors, reporters, and ad agency executives. The world pondered the fate of its expression. The entire system was threatened, if people could not communicate, there could be no harmony. Perfection was within reach, yet no one could say so…

“Perfection! Live the Right Way!”

“Right! It’s the Way to Go!”

“It’s Hard to Ignore the Sign!”

“It’s only for health. Perfection!”

“Give your life a lift!”

“Perfection. Harmony for everyone!”

“Regular speech! Good conversations! Good fun! Good people!”

Through a series of public service announcements and a posh advertising campaign that spanned the globe (still holding the record for most costly in history), the dark days of communication were defeated. It was the first time all the governments of the world worked together on one cause, and it caused an unmitigated camaraderie between nations.

What used to be called the United States of America joined government systems with a country called Kanada in a showing of North American unity. In a rare, yet comical episode in history, as the age of correction first began to rear its narcissistic head, with individuals having an understandably difficult time with all the right of the world, the latter was almost invaded by its southern neighbor simply so that the youth of this former geographical entity had something to do for a few years.

It was narrowly avoided when the northern state voted unanimously to surrender before a single shot was fired. Imagine, if you will, the collective groan from the future Alexander the Greats who had dug three thousand miles of trenches and had armed themselves with romantic visions of death at the hands of rugged lumberjacks and sheep herders. However, from this averted conflict, sprang the morological framework for a worldwide movement dubbed ecumenism that originated on the continent of Europe. After a few years, the southern country, Mexica, won acceptance into the Collective Capitalist Union of North America and the first continental power was established. While Europe and America drew together, essentially reversing the forces of nature that had broken them apart in prehistory, the former South American countries, whose names have been lost, formed their own nation. Over a boundary dispute, peaceful in all its pure miscommunication, the Collective Capitalist Union of North America won their case in the World Court of Appeals and took government control of its southern neighbor (for the good of all, thank god). This formed the United Republic of Western Hemisphere Capitalist States (URWHCS). The continents of Africa and Asia were economically forced to form collectives, as well and within a few generations, the Pan-EuroAsiaAfrica Congregation of Unified Republics was formed. The ancient countries of Iceland and Greenland were annexed by the URWHCS when Joseph was a child and then, in a feat not yet equaled, the Robinson E. Grant Transatlantic Suspension Bridge was constructed, joining North America and Europe for the first time since dinosaurs walked the earth. Not to be out-done, the Pan-EuroAsiaAfrica Congregation of Unified Republics bridged the gap between the continents of Asia and Australia. This was quickly followed by the URWHCS’s construction of the Great Aleutian-Siberia Railroad and Public Commuter Network System. Joseph was fortunate enough to be of voting age when the world decided unanimously to form the Patrician Affiliation of National Governments Equal Authority, the first worldwide ruling body in history. For the first time, citizens belonged to states, as well as a greater community, a neighborhood that encompassed the population of the entire planet. This was the end of all wars, of all national disputes, of all economic sanctions, of all differences (however anti-Malthusian, it was seen as a positive accomplishment).

Immigration between states was not only free, but also encouraged. Ethnicities mingled, married, former rival countries became partners, their citizens family members, the distinctions of a regional existence disappeared within a few generations, the notions of better land, strategic positions, and borders became extinct (alas, the second subjective annihilation recorded in the sediment of geological playgrounds). The people of the earth became one population, one group, one nationality (imagine the collective glee that emanated out into the cosmos, it must have been mystifying). Before long, there were no white people, no black people, no yellow people, no brown people, not even any purple people (although it should be noted that although this was deemed to be a popular division of pigment shading in the 20th Century, no actual evidence has ever been found to suggest this was anything more than the galimatias of popular fancy), no striking differences between Mongols and Europeans, between Asians and Americans, between Indians and Africans, between Arabs and Aboriginals, all were of the same complexion, the same height, the same skin color, the same eye diameter, the same hair consistency and texture. The world was of one race.

The ever persistency of science and technology also claimed the life of religion. When Joseph was a child there was only the World Church of Remembrance, but by the time he entered his secondary education, there was but a small clergy and a dying congregation. Once he was married (by a COO of the Peace) religion was an antiquated word used to describe a person’s lack of logical thinking, a derogatory remark used to badger a person into realizing they were mistaken in their reasoning (or that they were behaving in a very Lyotardian manner). Religion, which had seen a diminishing following for thousands of years, ended on October 12th with the death of the last Supreme Chancellor of Faith and Hope, Putin Zingxang in what was then, Delhi, Asian Unified States of Democracy and Decency.

All the achievements (arguably the death of enterprise and the birth of antipathy) of humanity were focused on the divine principle of harmony (Lucretian in all of its peaceful precepts), and they had done the best an infallible race could hope for in reaching their goal. With no disease, no hunger, no differences to fight over, no racism, no war, no terrorism, no problems, the world was at peace, content, a provider that was flourishing in response to good works of its protectors.

Joseph was one of them, a citizen of the world who daily ensured its continued happiness. He was a member of organizations, he was a worker with an impeccable record, he was a consumer who almost always met his purchasing goals, he voted in every election (as was the requirement, unless one wanted to pay a nominal fee), he paid his taxes, he married and gave happiness to another person, he procreated and had only two children, ensuring the continuance of his ideals without over-taxing the world community, he mowed his lawn, he invited neighbors over for barbeques, he gave his children a hefty allowance and did all he could to see that they used it for only frivolous items, he accumulated products, he was brand loyal, he took his medication every day, without fail, he went to the dentist four times a year, he visited his doctor for a mental and physical evaluation every two months, he bought life insurance for himself, his wife, his children, he bought fire insurance, car insurance, dismemberment insurance, accidental insurance, flood insurance, even though there was no river within two hundred meters of his home, earthquake insurance, even though the occurrence of such a phenomena had been quelled by the ingenuity of terraconsistency engineers, medication insurance, baby stroller insurance, tire insurance, neotenical disease insurance, jeofail insurance, desipient insurance, methane gas insurance, carbon monoxide insurance, head injury insurance, benign tumor insurance, currency insurance, property insurance, accidental death insurance, time insurance, and spousal abuse insurance. Joseph went as far as was expected of him in college, being characterized (in an especially Theophrastusian manner) as a C-lister, and then moved aside so that others could achieve their goals.

Joseph did not really want to die (anymore than a fairytale wishes to be taken seriously). He was on the bridge because he’d stopped sleeping all night, even with the assistance of his relaxation medication, because he could not control a comatose impression of imperfection, because he felt more left than right, because he had done all that was required of him, because all that was promised to him (in axiopistic splendor) to make him content was a debt he had never been paid.

Joseph was there, that night, to fulfill the purpose of the bridge, to take the final step. He listened for a while to the darkness, to the frogs that sang on lily pads, to the insects that rubbed their legs together to entice a mate, to the rushing nothingness of the distant machines of civilization. He placed his hand on the rail, its icy metallic coldness against the palm of his hand, he was shivering. Then, he lifted himself over the handrail, carefully placed his feet down on the small rim of the bridge and turned to face the void of space. He clung to the steal shafts, allowing his body to feel the presence of gravity, he leaned his chest and shoulders out into the emptiness, he let go of one hand, his heels still firmly on the bridge. Joseph looked out into the darkness, to where the forest met the sky, to the distant, hovering skyscrapers of the city, to the stars sending light from millions of years ago. He wondered how many other people were looking up at the same sky, how many other people saw the stars he was looking at, what were they doing? Was there anyone else out there, on another bridge, with a piece of cutlery against their wrist, on the top of one of the buildings, their toes angled out into space? Would anyone miss him? Would his absence affect anyone? What would they say the next day at work? Would anyone there stop working for more than a second? Would some unknown woman, he was not aware of, weep over the news of Joseph’s death? What would his superiors tell his co-workers? What would the newspapers say, would people know it was suicide? Did people know what that meant? Joseph could not remember the last time he’d heard of a suicide, of someone taking his or her own life. Was that because it never happened? Or, was it simply unreported? Would his wife cry? Would she cry over his death or over some other, uncertain, confused thing? Would she cry because his loss destroyed her or because she had read about the reaction in books? Had she ever wept?

* * *

In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni

It is written over the dooryard, where the lilacs last bloomed, Böhme. I am here to read the bodies. E quant’uom più va su, e men fa male. A sea-span and a folded butler, a moaning gondolier, a brooding corpse sometimes passes by. The throaty voice lifting into the oriental sapphire walls, undiscouraged by the dying Magpies, plunging into the river. The dogs are barking for the poet, a lantern of the diaphragm. A dragon’s femur in two ravished hands dips into the artery, brown from dried voyages back and forth across. He sings endlessly, but not a word to his passenger. His five fingers, mangled and dirty, are the five keys to the gate. He is cloaked in sewn raven carcasses, a monster bird’s beak his hood. The gondolier poled; the boat glided onward; yet ever further the land did stay.

Joseph stared into the ink, the consubtranstantiation of paradise, Wycliffe’s Book of St. John in rocky crags, bloody Chapman’s Homeric odes littering the river, the oscillating guide of feathers and bone. He had died. The dogs were getting closer, in a triad of howls. His eyes weren’t closed; he was not sheltered in a dream. The bodies rose from the sea tied to dead trees with foreign tongues, bawling, pleading, lamenting, praying. Joseph was listening to their bones crackle like seashells. He was asking certain questions to the tenor, who minded only his staff and his endless song. They were swinging their hips towards him, trying to pass navelchords like a sailor’s line to shore. Within their missing eyes were the snorted words of abhorrence for their own kind, a wisdom for only northern gods, the broken chains of the chaos wolf. They were Heloise’s postmen, the Burgundians’ bon-fire of divinity, Salome’s main course, Diolectian’s lizard wrestler, the baggage handlers of anthropomorphosized regrets, sacrifices and felonies. Joseph tried to catch their umbilical safety lines, like twisted sausage grafted to bellies, but he could not keep hold of them. They slipped through his hands like slimy fetuses dropping to the floor in an abortion clinic. Oily appendages from creation, linked to their mothers like leech bites, they dangled from their abdomens like long, flaccid penises. Joseph tried to hold onto them, he tried to catch them, especially the tortured woman with breasts bleeding from nipple spouts, especially her belly phallus, he wanted to touch her Heva penis, feel its texture. She swung it out for him and he felt it whip against his cheek, a snail trail of mucus remaining. But he missed it. The long, stringy sheath of flesh glanced off his forearm and dipped into the sea. She howled, her bowels dripping her children’s body parts. This was Alvin’s birthday. Feast Day of an unmartyred saint, the cannon of a rejected host, the sacrifice accepted because He was an agrarian god. Mother’s position was like a pigeon colliding against a window.

The gondola’s blade slices them in half so that Joseph and the tenor can pass. The dogs are not warning the atheists. They are getting closer, or Joseph is getting closer. Perhaps they have not moved, perhaps the chains are holding them still. The canoe stops on the bony shore and the guide gestures in no small way for him to follow. Joseph rises, wrestles a little with the drunken boat, and listens as his feet shred the flesh of corpses, split bones in two, rip hair from untransmigrated skulls. He can smell the dog’s breath on his neck; feel their rabies teeth against his arm, their wet noses on the small of his back.

ELYSIUM CONVALESCENT CENTER

FOR THE PRE-TESTAMENT

No, not that door. Aquinas’ reasoning incarnate. The tour guide motions for him, his middle finger already in the keyhole. Joseph looks back, licking his salty lips, recognizing an autobiography of faces on the pillars, strapped to overthrown giants. He clings to the feather of a ghostless raven and follows. The house is filled with colorless nightgowns, dancing in a great ballroom with friar bone fixtures. Their heads are crowned with obelisks and goat horns; they speak with their gums, two faced like iconoclastic rogues, angel-headed in the aboriginal dawn.

“Did you feel it?”

“Feel what?” he replied in necromimesis.

“When you hit the water?”

“No. Did you?” he asked.

“Oh! Fuck… yes,” she responded Avalokiteśvaraly, staring blankly at her toes.

“Did you want to die?”

“I didn’t wanna fuckin’ live,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I didn’t wanna be fuckin’ dead, but I didn’t wanna fuckin’ live, anymore.”

“I didn’t think about it, whether or not I wanted to die. I just knew that I should jump off the bridge,” he said, moving forward.

“Did you do enough, enough to fuckin’ die?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna start blabbering like a bitch?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna regret it?”

“No.”

“What the fuck did you want to do, before you died?”

“I wanted to see the world, I wanted to drink wine on the Seine, I wanted to stare into the Yellow River and get drunk in the Bavarian Alps. I wanted to climb the pyramids of Giza, catch a tiger in Uttar Pradesh, I wanted to make love, I wanted to feel the breeze of the ocean as I crossed it, I wanted to taste the snow of the mountains. I wanted to dogsled in the Yukon, I wanted to ferry across the Grand Canal in Venice, I wanted to see a shark kill, I wanted to see the lions of the Serengeti, I wanted to see a panda chewing on those plants, I wanted to meet a person who I could not imagine ever not knowing, I wanted to love someone, I wanted to meet someone and love them for an hour and never see them again. I wanted to hear the music of the earth and know that I’d heard it. I wanted to face death and live to fear him even more. I wanted to read books, see movies, share my thoughts with someone who’d listen, I wanted to stay up all night and watch the sunrise and not feel tired. I wanted to try to find an experience that would complete me.”

“Well, what the fuck have you been doin’? Did you do any of those goddamn things?”

“Not one.”

“How the fuck old were you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“What the fuck were you doin’ for so fuckin’ long?”

“Living.”

“You did none of those fuckin’ things.”

“Existing, I should say.”

“Oh! You’re a fuckin’ tragedy?”

“No, spoiled.”

“Others will think you were a fuckin’ tragedy?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Ah… um… well…”

“Seriously, it’s not a fuckin’ hard question. Do you want me to fuck you like a prison guard?”

“A what? Can you? I mean… are we supposed to?”

“No one fuckin’ cares… just say I’m supposed to…”

“Why?”

“Why the hell do you think I’m fuckin’ standing in front of you?” she said Nostradamusly, turning her head slightly so that he could see her face. “You should fuckin’ take me now.”

“Why?”

“Just fuckin’ grab me and rip my panties off and treat my cunt like your own private asshole.”

“Why?”

“Right now! This is the place for it.”

“But why would I do that, why would you want me to?”

“Come on… you’ve never fuckin’ fucked anyone?”

“But I don’t want to, I’ve never considered it before.”

“Bull fuckin’ testicles… Yes you have.”

“No.”

“Yes, you have, you’ve fuckin’ fantasized about it. You’ve dreamed about it, you’ve never admitted it, but you’ve thought about it. You were in a department store with your wife and a shop girl, probably about twenty, bent over to pick up a box for another customer and you saw her panties. You watched her go into the back room and you wanted to follow her in there and fuck her raw against the boxes back there.”

“That’s not true.”

“You were driving your son to a friend’s house and you ran into a neighbor you’ve always thought was fuckin’ hot, and she leaned over to chat with you, and you could see down her blouse, and you fuckin’ desperately wanted to just grab her and pull her towards you and kiss her and get your mouth on those fuckin’ tits and plunge her like a stinky toilet. Remember?”

“None of this ever happened.”

“No, it never fuckin’ happened, you just fuckin’ thought about it.”

“I don’t remember ever thinking any of it.”

“Grab me… all you have to do is fuckin’ grab me, Joseph. I won’t fight you and you can have me. All you have to do is grab me and fuckin’ take me… whatever you want… make me feel ravishing and you can’t help yourself… just kiss me like you want to fuckin’ eat my lips, tear my clothes off, don’t let me go and ram your fuckin’ hard cock into my hot pussy… Now!”

“But I’d never do that to you.”

“No… well I’m not going to fuckin’ kiss you and take you off to fuckin’ bed. I’m not going to slowly remove my fuckin’ frock and touch you tenderly. Do you hear the winged chariot, it’s in quite a rush?”

“You asked if I wanted you to fuck me.”

“Yes.”

“Not take you.”

“What’s the fucking difference? That would be impossible.”

“Couldn’t we just have a good time, couldn’t we just wander off and see what happens?” Joseph asked rather Hookly.

“Fuck… you’ve lost the surprise, you’ll never get me to turn my back on you again. We could wander off, but as soon as you laid a finger on me, I’d kick you in the balls so many times you’d have a cunt.”

“What if I didn’t let you?”

“If you were going to fuckin’ do anything, you would have done it by now.”

“Is that it?”

“Another moment got by us.”

“It’s not fair, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to just grab you and do it right here?”

“It’s not up to me, Joseph.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“I fuckin’ know.”

* * *

“The rabbits lived in holes beneath the ground. They lived in there because of the foxes. The foxes wanted to eat the rabbits. The rabbits only wanted to eat carrots and enjoy their lives. But the foxes wouldn’t let them.

“The rabbits were sad much of the time, many of them were eaten by foxes and they did not like living in the ground. The oldest rabbit, Edgar, did not know what to do but all the other rabbits looked to him. He went to see the wise old owl to ask what they should do about the foxes.

“The owl received Edgar — do you see the owl greeting the rabbit? Good. The owl received Edgar and told him that the rabbits had to wait until one day a black rabbit was born. This rabbit would know what to do about the foxes.

“Edgar went home and waited. That spring, a tiny baby rabbit was born with black fur. Do you remember what that means? Good. The tiny baby rabbit with the black fur was named Sable. Sable grew up amongst the rabbits, playing in the tunnels, eating carrots and avoiding the foxes.

“One day, the old rabbit Edgar went to see the young, black rabbit Sable. He said: ‘Sable, do you know what we should do about the foxes? They’re not good, they want to eat us.’ Sable, who had never spoken to Edgar, thought for a few moments and said: ‘Someone has to chase them away.’ Edgar left Sable in the tunnel and went away.

“A few days later, Edgar came to see Sable again. This time he asked: ‘Do you know how to chase away the foxes?’ Sable smiled, he was very happy. ‘Yes, I know how to chase away the foxes,’ he replied. ‘Will you tell me?’ Edgar asked. ‘I can’t tell you.’ With this, Edgar left.

“When summer was over, Edgar called Sable to his tunnel. Sable arrived and ate carrots with Edgar. ‘Sable, can you tell me how to chase away the foxes?’ Edgar asked. ‘I cannot tell you, but I can show you,’ Sable replied. After one last carrot, Sable stood up and walked out of the tunnel. Edgar followed him. Do you understand what they’re doing? Good.

“Sable walked through the grass, outside of the tunnels, while Edgar hid in a hole. Edgar watched Sable and grew scared. ‘Sable,’ he called. ‘Sable, be careful. When the foxes see you they will eat you.’ But Sable did not stop; he kept walking in the grass. He came across the foxes waiting by a rabbit hole. They were hoping one would pop up and they could eat it. Sable got behind a bush and began to growl. Sable growled with such force, Raaarrrahhhh, that the foxes became scared. They thought a bear was nearby. Sable continued to growl, Raarrraahhh, until the foxes ran away. After that, the rabbit’s did not have to worry about the foxes. The foxes went away.”

* * *

Wet. Cold. Buried. Sediment. You are awake in death.

She was so casual, I can smell her still beside me. A flower’s fragrance, organic.

A marching band, a drummer beating the clouds. The conductor and the third lady from the left, they are screaming. No. He is not screaming, he is afraid of it. The clouds are collapsing under his drums. Stop the drummer! They are rushing him, his symbols are golden eagles. They’re interrogating him; they’ve removed the drum from his chest. He’s bleeding; his ribcage has been torn open. This is a true musician.

The eagles are escaping; they are falling through the clouds. No. They are being pulled from below by the blue arms of the dead. She has been penetrated by a diseased arm, he is impaled on the horns of a goat’s head. The devils have invaded. They are attacking our marching band, the dancers are scattering. They’re screaming, the women are screaming, the men are guiding them, holding their hands as they run. But the devils have surrounded the dance floor. They are armed with their own dismembered limbs, the heads of comrades, the legs of fallen friends. The devils rush the crowd, the marching band defends itself with tubas, saxophones, flutes, clarinets, the cries of the instruments hurtling outward from the melee. It sounds like a chaotic overture, Symphony No. 666, by Johan Wagner Beelzebub.

There are faces weeping. They are circling me, their faces dripping with their anger, their fear, their demands for life. Skin’s falling down off of meaty skulls, jaws that opened to scream have fallen from heads, they’re littering the bony ground. They are standing on the graves of the marching band. They are standing on their own dismembered bodies.

Wet. A coldness collecting in my chest. My feet are cold, each toe squeezed by the teeth of an animal. I am being fed upon. They’ve found my body and scavenged my heart.

There is hair on my forehead. I heard the animals breathing, coming closer. Wolves, badgers, rats, all sitting at the banquet table with napkins tucked below their chins and utensils in ready position, to be served. I’m under the tablecloth. The buzzards swoop in, take each corner in their beaks and upset the table. Candles, plates, cups, flowers, it all spills over. I am revealed to them. Say grace, wolverine and let the feast begin.

My fingers are hidden below my cheek. They’ll remain to identify me. No animal can eat a man’s identity. I have a wallet, I can feel it lying against my pants. It’s disposable, why will none of you take a bite? They’ll have dancers for entertainment. Once they’re finished with me, there will be entertainment and coffee. The forest will come alive in merriment, all in my honor.

I am still in the river. The current pushes at my legs. My chest is against a rock. My arm is under my head. The growls are the river combating the gorge.

It is morning. I can move my arm, it is 5:23, my watch still works. Just an hour and a half before I need to leave for work. My eyes are open, there is a sky heavy with rain clouds, pressing down on the land, a new weight that compresses the day. The sun is just peeking its pearly head over the horizon. There are lights in the buildings.

Good morning, my gorge, my ill-fated, docile gorge. You could not kill me, I am Fate’s jester.

There is nothing but the wild of the bottom of the gorge. Only battered logs, pebbles, boulder shards, contemptible shrubs and acrobatic trees. There is no one else.

Has she gone further down river? Has her jump been successful? Shall I find her body, chase away the diner guests, and feel her neck? She has candle skin. She has the moon’s face. She is the moonlight remaining, she is the trespasser of the day. She is a corpse with bloody veins and animated eyes. She has been carved from a moon rock and had a candle placed inside her chest. Flower, spreading open her pedals, stretching her stamen, awaiting pollination from the discriminating satellite. Flower. Is your death an arrangement with fate? Are you my battering chip? I am released, then. There is refuge in this, I am no longer a mercenary…

* * *

WHAT THE THUNDER WOULD NOT SAY

That it had to follow a drowning.

That a hermit was hiding on the shore of the storm.

That it could never show its face at the theatre again.

That the mountain has no fear (save that of the stonecutter)

That he could only resign.

QUIS EST HOMO?

A God without faithful

An animal without instincts

An artist who does not understand his craft

A slave with an absentee master

THE LESTRYGONIANS’ TOILET PAPER SCRIPTURE

Music is the sedative of the people.

The hungry fish for more than food.

The traveler is the world’s poet.

THE FIRST THING TRANSLATED BY THE ROSSETTA STONE

Two pounds of fish, some fig leaves, a bottle of booza, four pounds of maize

None of it was checked off.

* * *

THE CASE AGAINST WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

1. He could not sign his own name

2. He had no higher education

3. He knew no other languages

4. He had never traveled

5. His family were considered dumb and his family name vulgar

6. “Venus & Adonis” includes no patois

7. He bought his family seal as a usurer, not a playwright

8. His life is a mystery while all other writers, before and after, are easily recorded

9. He died in 1616

10. All originals have been destroyed

11. He never copyrighted any of his works

12. The first folio did not have all his writings, it was published after his death

13. The Quarto of 1608 is different than the Folio of 1623

14. He was not a lawyer

THE LAST WORDS OF MR. JOSEPH MOORE

I must confess that there are no things in this Republic that I wish or expect to see come to any good.

THE MIRAGE

A play is a lie. The actors are liars. The stage is a charade. The costumes are simple pretense. The acts are fictions. The emotions expressed are invented. She does not love him, she is married to a man in the audience.

Hamlet is an extension of the great lie of the theatre. The play is a lie. Hamlet lies to the other characters, who are lying to the audience. He pretends madness. He pretends friendship. He pretends love. He lies to Ophelia.

Hamlet orchestrates a play to reveal his knowledge of the truth, but this truth is confined to the stage. The audience believes the truth, the actors on the stage watch a play. They react to the play; it is filtered to the audience. The lie is lied to.

* * *

There are some truths to this world, although not many. For one, his name is Graham Greene, that is indisputable (in all of its Kristeraian glory). No one can change that, save himself. But he would never do that, not in a million millennia. For being who he is, the truth be told, is his sole asset.

Graham Greene was finishing his shave. That is a fact, no one would ever disagree with it, although it would be true to say he was doing other things as well. He was humming a 20th century pop-song that was recently re-recorded by a currently fashionable female dance group. They did not play instruments, they had never written a word of the lyrics they sang, they were young, could follow the choreographed maneuvers with the agility of a child’s toy and were willing to don whatever atrocious, caparison costumes they were asked to wear. They were the most popular music group in the nation. They would win all the awards at that year’s ceremonies. Graham loved them, he simply adored their sound, he enjoyed with an endless fascination watching them move on stage, the glimpses of their heaving chests, the line that was always visible of a long slender thigh, their perfect, surgical faces, their mouths that formed the words, their faces that seemed so passionate about another person’s words.

Beside the tune he absently mimicked and the fleeting images of the young women, Graham was considering other things. Very important things, things that he would forget within the week but that were, for now, his entire existence. In Graham, it must be said, was an almost mithridatized and bovaristic psychology, he was incredibly adept at the object of his focus, but a miserable failure at balancing anything else. He was not complex, to explain it curtly, in a clinic sense. But he was uncannily talented in the one subject he was currently interested in; he was the best at the one thing he was doing at a given moment. Should you watch him playing a game, he would appear to be a master. Should you catch him in negotiations with a potential client, you would believe him to be an expert. Graham Greene was the perfect control element in any experiment; he was like a fixture of a landscape that gave the area its character, a feature that would never, ever change. He was the perfect product of his environment, a Protagorasian archetype as yet unidentified by the golden bough of society’s ever-reaching family tree.

Graham Greene was an A-lister, he was thirty-eight and Senior Vice President of the sixth largest advertising agency in the world, Hidiger, Popov, & Schlesinger. He was tall, muscular, handsome, and confident. Graham was just the right man, he was six-foot-six, one hundred and eighty pounds, with a thirty-four inch waist and size ten shoes. His hair was dark brown, his complexion was olive, without being oily, his eyes were brown, his teeth were white, his nose was the perfect complement to his stern profile, he had a strong jaw, a rigid, but pleasant mouth, thin, pink lips, and well-groomed eyebrows. He was not too tall, but maintained a commanding presence; he was not too good looking, but attractive enough for people to turn to look at him. He always scored above average on every test he ever took, from his bi-monthly mental health exams, to his intelligence tests. His physical examinations were always perfect, he’d never been sick, he’d never injured any part of his body, he’d never grown tired, sad, or angry. Graham was an A-lister man if ever there was one.

He owned four houses on three continents, an armada of sports cars, a helicopter, a private jet, one championship style sailing vessel, a speedboat, a houseboat, a fishing trawler, and two yachts. He had fashionable apartments in Paris, New York, Beijing, Johannesburg, Sydney, and Rio. He skied in the winter, sailed in the summer, hunted in the fall, and vacationed in the spring. He was always well over his purchasing goals, had a line of credit that extended into the millions, never went in debt too far, and kept his own personal accountant, lawyer, doctor, and pharmacist. Graham was always invited to the right parties, always present at major events, knew the most important people, lunched with senators, royalty, and barons of industry.

He came from a long line of great men. Graham’s great-grandfather had invented the interpolar breeding apparatus and had single-handedly saved the whales from extinction. His grandfather had curtailed the family fortune made from the interpolar breeding apparatus and began a not-so-for-profit world wildlife heritage organization that had ensured the continued existence of terrestrial animals from the lion to the dung beetle. The Greene name was known, well known. Graham’s father had taken over for his father when the elder Greene was in his sixties and increased the protection of GreeneNet, as the organization was called, to include amphibians, reptiles and crustacean. Before Graham was a teenager, the word extinction had disappeared from dictionaries and encyclopedias. The world was populated with every kind of animal that naturally occurred in its environment.

The Greene’s were elected to public office, put in charge of large operations, offered posts in government departments and given first class citizenship. They were known for their consumerism, their piety, and their unending drive for success. Only the Greene’s could save the North American Rock Turtle and they had. Only the Greene’s could save the South African Jackass Penguin and they had. Only the Greene’s could develop over-breeding policies that were humane, as well as comprehensive. Greene’s ran all the major parks in all the world’s regions. Graham’s uncle ran Etosha, Kruger, Chobe, and Lesotho. Graham’s cousin ran Corbett, Sawai Modhpur, and Kindhar. His brother-in-law ran Everglade, Olympia, Appalachia, and Colorado. Another one of his cousins ran Nullarbor, Tanami, Barrier Reef, and MacDonnell. Graham, himself, had interned at his great-uncle, Tobias’ Maud Land Reserve for two summers, overseeing the migration of the Antarctic Spiked Dolphin.

Graham had come into this world destined for leadership, destined to be important. He had scored first in all his courses throughout first and secondary school and was elected to the Nantucket School for Gifted Youngsters four years before normal acceptance. He was twelve when he won his first Yager Award, thirteen when he was first recognized by the government for his consumer protocol influence achievements in his community, and seventeen when he left home to begin college in Baghdad. Graham impressed everyone he met (in an almost bodhisattvian manner), he could recite Shakespeare from memory, he could define the half-life of any element on the periodic table, he could explain to a two-year-old why the sun did not stop burning. When he was twenty-one, his first novel, The Superb and Laughing Adventures of Baron van Klepto, received the Indigo World First Book Award from the Foundation for Cultural Unification and sold over twenty-million copies within the first year of its publication. Graham was also an expert athlete, holding world records in the fifty-meter dash, the aquatic marathon, and distance jumping, two of which still stand today. He played for the Brasilia Wild Cats Professional Netball team for eight seasons and saw them to three world championships. This followed with his starring roles in over twelve major motion pictures, most notably and the one he won the Tommy for, Fatso Got a Melon, grossed over six hundred million numbers. With just the right timing, Graham’s first album coincided with his last picture, Darwin’s Sense of Humor, a not publicly well-received movie, but critically the most important of his career, and he gracefully transitioned from actor to musician, producing four top-10 albums in just two years.

But, nothing could prepare Graham or his family, for the shocking success of his appearance on the Virtuascape game show, Rob Them Blind, in which Graham sat on as the champion for over seven seasons, until the producers graciously asked him to step down. While he was champion (continuing his extremely Randian progress), Graham finished his educational prerequisites and immediately accepted a position with a major automobile manufacturer, as both their spokesperson for three years and their District Manager of Safety and Comfortable Upholstery. Even after his screen fame waned, Graham managed to appear in magazines, newspapers and journals for climbing all seven of the world’s highest peaks in one year, canoeing across the Atlantic Ocean in just under forty-three days, and for saving a child who was choking on a piece of tenderloin in a fashionable restaurant. Graham was, by all accounts, the perfect, A-lister. He was the Gentlemen’s Club’s man of the year four times in ten years, he was Personality Magazine’s most eligible bachelor twice and number five, eleven, and twenty-six of their 100 Most Successful Men special double issue.

Graham had dated some of the most famous women in the world, actresses, princesses, the daughter’s of chancellors, senators, and lords, singers, magicians, and politicians. His face was seen almost weekly in Look Magazine, What’s Up, Mood, Urban Living, and Space. He penned a monthly column for the Whitaker Daily Telegram that was carried by over six hundred newspapers and one hundred and fifty periodicals. He regularly had essays and articles published in the Scientific Centurion, Odyssey, and World Culture. He made guest appearances on talk shows, was considered an expert on the public’s tastes, an authority on cultural shift, and taught a course at a nearby university on Love and the Media, an elective that focused on the correlation of consumerism and healthy relationships.

This fortune was true of all of Graham’s family (in the most Bernoullian of senses); his brothers and sisters were just the same as him, perfect. Barry, the youngest, had just graduated from Tokyo General School of Medicine and had received a post at Mount Sinai as the Director of Cardiac Mechanics. Barry had taken over for Graham after only one season of Greene absence as the reigning champion of Rob Them Blind and held the crown for three years. Barry was on all the same lists as Graham, and his face often appeared on the cover of teen magazines with flirtatious headlines: “Youngest Greene Is A Dashing Prince Looking for A Princess”, “Barry Greene Speaks Out on Love, Relationships, and The Perfect Date”, “Who Will Barry Greene Marry? It Could Be You — Page 68 for Details!” Barry was taller and skinnier than his brother, he did not have as much of an athletic physique, but still, he made a name for himself as a professional skeet ball player and a striker on the city’s most famous team. He did not write novels or travel memoirs like Graham, but he had penned an immensely popular home health-care guide called Mommy, my Spleen Hurts: How to Cure Internal Afflictions with Household Items and followed it up with a weekly health column in the magazine POP! that received more letters than any other feature. Barry followed in Graham’s footsteps like a man traversing a minefield. He was yet another perfect man raised from the Greene stock.

Following Barry were one and a half sisters, Margaret and Elisa. They were inspiration for artists. They had a classical, almost Roman appearance. They looked always as though they’d walked out of a Renaissance painting, in their manner, appearance, and dress. Margaret was the oldest, born only a year after Graham and was the only challenge he had throughout school. The first year Graham was old enough to join the trivia team he had won the world championships in Geneva. The following year, when it was held in Juarez, after eight days of matches, only two children were left, Graham and Margaret. The length of the game, of which Graham finally won when Margaret confused Zeno of Ithaca with Zeno of Sparta, caused the international association that sponsored the contest to break it into girl and boy competitions. Graham was the boy champion until he left for secondary school. Margaret was the girl champion for three more years, before her sister, Elisa defeated her in a match that rivaled the earlier Greene match-up and caused further changes in the competition’s rules.

Margaret not only matched wits with Graham, but was also the first woman to be actively recruited for male sports teams. She was six foot two, she had a muscular, swimmer’s build and could out-play many of the best boys at school. But, Margaret was no tomboy; she showed great promise as a homemaker, was president of Women’s Domestic Club and spoke at school assemblies about chastity, marriage, and the home. She was class president in secondary school, dated one boy for the entire six years, never did more than kiss his cheek, mentored twelve younger girls, formed music appreciation clubs, and ran the school’s newspaper almost single-handedly.

Margaret did all the right things. She went to college at a prestigious girl’s university close to her home so she could continue to help her mother with her domestic chores and left without a degree when she’d met the man of her dreams, Auto van Integra, a prince from the Carpathian Mountain region who attended a college nearby. Within a year of the marriage, Margaret provided her mother and father with their first grandchild. He was followed by two more, each spaced perfectly one year apart.

The last Greene was not Graham’s sister, but an altruistic endeavor that had become an integrated sibling due to the will of the patriarch of the family, who had unknowingly impregnated a graduate student on his zoological review team while he was apart from his dear wife. The young woman, who seemed to be one of the only iconoclasts of Greene legend, was a busy assistant who made herself useful to her mentor by pointing out whenever possible that she had an invitation for him whenever he chose to accept. When Graham’s father completed his expedition, after four years of disappearing for months at a time, he carried a two year-old child in tow and much to his wife’s dismay, informed the family that the dear little girl who cooed quietly in a rugged bassinette was there to stay, since the mother had chosen to remain at the expedition site and continue their work.

At first, of course, the father tried to lessen his relationship to the child, saying initially that he’d taken a liking to the little sprite as he worked side-by-side with the mother, but over time, and with more than a nominal understanding of the loins of her husband, it became apparent that the elder Greene had made a deposit in the womb of this woman (Zeusian in all of its clandestine aura) and could not refuse the withdrawal that had naturally followed. To her credit, Graham’s mother did not evil step-mother the new, bastard child of her husband’s infidelity, but treated the little girl like she was a welcome guest, although one would be reaching exceedingly far to say that she treated the youngster like one of her own. Still, Graham’s father made no mention of the cot squeaking nights that had produced the child and although it was well known amongst family members that he had bred outside his class, no one dared to mention it. Elisa, as Graham’s father named her, slowly became a staple of the household, an otherworldly possession given unto the children by the wilds of the African continent. However, it did take some time before they began to consider her their sister, and even after they were taken to introducing her as such, there were always reminders that she truly wasn’t.

Elisa, if it could be possible, was slightly more attractive than her older sister, although you had to be an experienced appraiser to tell. It wasn’t so much the aesthetic qualities of their features in comparison that made Elisa more captivating, it was the way she utilized these features in everyday life. She had a way of looking at people, no matter who they were, that made them honest. It wasn’t fear; it was as though they wanted approval. Elisa moved and when she came to a stop, no matter what she was doing, she looked like a portrait in oils beautifully depicted by a master. She could bend over to pick up a pen that had fallen to the floor and for an instant, she was the Virgin Mary receiving the annunciation. She could reach for a book on a high shelf and she was Persephone reaching up to pluck a terrestrial flower. Margaret was a gem, Elisa was a jewel placed in the perfect setting.

This comparison of the two sisters truly reached fruition when the two began an apparent estrus period, most evident in the younger of the two, who from that day forth stimulated males inadvertently, through a particularly strong tumescent manner. It began when she reached the developmental stage of menarche (but would cause general dismay, an almost feverish mania amongst puberty seeking males when she achieved nubility at fifteen years of age, the most observed case was that of little Johnny Ficklestein who became so obsessed with the young Greene girl’s body, that he helplessly fell from a nearby tree while spying on her as she slept).

No one observed it more than a pubescent Graham Greene. Elisa was taken to continuing her little girl ways even as she began to show signs of womanhood. This mixture of adolescence and anatomical adjustment became evident for Graham as he first began his secondary education. It can be said that of anyone in the household, Graham was the most affected by his father’s present. He remembered, whilst the rest of the family allowed themselves to forget, that the young girl occupying two rooms down the hall was not his sister, but an unexplained charity case forced upon them by an unapologetic father who dotted over the youngster and demanded complete acceptance. Graham did not express this continued knowledge in words, but more aptly in his manner and thoughts (i.e. in a extreme Anokhinian way).

It was a particular Sunday morning and Graham was patrolling the house looking for something to do with himself when he heard Elisa humming from behind a half-closed bathroom door. At which point, Graham passed by and caught, framed in the mirror and absorbed in her own thoughts, a nude Elisa, who was cutting her own hair, of which, in her seemingly odd fashion for unique decisions, she was want to do (she also preferred not to wear the clothing her adopted mother purchased for her at department stores, but cut the fabric to specified proportions and fashioned her own attire). Graham, who inadvertently observed Elisa’s changes when she wore a child’s skirt four sizes too small a few months before and wandered the household with her underwear visible, watched his younger sibling perform the entire ritual of clipping her shoulder length hair from the safety of the shadowy hallway. Unbeknownst to the warbling young maid, who had always preferred drip drying and never considered the affect her puckering chest might have, she was performing a very special show for an audience who was becoming awakened to her body’s possibilities, for Graham, in all of his crafty wisdom, had positioned himself so that Elisa remained in full view for the entire operation. Once she was finished and having moved onto clipping toenails, Graham was able to witness much more of her and would have continued his enjoyment had it not been for the arrival of a particularly busy domestic assistant who had been placed in charge of managing the ever growing needs of the eccentric young girl. Graham was able to escape into an adjoining bedroom before he was caught salivating over his sibling’s naked mirror image.

However, from that day forth, Graham was aware of his half-sister, and took great care to witness more scenes. Elisa, remaining fixated upon the same subjects she had been for many years, volunteered opportunities by innocently continuing to behave like a child. When Graham walked in on her as she bathed, she did nothing to cover herself. When Graham asked to see a particularly large bruise she had acquired on her upper thigh, she readily lifted up her dress for him to inspect it. Elisa, even as she began to fill out her clothing, did not bother with bras, underpants, sizes, or styles, so she was often falling out of her dresses, exposing juvenile breasts as she hung upside down from trees, or revealing a pubertal snatch during gymnastics that Graham seemed to never grow tired of watching.

It also increased Graham’s popularity ten-fold, after Bucky Cunningham, Graham’s sometimes best friend, stayed the night and related to other young, sexually starving, yet evolving boys how Elisa had shown up for dinner in a transparent blouse (which must have been her mothers, since it was far too large for her) and nothing else: no panties, no training bra, no pants or shorts, just a draping, see-through, shirt. Bucky wet their lips further by explaining how she’d remained in the blouse for the entire evening, ate her dinner, scampered off, sat and watched the screen with them, and finally, kissed Graham good night, without ever bothering to put anything else on. Before Graham knew it, he had young lads from three different schools requesting the opportunity to stay over at his house, and Graham, being a social animal, wallowed in the new found acclaim, regardless of how he’d received it, accepted every single boys request and set up a schedule in order to be fair.

Before long, Graham was receiving gifts of all sorts from boys hoping to be placed on his schedule. Not being anything less than an entrepreneur, Graham initiated a pay scale for a particular boy’s selected appointment (complete with a shiny brochure with Elisa’s portrait on the cover and all sorts of promising slogans, such as: “witness nude gymnastics” and “voyeurs! watch her shower”). For ten numerals a boy was guarantee nudity; for twenty, he could see her dance or do gymnastics (she never tired of performing these for Graham); for thirty, he was given the unique opportunity to spy on her from a sky light on the roof as she bathed; for forty, he was guaranteed nudity, a dance or gymnastics display, a bath, and her company for the entire evening (Elisa adored her older brother and was always delighted if he asked her to play with him and his friends); finally, for fifty digits, the boy received all of the above, plus one prearranged chance to touch a part of her body of his choice (usually consisting of Graham orchestrating an accidental scenario of some sort, such as simply throwing her onto the paying customer as he sat in a chair and leaving it up to him to fondle her before she squirmed away).

By and by, Graham knew exactly what Elisa looked like naked, he knew the twirling fluff between her legs, he knew the pink lilies that surrounded furrowed nipples on her chest, he knew the heart shaped muscles that formed above her hind. He also knew that Elisa was jealous that her older brother and sister were being sent out of the district to learn what appeared at the time to be the mysteries of the universe. For even as Elisa remained juvenile in her understanding of social relationships, she was, like all Greene’s, a bon vivant of erudition and it unnerved her to no end that Margaret and Graham were getting so far ahead of her in their studies. She would often pout or throw tantrums concerning the subject, even going so far as to demand from their mother that she be allowed to attend secondary school two years ahead of schedule because she believed it was “not fair” that Graham and Margaret be allowed to “know more” than her.

As Graham’s interest in Elisa grew, occupying his night thoughts (in the worst Nabakovian sense [Adaesq more than Lo-like, obviously]), his adolescent fantasies of her walking into his room one night and crawling into bed, his imaginings of what it was like to touch her, even he realized that it was becoming an unhealthy obsession, for he was no longer content simply spying on his adopted sister as she dressed or filching glimpses of her rouge maw as she performed yet another cartwheel in front of him. Graham had began desperate attempts, not only was he walking in on her as she bathed, but now waited for her to get out of the tub and would literally break in on her and pretend under foolish pretenses that he’d fallen against her. No longer was Graham willing to watch her only, he wanted to feel that appetizing skin, he wanted her, who had caused his aching, to quell it. So, he began to tutor her.

She was standing half in, half out of his room, one of her arms holding the other, protecting a particularly painful scab on her elbow she’d acquired on a jungle gym, one of her legs placed slightly behind the other, visible all the way up to her thigh and then, only partially hidden by a voile dress that she’d made herself from curtains. The material was light cotton intended only to soften the natural sunlight, not to obstruct it, causing Elisa’s nicely constructed dress to give the impression she was clothed when it was perfectly evident that she really was not. Graham knew she was standing there, waiting for him to acknowledge her, but he kept his eyes focused on the book he wasn’t reading on his lap, until she whined his name (the voice and manner were uncomfortable reminders he did his best to ignore).

“Did you finish your Latin lesson?” he asked, still not allowing himself to look up at the body underneath the dress who ignorantly stood there, enticing him, causing that uncomfortable stirring in his lower gut.

“Yes, I’m sick of Latin, I’ve read too much. Teach me something else,” she begged and Graham, who wanted nothing more than to lick each and every pore of her sienna skin, finally looked up and swallowed, considering whether or not to initiate his Thorndikian ploy.

“All right, enough of this cerebral jousting, let’s teach you about the Gymnasium. Do you know what Greco-Roman wrestling is, dearie? I didn’t think so,” he replied after she nodded her little head, that slight, perfectly sloping neck crooking for only an instant. “It’s an ancient art, and I’ll show you how it’s done. Now, we must teach you first the starting position, so get down on your hands and knees.”

The innocent young thing, wearing a short skirt as revealing as cheese cloth (which would later figure into Elisa’s popularity with suitors, as even as a teenager fully aware of the services of her body, she at one time appeared on the front porch wearing an outfit she’d made solely from the transparent material and spent over four hours with sixteen gentlemen, walking, talking, bowing, sitting and laughing, garbed only in it, much to the pleasure of the lucky sixteen fellows who made it a Sunday ritual to visit her) got down as she was told, unaware of what the position would do to the bottom of her dress in relation to her body. However, Graham, calculating with trigonometrical precision the length of the skirt, the height of his student and the position she was asked to place herself in, knew exactly what would happen and he stood above her with a dry mouth and the beginnings of an uncomfortable wetness in his shorts, watching her replicate the Laussel posture for him.

“Now,” he said dryly, coughing, “I come up behind you and hold onto your arm and your belly. Can you spread your legs a little more, sis, I need to be directly behind you.”

She followed his advice (the lowest form of currency), as Graham stood behind her, watching the shifting of her legs, the fabric of her dress creeping upwards with each adjustment.

“I’m going to take off my shirt, hold on, ‘lisa, and get into some shorts. Ah hell, I’ll just wear my boxers, this is just a training exercise,” he stated as nonchalantly as he could while her bare legs waited for him, spread out, only a centimeter of cotton covering her podex. He maneuvered himself up to her, closing his eyes as he felt himself against her, and wrapped one hand around the forearm of her left arm and tucked his right arm around her waist. “Now, the point of this game is to pin the other person, so when I say go, you’ve got to escape from my grasp and get on top of me. Understand?”

“Yes, pin you,” she replied, “boyz are bumpy, you keep poking me.”

“Ready, set, go…”

With that, Graham shoved himself against her, forcing the young girl, whose frame was less heavy and whose muscles had not yet caught up to her bone’s growth, a rather one-sided dimorphism, against the carpeted floor, while his right hand quickly fumbled up her ribs and gripped a scoop of flesh. Elisa, who was being thrashed by the stronger boy, refused to be pinned, even though she really wasn’t quite sure how it was done, and wriggled underneath of the other contestant, attempting to turn the tables on him, but did little more than agitate poor Graham’s already aching extremis, which he’d placed between the two petals of her slew, protected only by the fabric of his underwear, and with his chin driving into her shoulder as he tugged her right breast out of her skirt, he finally felt her nipple against the palm of his hand.

“Am I pinned?” she panted between puddling groans of exertion that drove poor Graham even madder.

“No,” he said, “I’ve got to turn you over and hold your shoulders down for three seconds.” Which, in the volley of finally feeling himself against her, he had forgotten and had suddenly realized, would actually be preferable placement of the bodies, and so, while his opponent quivered below him, trying to get away from him but not wishing to turn over, inadvertently doing one of the most arousing maneuvers Graham would ever experience, he relieved the pressure he was putting against the soffit of her legs and in one mighty thrust, flipped her over on her back, at which point Elisa, realizing he was positioning her for a pin, attempted to get away, but moved less than inch before Graham was back on top of her, positioning himself in a ventral position.

She could barely believe her own strength, though, since even as he had gotten her supine, he seemed incapable of holding her shoulders down, even as he pushed with all his might, he was relegated to lying on top of her and wrestling with her dress, which seemed to be confusing for him, as he got first his arms and then, his head caught in it and could not move any further, but seemed to search her body for some advantageous place to hold onto to in order to make his next move. While she kept her shoulders off the ground, obviously why wrestling was so difficult, Graham seemed to grow feverishly flustered by his inability to pin her and convulsed against the lower part of her body in a moaning rage, but could not muster enough strength to move up to her shoulders, going so far as to even nibble on parts of her body, until he was absolutely exhausted and laid on top of her motionless, his lips still wrapped around her nipple.

At which point, tidy Elisa made her move, sliding out from under him easily, since he had lost his strength, she tried to flip him over on his back, but was unable to turn him over, and he laid in a fetal position, with both hands between his legs for some time.

“Who won?” she asked, but he refused to reply, leading her to believe that it was probably a draw and he was upset by this since he was a boy and she was younger than he. She did observe, though, that wrestling had caused strange pink marks to appear where his mouth was on her body, and that a certain part of her body had sweated for the very first time (an involuntary reaction of the endometria).

Graham’s tutelage of Elisa on the finer points of Greco-Roman wrestling had little positive results, since she was not strong enough to pin him and he seemed to grow too tired to force her shoulders to the ground. In fact, within a few weeks of constant draws, leading Elisa to believe that he did not have as much of a constitution as she did, since she could keep going and he would always double over, and lay there panting on the floor, Graham had even called upon friends to wrestle with her (a brand new enterprise fetching him a pretty thirty quid for each match), whose abilities seemed on par with his own and who always ended up in the same position as he did. Elisa began to tire of the entire thing, she was no closer to pinning any of the boys and they, who would take turns working on her, never seemed able to continue after they got caught up in her clothing. Elisa had gone so far as to recommend that the boys wear loose clothing, but all of them seemed content to wear only their shorts.

One day, when five boys, including her brother, were present for a lengthy match, Elisa had decided to give them a better chance and once she arrived at the wrestling spot, a grove about a half a mile from the family home, recommended by Graham so that they wouldn’t be interrupted, she removed her dress and got into position under the glowing summer sun on all fours, she still wasn’t quite sure why she always had to start that way, completely naked. This way, she reasoned, all the problems they had with her dress would not factor into the outcome, and she could see if they could actually pin her. Graham, who was always the first, seemed unsure, until Elisa swore on her future inheritance that she’d never tell anyone, knowing, based upon instructions from her nanny and adopted mother that there was something naughty about her skin and not wanting to get Graham in trouble. However, the outcome was the very same, the boys did not have any trouble holding her down, but they couldn’t seem to manage to pin her and always ran out of steam.

The last boy, a grinning young buck named Sharky, though, added a twist to his strategy and almost pinned Elisa when he pushed against her and she felt a muscle pull in her lower belly, experiencing for the first time intromission. She wasn’t about to let pain get in her way, though, and was able to battle through it, outlasting Sharky, who seemed to be in even worse agony than she. The match was the most difficult Elisa had ever done, though, and afterwards, for some reason, the pit of her stomach ached and she was sure Sharky had torn a muscle in her groin. That was the first time Elisa laid panting after a match too, unable to recover immediately, and she found herself bleeding a little, a mucus coated her thighs, and Graham seemed very worried, even attacking Sharky for going too far with her. Elisa, who appreciated her brother’s protection, was uncomfortable for a few days after the match, like she had been riding a horse for too long and Graham called off any future wrestling.

When Graham saw Elisa next, after that fateful afternoon of nude fumbling, knowing that he too had come close several times, remembering several times that electric impulse as the head brushed against the fleshy, warm folds of her insides, she was standing on the third floor balcony with a black and margarine butterfly twisted around her index finger, flapping its wings but seemingly unafraid of the young girl. Graham, who had spent the last few nights in sweaty insomnia, obsessed with the images of his half-sister in the grotto, on her hands and knees, the perfume of her body still clinging to his fingertips, her steatopygous hind risen up slightly, the shifting, dangling scoops of flesh topped with cherry red nipples, the light, thin line of pubic hair, the strange lips of flesh, wanted to apologize to her if Sharky had hurt her, but he did not. He stood behind her, staring at the horseshoe shaped lines on the back of her knees, the smooth, slow transitions of her shins, the sun light that was caught in the valley of one thigh muscle and the next, the round, meaty arms with their dimple elbows, the thin neck with hair all out of place, the butterfly flapping its wings on her tiny, roll fingers. Graham leaned against the wall, unnoticed, and watched her. When he was close to sleep, when his defenses were down and the chance of slumber was just a breath away, it would come to him, he would be positioned behind her, just as he always was, her long legs spread open, her bare bottom pressed against his thighs, her back ribbed with her spine, and he would say go. He would enter her, his glands not merely brushing the skin of her labia, but finding her ventage and sliding within her, just like Sharky, and she would writhe below him, panting, moaning, crying, groping the grass, just like with Sharky, and he would wrestle with her, turn her over and pin her, sucking up an entire nipple in a great mouth full of flesh, re-enter her, while she groans, pushes away, attempts to turn over, just like Sharky. All Graham had to do was catch her now, as she gazed down at the butterfly, before she could make a noise, before she could escape, he’d have her naked against him, he’d have his penis inside her, he’d have his lips wrapped around her mouth, he’d have her tongue rolling around his own, he had have her labored breath against his throat. But Graham didn’t ever do it; he just continued to wish he had.

The day Graham stood before the mirror, finishing his shave and moving onto some meticulous nose hair grooming, Elisa was thirty-three years old, unmarried, without children and unemployed. She did freelance garment design for a number of chic clothing lines but always refused full-time employment. As soon as one of the companies offered her a position, always very prominent, she never accepted another commission from them. She had gone to college in four different countries, at four different universities, had received twelve bachelor’s degrees, two masters and a doctorate in Egyptology.

Elisa lived in a house their father had bought as a summer get-away eighty kilometers outside the city. She did not use electricity and drove herself if she wanted to go anywhere. She stayed in her home all day and only went out at night (the Rye needing no further explication). The locals kept stores open late for her, where she could shop without others bothering her and she was often seen in late-night movie theatres. But, more often than any other place, she was seen in a booth at the Steamboat Saloon and Cocktail Bar, a rickety old establishment that clung to the cliffs hovering over the ocean. No one except one waiter was allowed to talk to her and she always drank the same thing, Black Label Beer out of the can. Elisa had an apparent stash of ethyl alcohol tablets and she plopped two of them into each serving, returning alcohol to the beverage. Every time she visited the Steamboat, she drank twenty-four beers in under four hours, got up with no signs of drunkenness and drove herself home. Her only other requirement was that the piano player stop while she was in attendance. This was done without question, with no objections by anyone in the crowd and with no anger from the musician, even though he was losing tip money while he wasn’t playing.

* * *

Recently, Graham Greene had met Haddie Springfield, the eighteen-year-old daughter of a shipping tycoon, at a social event. Haddie had a perian face that looked like a woman’s reflection in a china plate. She posed as though a fashion photographer was snapping pictures of her on location at an exotic beach when she was spoken to and said purposefully objectionable things in response to questions. They were not challenging observations, nor anti-social statements, but merely Thalian pronouncements in a conventional sense.

“Why Miss Springfield, where ever did you get your dress?” a socialite snob asked.

“My summer collection was all boosted from a department store truck I had some ruffians knock over for me,” she replied.

“Haddie, I must say you look beautiful tonight,” an elderly bachelor mentioned.

“You don’t have to say so, Bobbie, oh that’s right you do, you’re on father’s payroll.”

Haddie was an only child, her parents had invested a great deal in her birth and doctors spent four and a half years constructing the perfect gene profile for her. Still, Haddie’s monthly pharmacy bill was more expensive than most car payments and she refused to continue her education. She wanted only to work on her many hobbies and social engagements. She loved to entertain and was arguably the best hostess in the city. She held dances on a weekly basis, book discussion groups every month, a social club she ran met every Tuesday, and she had permanent reservations every four weeks at a concert hall. She loved to attend premiere parties, concerts, sporting events, and fashion shows. She spent her free time, which was every minute of every day, working on interior designs, playing the piano, practicing cock-ball, writing slogans for fictitious products, and sewing. She refused the acceptance letters of the major universities, who were obligated due to her social standing to court her, and left for Greece a month before her last year of secondary school was to begin. She was an A-lister who wanted to be treated like one before she could walk.

When Graham Greene, twenty years her elder, had introduced himself and talked with her for almost an hour, Haddie had fallen in love (in a Helvetian sense). She adored (venerating him expectantly) his life, his adventures, his accomplishments and his power. She saw in Graham all the liberties of a life she wished to lead, a life of repose, of excess, of parties and dinners and balls, a life of opera nights, world travel, and leisure. If she could be his wife, she would have all the money she needed, a perfectly fashionable husband that would please her father, her friends, and the society pages, a home that rivaled anyone’s on the planet, a name that was close to royalty, she would have the absolute ideal (…the sovereign does as he pleases so long as he pleases the assassins). Nothing in Haddie’s life would change. In fact, it would be improved. Haddie knew what kind of quest she was beginning, she knew about Graham’s girlfriends and independence. The trick was to make herself appear like the only other person in the world for him, as though she was the rib that covered his heart.

Graham wiped his razor clean and inspected his face. He was Graham Greene, he looked like him. If he wanted to see Haddie Springfield, all he needed to do was to go see her. Why the hesitation, why the nervousness? He was not usually so uncertain, Graham had only been nervous once in his life, that he could remember. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when it was, what had happened that made him feel like his insides were boiling. He just knew that he had felt apprehension before. I’ve got to be confident; no one likes a coward. She’ll see right through me if I don’t retain my composure. I’ll go see her under a pretense of some sort. We’ll both know that it’s completely fictitious but that won’t matter. What really matters is how she reacts to my visit.

Graham was not at all certain why he wanted to see the young woman so badly. He knew, of course, that there was some interest he had for her, but he wasn’t sure how to qualify the feeling. He wasn’t sure if he was in love with her because she had immediately meant something to him or if it had more to do with her age. Haddie was eighteen years old, she was eighteen years old in a definitive way. Haddie did not appear older, nor did she seem to want to look older, like so many women her age. She acted eighteen and made no apologies for her ignorance. Haddie was the epitome of every teenage girl Graham had ever known, Gödelian and unapologetic. She was self-absorbed, knew nothing about anything, treated anyone older than forty like they belonged in a geriatric ward, had seen nothing, and had been all over the world and had misunderstood it completely. She was passionately involved in herself, she was like a child sitting at the grown-up’s table.

Graham found this attractive. He just wasn’t sure if he liked it because of its inherent innocence or because he, himself, had lost it long before. When Haddie had given her hand to him, Graham had taken it and put his other hand on her elbow to assist her out of her chair. He remembered the texture of her skin, he remembered the smell of her skin on his fingers, he remembered the way his hand had slid up her arm, he remembered how she had looked at him with a smile that seemed to know more about the event than he was prepared to admit. Graham had wanted to embrace her, kiss her, touch her skin, bury his face in her hair, feel himself inside her, feel himself battering against her ignorance, tearing her open so that he could explore her. And Haddie, with one glance, had seemed to know what he was thinking and seemed to find it amusing.

Graham doused his temples with hot water. She will be enticing for years to come, not like an older woman. Even after children, she’s young enough to regain her form. Graham wouldn’t admit it, not to the face in the mirror, but he wanted Haddie for far less than he gave her credit for. He finished dressing and left his home like a man who’s fought with himself and finally resolved to go to the whorehouse.

The Springfield’s lived very close to the Greene’s. All the families lived in the same area of the city, some in old homes, others in penthouses, others in fashionable flats surrounded by gardens, separated from the civil and industrial districts in a Howardian feat of urban planning. Graham walked the three blocks to the Springfield home and knocked on the door. I am Graham Greene, Graham Greene, damn it.

“Good day, sir,” a servant said after opening the door.

“Hello, is Miss Haddie Springfield in?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Mr. Graham Greene, of the conservation Greene’s.”

“One moment, please sir.” And the servant, a small, passive woman in her early twenties, disappeared, not closing the door and not inviting Graham in, either. Graham waited on the front stoop. The apprehension began to bother him, he looked down the street, fearing another family might see him waiting on the front steps of the Springfield house like a common messenger.

“This is unacceptable,” he muttered Humely. “Either I’m invited in or turned away. I swear, leaving a man standing outside.”

“Sir,” the servant said, opening the door wider and poking her head out, “the missus would like to know the purpose of the visit.”

“What?” Graham replied. A sudden rush of heat seemed to flee from the pores of his face. “What is the meaning of this? Please announce to Miss Springfield that I am here, waiting on her front porch, and wish to see her.”

“Yes, sir. Miss Springfield understands that, she was hoping you might be so kind as to inform her of the purpose of your visit.”

“Since when does a Greene need a specific purpose to see another family? When did servants take to questioning guests? I have been a friend of the Springfield’s for twenty-years and never have I been forced to explain my presence at their home. You will tell Miss Springfield I am here to discuss a topic I only wish to share with her, in private.”

“Yes, sir. Please wait one more minute,” the servant girl replied. Again, not closing the door but leaving Graham on the front porch. Graham waited for a few moments, feeling disorientated. Then, he stepped backwards off the steps, as if he was retreating from a threat he had to watch. Once he was on the sidewalk, not realizing another man had greeted him as he passed by, Graham turned and walked quickly away.

* * *

“Did you go out for milk?”

“No.”

“Where have you been, then?”

“At the bottom of a gorge.”

“Did you sleep in your clothes again, last night?”

“Yes, on the side of the river.”

“We used to go down to the river when I was a little girl, father had a boat and we would have a picnic. It’s such a lovely area,” Norma Moore said Bernsteinly.

“I didn’t know it was there.”

“Did you hear, honey, Graham Greene is getting married, isn’t it incredible?”

“Who?”

“Graham Greene, the philanthropist, musician, writer, actor and sports star.”

“I met a saint, her name is Flower.”

“We all have those kinds of feelings, at times. Do you know what I saw on VistaVision yesterday?”

“No.”

“A combination fruit squeezer, juicer, and purifier, only $49.95, and with a three year warranty. It comes with all the attachments.”

“She offered to make love to me.”

“I just can’t imagine how we’ve been drinking juice unpurified for all these years, it’s a wonder no one’s gotten sick. The commercial said it was 99.98 % effective, isn’t that incredible. It would go so well with my Maximillian 5000 blender and ice crusher, they have that same, sort of, new-age look to them. You know, we really should re-buy our appliances. Last year’s just didn’t have all the applications that they have now. Don’t you think, honey?”

“I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why.”

“You’ve got to get a move on or you’ll be late to work, now let me get your breakfast started while you shower. We’ll talk more about the fruit squeezer, juicer and purifier tonight at dinner. I’ve invited over the Jonestown’s, you know, the one’s who just bought that beautiful piece of land off of Fisherman’s Bluff, they’re building their own home. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to build our own home some day, Joseph? Could you just imagine it? We’d hire the finest architects, watch it as it was constructed, and make sure it had all the finest equipment. This place is so small, you know Kimball doesn’t even have room for all of his things, I have to store most of them in Alexzen’s other closet.”

“I jumped off a bridge last night.”

“Hurry up now, you don’t want to miss your ride, you’ve only been carpooling with Mr. Cinn-Cola for a few weeks, you don’t want to give him a bad impression, he could help you get a promotion.”

“It was so far and the river was so cold.”

“It is going to be cold this winter, I hope we can afford to buy a new heater, I don’t think the one we’ve got now has enough power to heat this whole house. Winter’s not so far away, you know.”

“Do you believe in chance?”

“I believe we all have chances in life, we just have to be on time for them and we won’t miss them.”

“She said I’d missed my chance.”

“You haven’t missed anything, honey. You’ve just got to apply yourself more, try harder, you’ll get us there, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s not miss our chance to start this day right, okay? Let’s not miss the chance for a wonderful day.”

Ralph Cinn-Cola was ten years younger than Joseph and, according to our hero, mirrored the donkey of Szedgkin’s Nativity, in that his mouth was thusly formed to constantly appear like he was nibbling upon some offered flora and shyly, yet quiet consciously, bore the nimbus of the sacred manger of the Virgin and Child with a undignified grace with his male-pattern bald head of red hair. He had been transferred to Joseph’s building from another branch, in the Middle East, and like the infamous Father Aldrovinus that called upon God to prove the equal division of halves into thirds by splitting the terrestrial body of the loquacious blasphemer Manutius Procinus (who later met a metaphoric end at the hands of the appendage-less viper), Ralph was of the constitution and of the corporate identity that he saw the sorcery of Immunex in an almost spiritual fashion, applying each tiny pill with its own areola-like head-dress, indicating an almost fanatical appreciation for the products he had a small part in peddling to the glassy eyed, screen viewing audience. It was not expressed as a promotion (for whatever is?), but Ralph was now giving orders to Joseph and others at his level, imagining, if you will, the hierarchy of the corporation as the steppe of the primitive farmer, Ralph’s vegetable garden would have been several “steps” above Joseph’s miracle-grow plot and would have thus, received the rain first and a more direct relationship to any run-off that could, potentially, flow down the crags.

He had recently gotten married to a girl six years younger than him, when “figs are grown on thistles, and pigs betailed with whistles” (versus the memoir educating pig feeding of Saint Augustine’s admissions, yet again a case study in God splitting things into two equal parts, even in its Manichean heresy). Joseph had only met her twice. She was small, thin, pleasant, and kind. She did not seem to take up any air. She smiled, only spoke to make sure her guests were not in need of a fresh drink, and listened intently to Ralph (the fidelity, which Joseph so admired, simply a virtue peculiar to a betrayer). She had smooth brown arms, her shoulders were compact, she had a clear, bright face. Joseph had watched her the first time they’d been invited over for dinner. She was wearing a dress with simple decorations, an unassuming, conservative outfit, perfect for suburbia. But, Joseph had noticed her exposed sternum, the way her skin stretched across the bones of her ribs, the wrinkle just below her long neck that was her angular collarbone. He imagined pressing his lips against her chest, feeling his nose turn as he buried his face in her skin and smelled her unique scent. He imagined wrapping his arms around her small shoulders, feeling how easy he could touch his other hand, feeling the fragility of her within his arms. Joseph saw himself kissing her forehead, feeling the strands of her hair graze his cheek. She was nice to look at and Joseph accepted all of Ralph’s invitations just so that he could see his wife again. Not because Joseph had any intention of seducing Mrs. Cinn-Cola, he would never say a vulgar word to her, he did not want to know what she looked like naked, he ignored the two breasts that dangled below her smooth chest. She was not sexual; she was a pleasant view, like a tree that captures the sunset within the raindrops clinging to its branches.

Mrs. Ralph Cinn-Cola was a product of rebranding; she had been investigated by a junior member of Captain Vincent Belacque’s unit for deviant behavior and had been found guilty at the age of twenty. She was retrieved from her parent’s home on a cool autumn morning and returned three months later, glazed over, languid, pleasant, only hoping for a proper suitor. She never refused anyone, called everything “harmonious”, repeating it over and over and over again, as if it were the only adjective in existence, as if she’d heard it so often she couldn’t conceive of any other way of expressing herself. She was on a strict drug regimen, and never veered. By the time Ralph had met her, she had been two years out of rebranding and was the most pleasing and accepting of women he’d ever met. She was desperate to begin a family, and when Ralph proposed, she agreed only as long as he accepted that stipulation that he would impregnate her within three months of their union and that they could continue to have children for the next six years. He was immeasurably pleased by her desire for children, her love of the conventional future that was so utterly possible, and he knew that she would never give him any trouble.

“How is it?” Ralph asked as Joseph walked up to the car.

“Fine, Ralph,” Joseph replied, feeling the warmth of the car heater emanating out of the cabin, into the frosty air of the morning.

“Our project schedule seems a little lax in your department,” Ralph mentioned after they had driven out of Solo Energy Hydration Estates and onto the highway.

“I can drive tomorrow if you’d like,” Joseph said, shifting his weight in the vinyl seat so that his words were followed by a long, growling fart noise. He sat motionless for a few moments, studying Ralph out of his eyelashes. “I didn’t fart.” Ralph did not reply. Joseph moved in his seat again, trying to replicate the sound, but only the sound of rustling clothes against the seat could be heard. Joseph was fidgeting, rolling his backside up the seat and then, back down, trying to make the sound again. “I have been working on the schedule.”

“Good, do you think you’ve got it back on track?”

“Well, as you know, we’re a maintenance team, the development of new isotopes is your team’s job, but with the instability of many of the bonds we’re dealing with, which seem to be increasing with each year of production, there are bound to be hiccups.”

“Joseph, you need to focus on the final goal. I can’t take that kind of report to the fasces. I need you to get back on track; I can’t have the maintenance crew behind. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, well it’s probably okay, the company’s going to invest large sums of money in a new ad campaign. Sales have been lacking, we need to pump up production in expectation of a successful sales pitch.”

“Don’t worry, Ralph, my team will be back on track by the end of the week, we’ll figure something out,” Joseph assured the driver, turning his backside and sliding across the seat towards the stick shift. Finally, after too long, the noise returned, a loud, peeling gaseous noise. Now he thinks I’ve farted again. It was too long. “These seats are sticky.”

“If you’d stopped moving so much,” Ralph answered, unrolling his window.

“It’s the seats.”

Ralph and Joseph parked in their assigned space and began to walk into the building from within the covered parking garage. They got in line behind several other men arriving and Ralph left Joseph to speak with another man who was recently put in charge of insulin testers. Joseph was left to himself, watching as the other men greeted each other, talked about weekends, sports, hobbies, wives, and women. He watched their animated faces, their hands on another man’s back, the jokes they shared, the information already known, the intimacy of their fraternity. Joseph was amongst them, their chatter surrounded him, but he was transparent, he was no more a part of this group of men than a ghost is part of the family he haunts.

“…and she came out of the bedroom in this long, lacey teddy, with no stockings on and…”

“…he totally blew it? I knew that guy’d only be trouble for the team, he’s too damn proud, he’s not a team player. I said that to Frank when they traded him, I says: ‘we don’t want that guy, what we need is power, not flair’…”

“…so she says to me: ‘I’ve never been with a man like you’ and I go: ‘I bet you haven’t’ and she starts taking off her shirt…”

“…its probably twenty kilos, you know, a real fighter, doesn’t want to be caught, but I got a good hold and we start our war and he was a jumper, you know, zigzagging, then pulling, then into the air, but I just kept holding on, reeling, and releasing, you know…”

“…well it’s coming along, we’re not there yet, but with a few more days like Sunday, I’ll have her up and runnin’. Then we’ll come rip-roaring passed your house and you’ll see her, you’ll see why I’ve been so busy…”

“…I’m thinking, ‘do I know this girl?’ I’ve been married to her for ten years and I’ve never seen her like this. But, I’ll tell you boys, I’m glad she’s finally shown me …”

Joseph boarded the elevator with the other men, squeezed to the back of the compartment and watched them continue their conversation with a Bettelheimian interest. What kind of lives they led, with wives who wore lingerie after dinner, fishing adventures, automobiles they’d rebuilt, bachelorhood (an abridged list of their accomplishments, for sure, but all their synthetic contentment deserves). Joseph listened to their stories, considering his evenings, his weekends, his attempts at being a sportsmen, the hours he spent in front of the display trying to care whether or not the home team scored, the hours in bars and nightclubs, seeking a woman’s attention. He wasn’t intending to have an affair, he just wanted one of the women to notice him, to sit and talk with him, to laugh at the things that he said, to touch his shoulder in innocent playfulness, to ask him, after last call, if he’d like to walk her home. Then, he would be gracious and kind, thank her for the evening, and leave her dreaming about him.

“Moore, you getting off?” one of the men asked when the elevator stopped at the thirty-fourth floor.

“No, no. I have business on the hundredth and sixth,” Joseph replied with an Illichian undertone.

“Oh, big man’s got business with the fasces,” the man taunted. “You getting fired Moore?”

“No, I just have business.”

“Yeah, sure. He’s going up there to take the tour,” the man said to his friends.

“Moore’s going to get caught in one of the executive’s suites, pretending to be a big-shot,” another man continued. “He’ll be behind the desk, with his feet up and the senior’ll show up and Moore’ll be sittin’ there with a dumb look on his face, trying to think of an excuse.”

“Yeah, then he’ll start emptying the trash and moving furniture.”

Joseph smiled meekly back, trying to behave as though he thought their taunts were funny, as though someone else was the butt of their jokes, as though he was not older than all of them, as though he was a senior officer who put up with his employee’s jokes because he was that kind of boss, a real down-to-earth kind of leader, a man who could joke around with the best of them (rather than, shall we say, an April fool who’s over-stayed his welcome). Joseph tried not to mind that most of them were higher up than he was, that they were younger, quicker, smarter (although it can be said, without too much inconsistency, that they were without a degree of intellectual independence, i.e. madness, of which our hero, was unusually endowed, although in saying so we pronounce poor Joseph as so without any evidence that we are sane, an ironic, albeit illustrative, blessing for mediocrity and majority rule). He tried not to think of the jokes as they truly were, exhibitions of his inferiority, signals unspoken of the entire corporations understanding of him as a laughing stock, as the fool who thought he was important, the man who was kept on due to his loyalty and family, the man who would retire in the same position he was in now, a strikingly Malthusian viewpoint stretched to include social position, as well as population control. The rest of crowd (or masses, of which we know so little of), they could look forward (temporal in all of its significance, of course) to future promotions (a.k.a. prophecies, or the practice of selling credibility on credit), transfers, posts as executives, seniors, vice presidents, but not Joseph (as property of the company, gratifying the passion for possession in one and disappointing it in all others). No one had ever said it to him before, not with real words (as opposed, rather indifferently it should be added, to artificial ones, i.e. those audible utterances that have not been assigned particularly meanings). But they expressed it to him every day, they treated him differently, they would never say those things to a man his age if he was where he was supposed to be in his career. He saw how they behaved when a real executive was within their midst, they stopped their loud talking, their voices changed, they were somber, polite, they talked of work and important topics within their departments (which was always a difficult task, considering the prison-like attributes {being a place of punishments and rewards} of the hollowed halls of the cathedral). Joseph’s presence changed nothing, rather they talked down to him, taunted him, teased him, made lewd comments about his wife (a deficiency on Joseph’s part the main caliber of their strikes). They talked about him as if he wasn’t there, they feared nothing about him, they did not worry about what he thought of them, they did not concern themselves with how he could assist them in their careers.

“How about those sports scores?”

Joseph was alone in the elevator, rising in the belly of the building, being lifted up to the very pinnacle of Immunex’s supremacy. He walked out of the sliding metal doors and into the luxurious hallway that was the red carpet of the branches most important men. He passed secretaries and assistants as though he knew where he was going and did not need to bother them. They glanced up at the man in the bad suit, figured he was being called up by one of the fasces to be reprimanded, promoted, or fired, and went back to their tasks. Joseph came to the end of a hall and knocked on a door. No one answered. He opened it and peeked his head in. The lights were out, the executive had not arrived yet for work. Joseph snuck in and walked quickly over to the window. He pressed his forehead against the glass, he couldn’t see the ground, he couldn’t even see the next floor down. But he could see the other buildings, far below, only a few towering at the height of the Immunex building. He could see streets that were blocks away, he could see the tiny cars that looked like some of his son’s toys, he could see the colors of people, but not their shapes, sex, stature.

He was one thousand-four hundred feet in the air. He would not survive this fall. Joseph turned from the window and walked back to the door. He took off his camel coat, set down his satchel and pressed his left foot against the wall. He stared at the window, framing the cloudy, gray sky. He could only see the heavens, nothing awaiting him far below. Joseph bent down and put his fingers on a blue line in the carpet as if he was waiting for the starter pistol to announce the beginning of a race. In his mind, he determined when he should start and he sprang forward, he knew he would need a lot of speed to make it through the window. He felt his feet as they stomped down on the padded floor, he saw the desk as he ran by, the small two chairs and table, the fichus plant that needed water and then, only the window. He jumped and covered his head with his arms. He felt the pressure of the window, its construction resisting the force of his body, he felt it for a second halt his forward motion. Then, it flexed out from the building, its construction giving way at the point of first contact, at the second, third, fourth and so on, until Joseph felt the whip of the wind, the small shards of glass in his arms, chest and forehead, he saw for a moment the distance to the earth, and then, only darkness.

* * *

“Joseph, that was fuckin’ wonderful.”

“Flower? Did I do it?”

“Twice.”

“Did I kill myself?”

“You worked pretty damn hard,” she Kwannonly replied.

“No, did I die?”

“In an Emily Dickinson sense, we both did.”

“So, this is death, finally.”

“Don’t go to fuckin’ sleep, I don’t want it to be over.”

“Where am I?”

“In the hallway. I thought you’d left. I was waiting my turn. You’re more of a man than I gave you credit for.”

“Is this the afterlife?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Why don’t you just lay back and enjoy the remaining sensations.”

“Am I still inside you?”

“Yes.”

“I can feel it.”

“I can feel it, too. Fuck… you have energy, I don’t know if I can do it again, you stallion.”

“Did I take you?”

“We’ll call it voluntary…”

“Was it what you wanted?”

“Oh, fuck yes. It was all I’d hoped for and more. I came as soon as you grabbed my arm. I kept cumming while you kissed my chest. I came when you fuckin’ pulled my shirt open and bit my fuckin’ nipple. I came when you pulled my panties down. I thought I was going to spontaneously combust when you fuckin’ forced your fuckin’ dick in me.”

“I don’t remember,” said Joseph Kierkegaardly.

“That’s okay, I fuckin’ remember. I’ll always fucking remember. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

“No, but I can feel you fuckin’ growin’ inside me. I was providing emotional support.”

“Thank you.”

“So are you going to start fucking me again or keep talking?”

“Are you my guardian angel?”

“Shut up and get to fuckin’.”

“Do all angel’s talk like you?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Jesus fuck Christ, Joseph. Can you feel me fuckin’ against you, I’m practically begging for you, why don’t you quiet the fuck down. All I want to hear from you is fuckin’ grunting from now on, no more questions.”

* * *

Alas, in the great mêlée paddock of Galtish affairs, without six shooters or posse justice, per say, with such conventional conventions (purely miragical in their constructs), relying entirely on vintage notions of fair play, the costumed words of ambition (the only patron remaining of anyone’s humor) act in a theatre of perjury welcomed by the cast, the audience, and the playwright, who, as the architect of the fictional panorama, abuses the set for his own devices. No matter, never mind the ludicrousness of such barons seeking some paradise away from those shoulders, there are times of conflict, when two of the same, a Roark and a Galt, face off for the same title, as was the case when Graham was asked if he might be interested in a Senior Executive Vice President position in the firmament grazing structure known as HQ and a colleague (of sorts), a one, Arlo Ventrilli (Ventrilli Natural Spring Refreshments) got some low-down and went straight to the committee to toss his black/white hat into the dusty street of the duel — ungentlemanly in the broad convention, i.e. no ten paces, turn and fire, with seconds and standard armaments, but pure whisky bedlam. Graham of course heard of this rival with a smirk (Arlo was some upstart B-lister from questionable origins — he’d sold his name, not produced the name which became the brand) and set to disarm, if not dismember the challenger out of pure principle.

Graham may have got up every morning and dove off perfectly good waterfalls in sublime form, but Arlo was all anthem and ambition, failing to recognize the absurdity of challenging such a specimen in some kind of shoot-out, and sincerely believing Earp had a chance against Doc in that kind of L’Amour setup. The immensity of the complex delayed the meeting for some time, with Graham sashaying superior in the wild west and Arlo, all lone ranger out east, inflating his own sleight of hand amongst fellow rodeo clowns (collapsing the eight second drama just before and acting as something of saviors for the real idols).

And it didn’t help that his wife, a real Appalachian leather stocking with aspirations of estates and too much of that Grey-matter devoted to fancy, all Brand in prose length, without proper conclusions, gave Arlo the pep natter diurnally and sent him off with his thumbs in his loops, cow poke, sniffing the brim, looking dumbo Gene Autrey. Mrs. Ventrilli was, by all conclusions, about the least appealing in all appearances a woman could near without being branded in the rump, and as wide a posterior, which her husband fondly fondled through her ruffles and bustle, she knew only prone bites of bed sheets in nocturnal congress (lassoed and buckskinned), her consort ambition was wider, trading one for the success of the other, and Arlo’s only dynamic budge was initiated by this tit-for-ingress. So it was that he requested a meeting with the senators to be considered for a post Graham’s domain, and the One heard of the other.

But, Graham was patient… Easily he could have stomped over and slipped off a leather glove from his trigger-hand, returning it only after a quick, double slap, not even tossing it down before his rival’s feet in sign of parity. But he didn’t. No, Graham waited.

And then, by happenstance or some fortune diagram Graham entered The Stetson Oasis company eatery in the no-man’s land of the border badlands of between their VistaVision spheres just as Arlo was carousing with insubordinates over a last plate of spaghetti he had taken rather Bronsonesqly from a suit, and the cantina fell silent, only the whistle of piano man heard and probably some sort of prairie bush tumbling by.

Graham, at the door, his back to the wilds, and Arlo, holding a plate of angel-headed noodles smeared with marinara, stared unapologetically at each other for a good bull ride before Graham, ever the dramatist, lifted one hand, his right, skyward, to a point, and Arlo made his move, clearing the path of innocent bystanders with great sweeping motions as he stomped forward, poised, his fingers twitching just above his missiles. Here it was… Graham unmoving, Arlo treading heavily, recommending cover, until he was just forty paces and he let it fly, a good six noodles spraying the wall behind Graham, who had ducked at the last moment, with bolognese blood. But Arlo didn’t let up, aware of his genetic inadequacy, and Graham was left, unarmed, scrambling towards cover as a volley of obvious noodles pounded around him.

He managed to dive behind two unmindful executives, each darkened by red pasta strings, one lengthy bit dangling from a dominant nose, and acquired two portions of chocolate pudding in nude bowls, while Arlo jockeyed for a line, the barrage finally ceasing. The crowd was hiding, peeking out from behind overturned chairs and the safety of large cafeteria tables, silent witnesses to the showdown, occasionally crying out names as cheerleading (most for Graham) rhymes.

Graham, darting out his head to find his adversary’s current position, barely turtled his head back into his sanctuary as four or five sticky arrows whizzed by with menacing speed. But Arlo had revealed his location, still crouched, unprotected, a tactical plunder obvious to all those observing the great melee, in the middle of a wide aisle-way between tables, until a careening bowl, like a Winchester buckshot, felled him in near finality. Graham, uncertain of the condition of his foe, took the stolen few seconds to get his hands on a Caesar salad nearly half-eaten and a saucer of fresh fruit (grapes, melons, a halved strawberry wedge), while Arlo, smarting from the bowl to the head, his spaghetti arsenal dumped upon his chest and belly (unfortunately covered by a smart white and blue pin striping blouse, accentuating the blunder), took to his feet and finally sought refuge behind refuse receptacles kindly placed tactically abouts the saloon, it occurring to him immediately that he’d found a store of weaponry truly demeaning, if he could only get a few shots off.

He was unaware of Graham’s whereabouts however, and his spying over the rim of a particularly large canister gave him no advantage. The canteen was quiet, save the soft sounds of whimpering by cowards and an errant fart. Arlo surveyed the field, searching for any movement. He reached in and got two large handfuls of retched compost, one of which he immediately shot off at the head of an accidental target with a crown seemingly Graham-like, a decoy just so, as when Arlo reached back in to reload, a bowl of muddy dessert rebounded off his now shitty shoulder. He breathed heavily, fearful, realizing his predicament against such a sure-shot, but unwilling or incompetent enough to refuse surrender. He would go down before he would lose passage to the missus’ spacious peachy trough. He sided carefully on his haunches to the other side of his fort, one hand armed with sticky, stinky projectiles. He had to make a decision, look up and chance another hit or remain hidden and chance missing an assault.

He darted his head over the can only to feel the whirl of romaine lettuce and croutons whisk just over his hairline. He army soldiered it midway and went for it, jumping to his feet, recoiled, fully loaded, waiting for any sight of the enemy. But, regrettably, depending upon your affiliation, lurching backwards as his already soiled chemise was pounded by overly refrigerated produce and yet, still unaware of Graham’s position. He had but one option:

“Face me,” Arlo challenged, but with no response. He strutted out into the central aisle, passing trembling bystanders, grabbing first a plate of lasagna and second a tri-partitioned platter of pork tenderloin doused in onion gravy with green beans christened with It Very Well Might Not Be Margarine. “Face me coward,” he tried, and this time, to his side, where he had no idea he was, in an obvious commencement of a flanking maneuver, Graham rose boldly, clutching a marang pie and two gelatin snacks in tidy little containers — peeled open. Graham moved swiftly to the walkway, never taking his eyes off Arlo, who obliged with, “we end this now.”

“Agreed.”

“Take your position…”

“Taken.”

“Say when you’re ready…”

“Ready.”

“Ready,” Arlo repeated and let dash his first handful, followed almost immediately by his second, the thrusts sending him reeling forward, and then, nothing. As he lifted his head, expectant, hoping Graham would be filthy with rubbish, there stood his superior, unmarred, clean, unmoved. “No…” he sniveled as he was blinded by lemon squish and knocked to his knees by one, then two painful collisions to his crotch. Arlo collapsed in a mess, curled around his fly.

Graham moved towards him, scooping up a heaving basin of steaming clam chowder with both hands. He stood over his fallen rival and ceremonially ever so slowly poured the boiling broth with seafood chunks and a nice smattering of veggies onto the fetal body, now screaming from burning.

Arlo writhed, dog paddling in potage. They surrounded him, standing just behind the victor, everyone watching as the fallen squirmed.

* * *

GOVERNMENT BY OBJECTIVES

The GBO, as it is called, was developed by Arnold Doukhobor, arguably the most influential political thinker of his time and certainly the most widely read, with over eighty books credited to him. Doukhobor’s five basic principles of government — setting objectives, organization, motivation and communication, providing performance targets, and citizenship development — paved the way for the Unified Social System (USS). The central purpose and accomplishment of the USS was a cohesive power structure. In the past, government and business competed for much of the same power and control. This, according to Doukhobor, intervened in both institutions ability to grow and manage citizens/employees efficiently. Doukhobor envisioned a government of CEO’s and presidents of industry, an economy of politicians and representatives. There would no longer be two forces fighting for the time and energy of the citizens/consumers, there would be one, general power that would control all aspects of their lives, a truly Benthamian system.

Doukhobor’s theory of GBO was gleaned from 20th century management strategy and his experiences as an advisor of the grand chancellor’s office. He advocated a plan that assigned representatives from local districts a profit center and set targets of 18 % return on sales and 40 % on investment to achieve. These targets were non-negotiable and those who failed to meet them were incapable of running for re-election. Representatives adopted partnerships with local employers, hiring management as advisors and assigning their staff to key positions in the companies. Doukhobor believed that a government is ultimately judged by its ability to provide for its citizens, how it profited them and what it lost for them, no matter what its other advantages or contributions to the community. He further stated that with a strong consumer base and high profits, all other purposes would fall into line. Government goals, he reasoned, should be divided into a list of objectives and targets to be attained and each assigned to consumers and citizens. GBO would then ensure that each individual in an interlocked society would perform efficiently. They would be both consumer and provider, their own financial success would depend upon this two-fold position. They must produce as well as consume. For Doukhobor, government was an extension of the worker and had the same purpose, it must provide for its citizens while at the same time it must perpetuate its own survival by consuming. The only way he believed this was possible was through a partnership between government and business.

With the success of the GBO system, the barriers between the two institutions were blurred. Doukhobor realized that government had a monopoly on the rules of society, it determined the laws and what penalties followed when they were broken. There was no competition for the state and thus, it did not perform as efficiently as it possibly could. There were bureaus that funded art programs, which had negative profit returns; there were departments that focused on environmental studies, which made no money for the government or its citizens; there were small caucuses that oversaw schooling, farming, the citizen’s physical and psychological well-being, population statistics, wildlife, children’s welfare, etc. but none of them made any money for the system. He was quoted once as saying: “If something has no monetary value, as determined by the consumer, than it has no value at all. Nature teaches us this, as even the human body is worth something. However, we know that it must be separated in order to have a market, so we sell off the pieces and throw away the rest.”

Doukhobor worked to remove frivolous expenditures and to streamline the purpose of government, realizing the Schumpeterian route it was naturally taking. He highlighted this in his famous five points speech. All citizens, he said, were entitled to expect from their government: safety, financial possibilities, structure, basic human rights, and lastly, harmony. These, Doukhobor argued, could only be provided by a government that was business based, a government that focused on profits and targets, a government that provided jobs and expected efficiency in exchange. Doukhobor wrote in his immortal Penny Thoughts pamphlet: “I am not a citizen and a consumer, two things that conflict with each other, I am a worker for the world, I am a consumer of the world’s productivity, I seek goals and I attain them, I work for my government and my government works for me.” He correctly reasoned that an economically powered government could provide all of his five points and that these would be accomplished not by force but by the natural progression of a successful business plan. A well-developed plan, he showed, would provide structure and possibilities, which would in turn provide safety and harmony. Once these were in place, basic human rights were inherent in the system.

Doukhobor’s USS was realized eight years after unification. The structure of the new world government would be based upon his model, with a board of directors, a president, a CEO, and a matrix management system that stretched down into every citizen’s home district. These men would be chosen based upon the capital gains of their businesses every four years. Powerful companies like Immunex, Global Tech, Barringer’s, FullSafe Insurance, and others, would be able to appoint board members from the highest echelons of their companies. These men would make up the world’s board of directors and amongst them would be chosen the CEO and president. On a curved scale, each business would be allocated a position in the government. If a company had a billion numbers in profit, they would be capable of appointing a manager of a particular department or a member of the senate. If a company made one million digits a particular year, they would be eligible to post a representative from a state district, and so on.

To ensure the union between capital and government was always transparent, and because many representatives were in essence advocates for a number of private firms, they were required to don patronage suits whenever they conducted official business. These suits were generally dyed a primary color, covered the wearer from head-to-toe, and carried the symbol of each of their corporate sponsors, that way citizens knew immediately from which company or companies an official represented. As the program progressed, most bureaucrats took to the custom of having the primary corporate sponsor’s logo placed in a significant spot (say square on the back) and much larger than any other, with secondary sponsors having their icons smaller, inferior sponsors ever smaller, etc. until their suit was nearly covered in corporate transparency. In this way, no one could ever confuse their motives nor argue they were unaware which entity’s interests they were advocating.

For his accomplishment, Doukhobor was appointed the first grand advisor to the first Chief Executive Officer.

* * *

He, with whom we are well known, although not mutually, as it were, wakes (purely coincidentally) in the warmth of flannel covers and rightfully acknowledges the ceiling. As previously suggested, it does not escape his attention that he is the composer of a particularly lengthy opus that has yet to be smoothly placed within the entire score and focuses his attention on the twisted hands to ensure he is not missing anything. He has previously and lazily missed the daily premiere and has never forgiven himself for it, as it is a lengthy operation in which he receives a tissue feast engorged with potential and further fodder for his creation. He lies motionless, despite the promises of the on-screen divinity exposing her flesh in a myriad of movements that applaud the day, unable to convince himself to leave the sanctuary of his bed, if she be an Esmeralda, he is perfectly willing to behave in a camel-like fashion. He can feel the cold air of the room on his arm, lying on top of the covers and remains motionless, as if the apatetic vision of her caught within the screen was an admission of his future apostate situation. He runs his other hand over his crotch and itches the spot between his anus and scrotum while he considers the habromania that will surely follow. The flannel slides against him and he begins to rub himself against the sheet.

A woman is removing her shirt. A girl is running on the beach, he can see the profile of her body. She does not notice the bikini riding up, the flesh of her taut cheek slowly exposing itself to the sunbathers. A nameless woman lifts up her shirt for a second, he captures the image of her breasts. The dancer bends down, her legs apart, her buttocks in the air and sweeps her naked chest in front of the audience, teasing them. She springs back up, folds her knees and begins to slither towards him. Her expression is a mirage, she wants my paycheck. No, she wants me. She wants me to take her in my car, after she’s done with all the others. Yes, she wants it. She’s on top. Her head’s banging against the glass, her breasts rocking back and forth; she’s screaming how great it is.

With this assistance of a small cube of tissue, he is free to depart and enter the conscious firmament, a place where the good (in the strictest of senses, as defined in the Manual) listen and watch with attention to the personal affairs of others for what are intended to be purely Watsonian purposes. She is still languishing in the room, the dark men holding watch over, a promise of violence echoing within her subconscious even as they remain in statue positions. He can see the folds of the covers, the contours of her body framed by the blankets, the rhythmic movement of her breathing softly. He runs his fingers over the screen, feeling the small shock of static electricity and she moves slightly so that he recalls his hand, Heisenbergly. She felt me, a giant ghost hand probing her in her sleep. No, she is still in the corner, a dunce hat on her head and the dark men spying on her from within shady goggles. They have chained a wolf to the door. There is a ghost circling overhead, chasing the arms of the fan that seems to please the dark men, who watch her shivering like a haptodysphoriac covered in wool. Wake up darling, wake up. She turns and presses a button on her alarm clock. She lies back down and slides back into the room, where the dark men are waiting with the wolf and the ghost, eyeing the way the cold air affects her body. This is the third time she’s had this one. He returns his fingers to the screen. She raises, her dark hair pressed up in a spider web tiara, her face still swollen from the night. Her arms are bare, her legs are naked, her shoulders are exposed. She has a gray gown on that flows down to her knees. She puts her slippers on, left foot, then right and disappears into the bathroom.

He rummages angrily for the missing remote control, tossing magazines and envelopes about before discovering it between two couch cushions. It had fallen off his lap last night when he’d fallen asleep in front of the screen — the image of her sleeping. He finds the right room, the second floor bathroom and clicks on the prompter, magnifying it so that it fills the screen. She’s already undressed and began her shower. He can see the abstracted silhouette of her bare body, the dark triangle of her crotch, the round protrusions that drip out from her chest, the arching curves that leave her belly and begin her legs. She looks as though she is the window of a church, a saint eulogized in glass. She moves quickly, he can see her shaving her legs, her armpits, her bikini line. He can see her scrubbing her face with special soap. Then, she turns off the shower and reaches for the door. He waits. She puts her hand on the door and pushes it open. His mouth opens slightly, a bead of spit drops from his fang to his lower molar. She steps out of the shower and he sees her, entirely. He has a few, uninterrupted moments of her as she dries herself with a towel. He watches her bend to dry her heals and shins, he smiles when she stretches to dry her hair, her legs apart, her arms over her head, her entire body flexed toward his camera. He pushes a button and it freezes her, standing there, in her bathroom, naked. Then, he saves the image and returns to her. She wraps the towel around her head and begins her morning routine, brushing her teeth, lathering lotion onto her body, wiping deodorant on her armpits, brushing her hair.

He clicks the controller and watches as she re-enters her bedroom. What shall we wear today, dear Beatrice? His name is Captain Vincent Belacque (Belacque Fresh Seafood Importing), he is an information officer with the Section 6, stationed outside of Fort Cannes. Captain Vincent is a legend in the Bureau of Information Containment, a subsection of the Department of Internal Affairs and Social Tranquility, which is one of the twelve branches of the Cabinet of Ministers Office, which is directly under the Supreme Chancellors’ Office, who sits on the advisory boards for both the president and CEO. When he was a young cadet, first enrolled in the officer’s training program at Lindinsfarne, Captain Vincent had scored the highest devotional score in the history of the test. He was given a citation simply for his ability (which is to say that he had natural equipment that allowed him to accomplish some small part of the more callous ambitions [the desire to be vilified by enemies and made ridiculous by acquaintances {those people known well enough to borrow from but not well enough to lend to}]) and began his career under illustrious circumstances.

But, his Binetian test scores were not what made him famous, under study for his surveillance capabilities; the researchers found that Vincent could remember details exactly as they appeared. It had long been known that human observation was not a perfectly reliable source; often facts were missed, while conjecture and fancy were entreated with the utmost care. This was not so with Captain Vincent. The researchers had him in a dark room, with a window in which actors portrayed personalities in a particular setting, an apartment, on a city street, in an office building. The experiment gauged how well the participant could observe the scene and recall later specific objects, persons, and voices. A thick, felt curtain blocked them from his sight and then, the researchers lifted the screen for a set interval. The intent was for him to remember as much about what he’d seen and heard as possible. The average person would remember three things correctly and twelve incorrectly. One full sentence of dialogue exactly as it was spoken and the rest of the conversation incorrectly. Captain Vincent not only remembered all he’d seen and heard, he knew exactly how the actors had moved, what facial expressions they had worn on their faces, who had coughed, what soap they used, what they’d eaten for breakfast that morning, and, even more amazing, what they were thinking while they acted their part. The researchers were flabbergasted, they sped up the experiment, lifting the curtain for shorter and shorter intervals. But every time, without fail, Captain Vincent could tell them anything they wanted to know. Finally, the researchers stopped lifting up the curtain (acquiescing to the Rhinian affairs they were observing). Captain Vincent could still tell them what scene had been setup, who was standing on stage, what they had intended to say should the curtain be brought up, what they were thinking at a particular time, what objects surrounded the actors, how long it had been since they had each had sex, what medication each was on, from what region they were from, where objects in the mock scene were purchased, who was not very interested in their duties, which researcher had directed the particular setup, what kind of coffee he had that morning, where he lived, whether he was married or not, had children, loved his wife, loved a mistress, loved his job. Captain Vincent was thence known as Captain Memorizmo, a modern day superhero, a by-product of engineered evolution, the latest model of the human production industry. He was immediately assigned to the observation department.

Captain Vincent’s department was one of twelve branches of the government in charge of social harmony, known as the Sections. Their main function was to provide surveillance on questionable persons in the general population who had perked the government’s interest due to irregular behavior: a missed doctor’s appointment, refusal to take prescribed medicines, flamboyant attire (an obvious Loosian sin), emotional outbursts, thoughtlessness towards other citizens, women over twenty-five who were still single, person’s who had different grooming styles, men who dressed in women’s attire, women who dressed overtly in men’s attire (such as not wearing dresses or gowns at least twice a month), students who remained at college after they’d received a degree, people who yelled in public, accident victims, people who practiced devious sexual acts, consumers who had not met purchasing quotas, people who turned down coupon books, low interest rates, cash-back incentives, credit card offers, and major sales information, people who wrote letters expressing questionable opinions, people who did not vote more than seventy-five percent of the time, wives who had not given birth to at least one child by their second anniversary, salespeople who failed to make suitable commissions, people who did not follow preset purchasing goals and allowances, and any other persons that the director of the department determined through intelligence were not positively adding to society at large.

Captain Vincent was the second in command of the unmarried women chapter of the department. His team of eighty-two men kept on-going surveillance on thousands of women worldwide who were still not married and were above the approved age (a period when vices become reviled due to our inability to continue to commit them). Captain Vincent had taken over control of his current assignment when the subject had refused a third marriage proposal from a completely legitimate suitor. Her case was sensitive enough to warrant the department’s best man, she was a prominent figure in society and her thoughtless and anti-social activities were negatively affecting the community. Captain Vincent’s duty was to observe her and gather evidence so that Women’s Protective Services could acquire a court order for her to be married or face possible financial and legal sanctions, or even, possibly be a candidate for rebranding.

Captain Vincent’s previous case had warranted such extreme measures. Everyone knew a Mary Jo Kronus Cable, every neighborhood, at one time or another, had been forced to deal with someone in need of rebranding. They were the anti-social, the provocateurs, the questionable, the uncertain, the dangerous, the uncomfortable, and they had to be quickly, quietly rebranded in order to maintain harmony. Mary Jo Kronus Cable was a young woman who had a considerable trust fund from her father’s mining operations; she didn’t work, she was unmarried, she was lazy, and allegedly, of questionable moral values. Neighbors had petitioned representatives about her, they reported all sorts of accusations about the young woman. Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable, they said, often arrived home quite late in the company of several different men (observed by the varying types of automobiles parked in front of her home), invited them in and was seen kissing them the following morning; she was often surrounded by other women’s husbands during social engagements; she made a habit of retrieving her mail on Saturday mornings at exactly one p.m. in a drapey, sheer lace robe and many families observed various men always found a way to also be at their mailbox at this time; Mary Jo Kronus Cable, it was reported, never mowed her own lawn, cleaned the gutters of her home, or washed her own automobile, these tasks were always completed by various neighborhood men whom, it was said, were rewarded for their kind, neighborly services by Ms. Kronus Cable appearing to serve them refreshments or offer them a snack in a pleated baby-doll peignoir or, on certain occasions, in a silhouette sleep-shirt with nothing underneath.

Then, there was the case of Bobby Edwintech, a sixteen year old who fancied himself a bit of a handy man and who had posted small flyers on local telephone poles offering to perform menial tasks for small sums. Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable, at this time, was having her kitchen remodeled by a reputable contractor and had contacted Bobby about performing clean-up services for her. Bobby’s parents reluctantly, it was reported, allowed the teenager to accept the contract and he went to work for Ms. Kronus Cable. The parents of the boy, realizing something was wrong after the first day, were able to coax from Bobby a rather torrid episode that had occurred inside Ms. Kronus Cable’s kitchen.

The young man alleged that Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable had answered the door on his first day of work in a mesh chemise that allowed him to see her breasts and underpants. She put him to work picking up after the contractors (who were not yet finished with all their services); however, within an hour or so, Ms. Kronus Cable discovered that her sink was leaking and instructed Bobby to climb underneath and tighten a clamp between two pipes. Bobby, under duress, as his boss yelled at him to not let go of the wrench for any reason, soaking wet, from the puddle that had accumulated, as well as the dripping pipe, unable to maneuver, as he laid on his back within the cupboard below the sink, claimed that Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable, stilled wearing only lingerie, suddenly appeared at his waist (which was outside the cupboard) without any underwear on (visible due to the leopard spot inspired mesh of her chemise) and unbuttoned his pants. When the boy attempted to object, the owner of the home ordered the impressionable boy to continue holding the pipe so that water did not get all over her new linoleum floor and proceeded to pull his pants down to about his knees. Bobby, who had been taught to respect his elders and afraid of upsetting his new boss, complied with her orders even as Ms. Kronus Cable mounted him and began to gyrate against him.

According to the report, Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable then forced the young man to have sexual intercourse with her on the kitchen floor, his upper body still underneath the sink and still holding the leaking pipe. Afterwards, according to Bobby, she told him to never tell anyone and that if he kept their secret, he could come back every weekend and Ms. Kronus Cable would allow him to touch her and potentially, continue their sexual relationship. Bobby Edwintech, a respectable and vulnerable young man of only sixteen, wrought with guilt and uncomfortable lying to his parents, was unable to keep his promise and admitted to his parents the entire episode.

This altercation, along with several other reported subversive activities, initiated an investigation by Section 6 (who handled the case in the most Amesian of manners). After four weeks of surveillance, Captain Vincent gave the order to have Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable rebranded. Although the investigators could never substantiate any particular accusations (in fact, the altercation between Ms. Kronus Cable and Bobby Edwintech was later proven to be false, rather, it was shown that Ms. Kronus Cable had terminated Bobby’s employment after he exposed himself to her), Ms. Kronus Cable had turned thirty years of age and was not involved in a long-term relationship that could warrant a marriage proposal in the near future. Along with this, an agent who had gone to her door under the pretenses that he was selling vacuum cleaners, reported that Ms. Mary Jo Kronus Cable had made certain statements of questionable moral value during their interview and had asked the agent (thinking he was a salesperson) if he wouldn’t like to meet her some night for dinner, rather than waiting for him to ask her.

A week after Ms. Kronus Cable turned thirty; she was retrieved at her home and sent away. Three months later, she returned from her sabbatical a wholly new person, she mowed her own lawn, joined several local women’s clubs, baked cookies and cakes for neighbors, met a man and accepted his marriage proposal, threw out her lingerie, and made a general apology to her neighbors at their annual block party. Mary Jo Kronus Cable is now Mrs. Franklin Ortense (Ortense Diamonds and Fine Gems); she has one child and is pregnant with her second. There have not been any further reports against her.

Captain Vincent was in his sixteenth month of surveillance on Elisa Greene and already he had observed evidence he knew would assist the WPS. But, for some reason, he had not yet turned it over to them yet. Something made him wait. Then, one night, he had heard her on the phone. The original purpose of his mission had suddenly changed. If he reported the conversation, he would no longer be in charge of the case. It would be handed over to the Black-Ops Domestic Assistance Team, Section 9. Captain Vince was not ready to be off this case. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t convince himself to follow official protocol. He was making an exception for her, he did not know if he was helping her or destroying her…

* * *

She has caught a hold of me, I am not falling, I’ve stopped midair. I can feel her arms around me, the soft, dead skin of her arms supporting my weight. I can smell her body, her individual taste within my nose. She’s rocking back and forth, the motion of her wings, flapping so strongly against gravity. She is my bird of purgatory, I can feel her carrying the weight of suffering on her shoulders, it’s almost unbearable.

Day One: the sky is quaking with howls. Eruptions dissipate the clouds.

Day Two: it feels as though I’m caught in the grip of unbreakable chains and the wind stings my skin as though I’d been dropped into a great pyre.

Day Three: I’m shipwrecked in the air, no water, no food, only the screaming of the wind, as if it’s calling to me.

Day Four: I can see no light, only the darkness of the dungeon.

Day Five: A baleful deluge of air continuously bombards my skin. She is gone.

Day Six: The silence ends, I talk to the others. They’ve all fallen from the top floor. They’re giants, tormented.

Day Seven: I am imprisoned in the fall. She has left me, it is as though the earth is at the center and I am falling through it.

Day Eight: They are weeping, they are repenting, they are crying out for some penal collision with the earth.

Day Nine: I am the master of my own paradise, I am an angel over the city. I am an alien of the soil, this is my home. I will not rejoin the dirt, no worm will dine on me. I am an appetizer for rebellious angels.

* * *

“I heard of certain places where convicts are left to wait for pardon, sentenced to unknowable terms, circling ladders and falling down chutes, a colony of souls chewing on bones,” he ruminated Blakely.

The company scuttled explicitly to enlighten, “Oh dear, you’ve all fucked things up so fucking dreadfully, you have no idea,” the derelict dandelion-coronet turned, gesticulating inadvertently in dirty sublimity. “Like two loaded bastards contending for occupancy in your prime properties, outdoing each other with more and more perks and promises and bullshit… until one of you runs the other out of business… ‘cause there can’t be two 4-star hotels on the same block, and He’s got the old one, which just can’t compete with the big new tower going in across the street with all its fancy extras. So, He’s forced to close up shop. There’s only one perfect.”

Which, as if in answer to his absence, remaining hidden, unknown to any of us, until we could no longer wait to see…

“Only, you dumb fuckers never thought of the hereafter. What would happen to us… what we would do if He suddenly closed the doors and said, no-vacancy… we’re bums and bag ladies. Once you all built a better paradise, the ladders disappeared and now, there’s no way to go up. We’re stuck on the streets, prostituting ourselves to live johns we were supposed to guide. Unable to bribe or grace or work our way out… utterly, truly lost…”

“Oh my, I had no idea,” he blushes Kinseyingly.

“No shit,” wagging and flouncing indulgently so he’s reacted appreciably. “You were too busy with the construction, you never looked over to see the demolition.”

“But how were we to know?”

“Well fuck, where’d you think the miracles went… the holy men… the prophets? It served a purpose, if you take away that purpose, it’s obsolete. Just like anything else.”

“But there still was a purpose,” he offers Wilsonianly, for you.

“No, I had a purpose and that went away with it. My purpose depended upon serving its purpose. By following the rules, I could find my way there, achieve four-star status and all that. When you all demolished it, I had nowhere to go, nothing to serve, no purpose. A novice custodian with no one to guard, ‘cause all the sudden you fuckers didn’t need us… my redemption, which depended upon your peril, is null in a world where there is no hazard.”

“But you did appear…”

“Who knew a fucking seraph would attempt it… zap, I’m supposed to go back to work, with nothin’ to be rewarded with for my labor. Like the old procedures are still in place but the reward system is gone, why bother? Fuck it. I did. Let him jump. Better yet, fuck him… fuck him hard… maybe it’ll come back. Sin and all that…”

“So you’re trapped?”

“Me and about a millennia of others, all impatient and full of piss, locked out of heaven, dead, promised all our lives one thing, the bait and switch, only to find out another. You cock-fuckers couped and us ass-fuckers are fucked.”

“But what if it wasn’t?”

“Fucked?”

“Perfect…”

“It is, more perfect than a Nubian orgy…”

“If it lost its sheen, you could go. If there were one sin, the ladders would return. The purpose would return,” Augustinely peering.

* * *

To be truthful, Joseph had only been in love (a temporary malady curable by marriage) once, and it was not with his wife. It began with formal introductions…

“How can I know if I’m in love, I’ve only just met you?”

“You know you are in love immediately, it’s knowing if you’re not in love that takes a long time.”

She was, like him, just beginning her career. Joseph had worked at Immunex for only two years, he had a desk amongst many others in a large cubicle and was quite used to the synthetic woman from human resources bringing around new employees, for Immunex believed in creating a community of friends and sponsored several “socials” throughout the year, including book clubs, movie screenings, sewing classes, and bird watching outings. She stood slightly behind her guide, who stood at the gateway of the cubicle and in a general voice, announced to the busy men that here was Amelia Daio (Daio Motors), a new administrative assistant on the floor directly above them. She greeted them silently, a small woman with a new dress who would be just another face. Joseph took little notice of her, she was not immediately attractive to him, nor was her manner particularly appealing during that first introduction.

Amelia Daio was of a slight build, she had a straight, angular body with a meager chest that would never be mistaken for voluptuous or curvaceous, she had slightly darker skin than most, and raven’s feather hair. These attributes made Amelia hide; she blended into her surroundings, the perfect face in an audience. However, for all of her plainness, if it could truly be called that, there was a certain sexuality to her that was difficult to describe, and was subtly apparent when one was alone with her. Amelia’s fashion sense was varied, which is not to say that she did not dress like all the other women in the office, but that when she wore an outfit, it seemed to have been made for her and only her, tailored for her body, a shrewd hint of something more.

A clear pool of flesh exposed for a second, a sliver of her belly, her fiancé wants nothing else, he reaches out. She notices his hand hovering by her hip, his finger silently dipping into her shirt, running the tip against her side. He met her eyes, and neither averted their gaze, his hand gliding down her hip.

“Let me see your hands.”

“Why?”

“You have very nice hands.” Simone de Beauvoir said that was the highest compliment a woman could pay a man.

Her heart is knocking against her chest, when he realizes he can see a faint hint of her left breast, cradled in the ivory cup of her bra. She parts her legs slightly and does not defend her skin from his touch.

Joseph saw her for a second time at the café on the first floor of the Immunex building. He was eating boiled cabbage for his bowels; she had a tray of greens, and came up to him.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Yes. He assented politely; annoyed with her impertinence, now he would have to entertain her. They flipped through magazines, not eating, commenting on the articles. Joseph found her more witty than attractive, and he forgot about her as soon as their lunch was over. However, he stealthily began to think about her, those black eyes with no eye lashes, the waning moon shape of her face, the melodious voice that she employed when she was speaking to him of Minervan and amusing things accompanied by a wise grin, as though she knew before he could say that they were partners in something, something no one else was privy to.

He went to visit her two days later, after he had sat on his front porch well into the night imagining her lips against his own, imagining how they would begin to know each other. She was happy to see him, she smiled in a way that made her eyes widen, as if she was telling him a story. He made fun of her blouse, what he called “a bathmat”, and she laughed. He invited her to lunch and she agreed. They talked about feeling guilty, even though they were not doing anything wrong, they assured each other of that and it was disappointing. They had made absent (But heed the warning the sage hath said: / A woman absent is a woman dead) conversation, Joseph had not felt that manic bumblebee buzzing within his chest, he had not taken her hand or spoke to her of their secret knowledge.

The blouse toppled onto the floor, she was disrobing, more than captured images, she is giving up. The short black pants are crumbled at her ankles; she steps out of them like a bather appearing from within a pool. She moves away from her clothes, nude before him for the first time. He can see the aroma of her body, the inch he knows from sitting close to her, the small, scoops of flesh he’s dreamed so often of, the slim waist curving slightly and the long thin legs. She is lovely, he is unprepared, and she is against him, like burying his face in a bouquet of flowers.

* * *

About that time he was interrupted by her theatre, truly a Greek tragedy, if there ever was one, amidst the jeers of coworkers, during a second quarter profit party. Amelia stands pouting, her little outfit worn purely for Joseph, as he walks by her and joins a colleague to discuss the progress of his project.

She has said: “I went to lunch with Mineliss” after he asked her how her lunch was. She is listening to the speeches.

“…and it’s because of your hard work and dedication that this fourth quarter has been the greatest in Immunex history…”

He says benignly how much he likes her pigtails. She smiles with worried eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would upset you.”

“I tell you what, I think I’ll just let that be you and Mineliss’ gig from now on.”

“What?”

“Lunch.”

“Joseph, no.”

His Adam’s apple bobbles as he glances towards her, swallowing thickly. “Yes. I can’t share you; I thought you knew that. I don’t blame you, but I can’t…”

“It’s a phase, I’m the new girl, the one they’ve all just recently discovered. They won’t care about me in a few weeks.”

“No. You are assimilated, my dear. I can’t share you.”

They applause the rubicund jolly of the senior vice president’s antics in the front of the room. He has his hand over his mouth and his eyes are wet.

“We’ll talk about it some more, Joseph. I’ll come see you later this afternoon.”

“I don’t want you to come see me anymore. I won’t be just another person you visit, that wasn’t the point of any of it.”

“Oh, Joseph, come on.”

She will plead with him with her eyes. But he has already gone, moving swiftly through the crowd towards the door. To go after him would cause a scene. She turns just as Mike Mineliss wanders to her side. He will fill time, at least.

* * *

“…his vital signs are stable. He should come to at any moment, Mrs. Moore.”

Darkness. Only a faint flood of ghastly light, a shimmer of the sun; the sun that hung over the clouds as he ran towards the window. There are sheets over my body. There is a bed below me. There is a metal bar against my wrist. He opens his eyes to see his darling wife standing above him, speaking with a doctor.

“…the lacerations on his forearms, legs and chest should heal without scarring. He’ll be fine in a week,” the stranger said.

“Thank you doctor, thank you so much.”

There is a bouquet of flowers beside the window, in a vase, with a card. He has not read the card, he does not know the caring words it contains. There is a monitor he does not know the purpose of, with a red line racing across the screen.

“Joseph?” his wife pleads, in a desperate voice he’s heard before, in the night, when they have not had sex, when he has begged her and she has refused. Why would she prefer to fight? Why would she make so many excuses — I have to get up early with the kids, I didn’t sleep that well last night, I don’t feel well — and be so willing to stay awake to chastise him, to argue with him, to destroy him. You are the beast of my home. “Joseph, honey, my darling. It is so good to see you. Oh thank god… thank god this wasn’t our 15 minutes. Can you imagine? Our 15 minutes gone because you fell out of an office window and landed on scaffolding. It’s so good you’re okay… that we didn’t lose our 15 minutes to something like this… honey? Joseph?”

“Good morning.”

“It’s late, honey. It’s not morning anymore,” Mrs. Moore said, clutching his arm in a cliché of body language.

“Oh.”

“Do you feel okay, honey?”

“No…”

“Look, the office sent flowers,” she stared down at it, re-reading it. “They apologize for the senior who wasn’t there for your meeting. It seems that you weren’t on his schedule, some mistake by a secretary. Also, the janitor’s union has sent chocolates and an apology for the loose piece of carpet that you tripped on. They’re all so glad you’re okay. We’re so fortunate that there was that scaffolding there. Did you know that honey?”

“No…”

“No what? What honey?”

“It wasn’t scaffolding.”

“It was honey.”

“No. It was her,” he replied Berkeleyly.

“There was a window-washer’s scaffolding two floors below, you landed on it, after you tripped and fell through the window. They say it was a one in a million chance for you to fall through, but flukes happen. I’m just so glad you’re all right.”

“What day is it?”

“July 25th, it’s a Tuesday.”

* * *

The unfortunate subject, hidden icon of a voyeur bureaucracy, crushes the alarm clock that shrieks in icy resistance, awakened from a thick slumber of phantasm snapshots that predict the pedigree of her nemesis, even envision his post of sixteen screens, like a mythical hydra, while mixing in the musty breath of the wolf, who she has recently had a visit from in the neuron flints of her subconscious, if such clairvoyant abilities are to be believed, not from want of material, or wishing to debate the love-lust yearnings of the Brönte sisters. She is not alone in the house, the spectator of big bang debris shares this hobby with a local, who arrives in the rooster’s waddle light of day, knowing her mistress shall be unconscious, and strums the feminine phallic at the foot of the bed while dreaming of mediaeval mechanisms surrounding the object of her affliction. This morning, a lengthy licorice whip fashioned by braiding strands of the sticky candy, pulverizes the fleshy ovals of her hind, after tying her tightly to her bedpost quickly transitions into a circumstantial rape that unfolds rather mildly into a voluntary duo suck-fest that almost wakes up the sleeping beauty who’s unknowingly fisted her accomplice while chewing on her swollen left nipple, all while the camera goes in for a close up. The voyeur, witnessing in dry throat wonder, loses his perspective at this point, unable to shrug politely and continue based on the theatre, he invades the compound through the unguarded thicket of the garden walkway while the assistant quickly slips back down the stairs and the lady of the house finally rouses unknowing the spiral hairs littering her chest are not her own.

The camera lens of dispossession, having been left on automatic search, following her slight movements as she removes her flannel, Fall catalogue sheets from her body, chronicles a deleted third party in the room, as she, long legged, slouching, absent-mindedly, strolls bare-footed into the adjoining bathroom for a lengthy bath in hot, tumbling water. He, whose skin glistens like rocket fire from her proximity, a prey animal who’s scent fills the cocaine heat of his inner nostril, positions himself like a young Graham for the best damn show he’s ever apt to witness, as she, unknowingly moves just as he would wish, to later step in a creamy mush of anonymous origin on the linoleum floor.

She takes coffee from a carafe on a hotplate and adjourns to her studio to work on an autumn line for a small boutique. Elisa is not in charge of the entire collection, only the evening wear. As she begins to scribble over the template of the perfect woman, a figure that strangely reflects the artist who was clothing it, her guilty assistant enters with the announcement she has a visitor. Close behind Miss Hanley (Hanley Financial Services) is Graham, his coat over his arm and with a focused stare on his face.

“Good morning, Elisa,” he said as he entered, throwing his coat onto a nearby lounge chair and coming up to her drafting table.

“Well, Graham, what an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to the country?”

“I haven’t seen you lately, you haven’t been to mother’s for Sunday brunch for the last few weeks. I thought, as big brother, I’d come see if everything was all right.”

“Oh, come now. The only way you’ll ever warm up to me is if we’re cremated together.”

“Elisa, don’t talk like that. I care about you, you know that, that’s why I’m here.”

“I’d tell you I want to be alone, but you’re the kind of person whose presence doesn’t really affect that.”

“Is everything okay? You seem more boorish than normal,” Graham said.

“Graham, this conversation’s about as necessary as a fence around a cemetery. Why don’t you tell me what you want so that I can get back to my work?”

“I told you, I’m worried about you. I know we don’t talk all that much, but I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

“I don’t know what to say, that’s so sweet. I do have some things I need to talk about. You know, as a woman, I can’t take care of myself and I’m just so worried that I’ll never find anyone who will want me. I’m as lonesome as a bachelor’s toilet brush. I’m so unhappily unmarried, Graham. You know, I try, I do try. When I’m asked things that are out of the question, I always have the right answer. I know how to say ‘yes’ in six languages, just in case. When I meet a man and he asks me if I might be free a particular night, I always tell him ‘no, but I’m willing to negotiate’.”

“Elisa, I’m serious.”

“When my boss chases me around the office, I walk.”

“Stop it, listen. I’m trying to be serious with you. We’ve all noticed it. We don’t know why you’re tormenting yourself; you seem to enjoy your own sadness. We want you to be happy. Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes, I am taking them. No one said in what order, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, Graham, why don’t you toddle off now. You’ve done your job, you’ve expressed your concern, you look courageous and caring, you can go now.”

“Why won’t you let yourself be happy?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might be happy, that maybe I like my life just the way it is? Why do I need a husband and some meaningless hobbies to be happy? Why do you all think your way is the only way?” Elisa required Descartesly.

“So, you’re right and everyone else in the entire world is wrong.”

“Happiness is not an ideal of reason but of imagination.”

“I don’t know what that means. Listen, we’re a very public family. People look to us for right and wrong. You need to remember that, you can’t be selfish about this, you have to think of what is good for the whole, not just for yourself.”

“I know, Graham, I know it so well every time I look at myself in the mirror I feel a sudden urge to bow.”

“Would you take this seriously, I’m here to tell you that people are talking about you and they’re not saying positive things.”

“I’ll give this topic the respect it deserves, I know happiness is no laughing matter. You people don’t believe everything you hear, but it doesn’t stop you from repeating it.”

“We’re not saying anything that isn’t true, Elisa. Your lifestyle, this whole career of yours, it doesn’t make sense to anyone. I mean, you live by yourself, you don’t have any friends, you don’t talk to anyone without saying something nasty, you don’t have a boyfriend. You used to be so popular; I always figured you’d be married before you were twenty. What is it exactly that you’re doing? I don’t understand it, no one does.”

“Graham, brother, you have a narrow mind and a wide mouth. One would expect very little things from a man like you and gratefully, you haven’t disappointed anyone.”

“Okay, fine. Go ahead and sit on your high horse, go ahead and offend the person who’s here to try and help you. But at least listen to one thing, if you don’t want to be happy, that’s fine, whatever. But think of mom, think of how your actions make her feel, how she has to deal with it. At least try and make her happy.”

“I’m not one to waste my time shooting arrows at the moon.”

“So you won’t even try for her sake? Why don’t you speak English, for god’s sake?”

“I pay attention to the words I use for one thing. Secondly, I don’t worship her like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Graham, if you were any smarter we’d have to remove ‘savant’ from your title. Did you read any of those books you were assigned in college?”

“Don’t try to make me feel stupid, Elisa. I’m not one of your dutiful flunkies you run around with, I was world champion two years longer than you, and you were never even on Rob Them Blind.”

“Just because you can remember the date of the French Revolution doesn’t mean you understand what it meant, dear brother. I have no doubt you read all the books required of you, you’re problem is that you didn’t comprehend them.”

“What year was the French Revolution?”

“That’s my point, all that matters to you is that you know. I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer mine,” Elisa challenged.

“Fine. What is it?”

“Why does it matter when it occurred?” she Collingwoodly proposed.

“You don’t make sense. I realize that is the point, you’ve successfully changed the subject, but I’m not going to fall for it. We’re talking about you, nothing else.”

“I don’t send our parents a congratulations letter on my birthday like you but I do love to talk about myself.”

“All right, Elisa, enough with this. Here’s why I came. I will be moving into a new flat after I get married, the place I’m in now will be ready by the end of the month. We feel it would best for you to move into the city. So, I will give you my place. This house is going up for sale.”

“Why is it that I always feel like Jesus getting a kiss from one of his friends when you offer me something, Graham?”

“I don’t know. Probably because you’re incapable of accepting help.”

* * *

The machine swallows blues, pinks, all the whites, which there are hundreds of, purples, red and yellows, blue and whites, red and blue stripes, ovals, spheres, triangles, squares, rectangles, tubes, hexagons, pentagrams, tablets, capsules, pills, lacugens, gelatin caplets, ambules, and spews them out in their proper packages. This one will cure your heartburn, but you may experience nosebleeds, gastric discomfort, bloody urine, and cardiac murmurs. This small pill represses anti-social urges, this pill can knock out a heifer, this one’ll wake him back up instantly. These little blue one’s grow hair back from dead follicles, the red and whites induce blood flow to the brain and manage migraines. This one is called in the vernacular a calorie-eater, take one every two hours and eat whatever you want. You won’t gain a single pound.

Joseph was standing beside the conveyor belt, watching as a children cereal of colored shapes rolled down towards the sorting machine. He was holding a variety of them already. But he wanted to be sure. He picked up another six when the quality assurance/quality controller turned away to itch his ankle. Joseph decided he might have enough, just a few more. He got eight in one swipe, his children playing jacks.

In his cubicle, Joseph took out a bottle of mountain spring water that was tapped from a village’s faucet and took a long swig. Then, he stuffed the first handful of pills in his mouth and started chewing. More fresh water over boulders, a couple picnicking beside it, the woman’s slender fingers cupped as her wrinkled lips lap up a few drops, water from his jug (reverting to a Jamesian depiction). The second and third handfuls don’t taste as putrid and Joseph takes only a few sips from the bottle.

This is the story of an orphan. No, no, please do not feel pity, he asks only for your ears, not your heart, although if you’d like to express a few kind words of sympathy, why then, he might prolong the beginning so that you might share your thoughts, this is, after all, a democratic republic of some consequence, like flying aeroplanes dropping from the sky, their passengers are all shitting themselves, knowing that they are going to smash into a million pieces and be televised on the evening news and their Andy Warhol destinies were fulfilled only in their deaths, but of course he knows that Flower is one of these kind of prophets, the after-life nightgown sages of the religion of the kamikaze, who were also democrats, in that they voluntarily were chosen by the population for death against a giant battleship, that may or may not go down into the deep depths of Poseidon’s navel, which is a large trench that covers the entire Atlantis continent, which is currently submersed in legend and folklore so that certain sites can fill hours of programming with monsters chased from lakes by saints, hairy Lucy husbands who roam the dark forests of puritanical consciousness, as witnessed in Hawthorne’s deconstructed thoughts, mysterious alien visitors who construct pyramids on certain continents by employing ethnic slaves and teleporting brick and mortar higher and higher, so that they can generate a few shafts within the antennae that will point future generations towards where they may or may not have come from, because how would the aliens really know, since they’ve never actually stood on the planet before and don’t know any constellations, or that Galileo was ruined for what he saw in the sky, or that maybe their star burned out millions of years ago and is just now getting to the earth, and even worse than that it is shifting away from them infinitively as they sit there and try to explain to the dumb Egyptians why they’re constructing a big pile of stones in the middle of the desert, or the ghostly stories of sightings by housewives and curators of old, long forgotten, never visited national landmarks, where screens spin for no reason, but why don’t they make themselves known and why do they speak in one letter clues, are they just fucking with us, okay medium, tell her it’s her dead husband, only don’t tell her you know what my name is, ask her if the letter ‘s’ means anything to her, good, now don’t tell her that I died in bed, ask her if I died in our house, but I didn’t so ask her about forty questions in one minute, I guarantee one of them of them of them will be right, now I’m going to scare the Dickens’ out of her, but I won’t let anything that could prove my existence see me, so I’ll have to wait for this display news crew to leave, but just so they don’t think I’m totally full of shit, I’ll let the psychic they’ve brought with them feel my presence, which I think I’ll have be a cold spot…

I think I’m dying. What was I thinking? My wife will cry. They’ll find me foaming at the mouth, filled to the brim with so much shit they will won’t be able to pump it all out in six trash bags, which would be handy to be a cow, right about now, ‘cause they could pump one stomach and I’d still have one they’d probably miss and I’d still die, cows were holy, once, too, they replaced Jesus Christ on Mt. Sinai as the most high and there was a cult once that thought their mothers came back to life in cow bodies, and it was a big cult, like a billion people, so you know you’d go to heaven if you were a multiple stomach cow who was not pumped properly, even though the paramedics would do the best job they could, and my wife would be crying, clutching my lifeless, big cow body, although she might not have married me if I was a cow, unless, of course, say if I was a prize-winning cow that they decided not to cut up for family dinners because I was loved by a woman who would cry over my dead body, should I mistakenly take a buttload of pills at the office one day. One day I’ll buy her a cow so that she’ll have a companion after I’m gone, it will be a black and white one and she’ll never ask me to go out for milk ever again and we can just slice a nice piece of steak off the cow anytime we want, it will just make sort of a pleading mooooo sound that we’ll think is mighty cute as we pass the gravy to little Jimmy Somebody, our child of five years, except we’d probably get in trouble with the police for cruelty to animals, which I can understand, if the cow was still alive and I was cutting pieces of meat off of it, and they’re really serious about that nowadays, considering all the work the Graham’s have done, there’s even a special task force for it, which I should probably be quiet about, here I am talking about it and they could be listening to me right now, some sweaty guy with a tape recorder going in a lonely hotel room and my digital voice saying all sorts of negative things about cows. Of course they’d have questions about the pills, too, which I totally forgot about, my god, if they’re not pissed about the cow comments they’re probably sending people over right now since I’m abusing the drugs, I’m not even prescribed most of these pills, and I’ve been blabbering about it. Now, what did I say, exactly?

How long till they get here, is what I want to know. I should hide, run into the men’s room and make myself scarce for awhile, but that’d be the first place they’d look, it’s in all the movies, shit, I should have never started blaspheming those cows, I really wouldn’t like a steak if it was off of my pet cow, my wife’s companion, that’s not right, people who do that aren’t right in the head, and I didn’t take any drugs that weren’t prescribed to me by a certified doctor, which, oh god, now they know I’m lying, since I’ve just been sitting here talking about it for like four hours and now I’ve got that staged voice of someone trying to fool a tape recorder and they’ve probably got polygraph machines anyways which can tell when you’re lying and they know it already, I’d fail one of those as soon as they asked me my name, which is not to say that I use a fake name or alias or anything, oh god, Joseph, shut up, now they think you’re some sort of fake name using criminal who’s snuck into corporate PANGEA to extort somebody or steal or break something important, like a fax machine or the copier, can you imagine the havoc there would be without a copy machine, if all the buildings didn’t have one, ‘cause at first you could just go next door, cup of sugar please, kind of request, really, and there’d just be some inconvenience, but what if they didn’t have one either and neither did the next building and then, by that time there’s a parade of document holding pilgrims all on a quest for copies, and you see, I’ve done it again, now they know my plan, but it’s not my plan, that was Franco’s plan, he’s the anarchist, I’m just a director of keep goinghood, here, there’s a guy name Franco you want to speak to if you’re worried about the copy machine plot, they won’t believe me, I wouldn’t believe me, I’m lying, they just heard me come up with it, and now Franco’s probably pissed, he knows now that if anything were to happen I’d rat him out and he’s not even a bad guy, no he’s just the person I’d prefer to have go missing, but I’m sure he’s not missing, I’m not going to have him go missing, I had nothing to do with him missing, I was just speaking, um, rhetorically, I have no intention, nor have I ever caused someone to go missing, god Franco I’m sorry, I got carried away with it, I hope you’re okay, I hope they don’t pin it on me, this is just like that movie with that guy from that site, that was a good show until he left, anyway, just like it, you know the one where the guy threatens him outside the restaurant and then, the guy ends up dead the next day and all those people heard him threatening the guy and the cops arrest him and he goes to jail, it takes years for them to figure out he didn’t do it, oh god, they’ll be here any moment, and I’ve asked for it, I’m cutting chunks of live cow off, I’ve strangled my wife during a hardcore sex fest, I’m involved in a copy machine genocide plot and poor, poor Franco, he never saw it coming, but, but, the bastard was sleeping with my wife, that’s what I’ll say, yah, he was fucking her, and that’s why I strangled her, that was real, too, she’s probably still wrapped up in our bed sheets, the kids are sitting at the table waiting for her to fix breakfast and it’s afternoon, those stupid cow pinching leeches, those little demanding bastards, who’s going to take care of them once I’m in prison, with big mean men who want my ass for a vagina substitute, the pain of it, the sensation of that foreign object in your bowels, poor Franco got off lucky, I’ll tell you, the kids’ll just have to go live with the grandparents, old fuckers that they are, it will be perfect match, old fuckers and little bastards, they can all hate me in a collective cuss fest for what I did to mommy and daughter dearest, that was such a requirement, she deserved it, oh shit I’ve got to stop talking, this is my confession, he’s recording the whole damn thing and the jury’ll hear this later, what will I say then, it was the pills, those god damn pharmaceutical companies, they don’t care about side-effects, all they care about is the almighty buck, look what it did to me, it distorted me and now I’ve killed my wife, carved up my pet cow, god knows what happened to Franco, and something else, I can’t remember, you see, those pills, those fucking pills, except now they know my defense strategy, shut up Joe, shut up until your lawyer comes and gets you, this is going nowhere.

It is so dark this time of year. Are my eyes open? I think I’m in a coma. Oh god, I’m not going to die, I’m going to be stuck in a coma for two centuries, on a heart-ventilator and all I’ll hear is a beeping noise for the rest of my life, only I read once that coma people can hear what’s going on around them, so maybe I’d hear my wife come and visit me and my kids and my parents would come because they’d feel so guilty, who are you, I’ve never heard that voice before, but she’s weeping, she’s weeping so bitterly, and he’s trying to be a man, trying not to cry, only he can’t help it, you can hear it when he pronounces the beginnings of words, that short, sort of choking sound, it’s so difficult for them, they didn’t mean to give me up, they have met my wife and kids, they see now what kind of man I was, and they hate themselves for what they did, they can’t live with themselves, suddenly I hear a loud crash, they’ve held hands and jumped out the window, they felt so guilty about their leaving me, why did you do it, was I so ugly, was I too much trouble, maybe I don’t have a father, maybe my mother got knocked up by some roving salesperson of some kind and was kind enough not to abort me but she really couldn’t handle a child, not at the age of sixteen, or fifteen, or fourteen, that would be a disgrace, so she had me in a public restroom and dropped me off in front of the orphanage in a wool blanket and with a note that said ‘here is my lovely boy, I love him dearly but I can’t take care of him, please see that is treated well and that he knows one day how truly sorry I am’. Are you recording this? I think I’m on the floor. You see, I was under stress, none of this ever happened. I won’t be taken alive, damn you, do you hear me? I don’t think I’m making words. They’re probably inside my brain. They’re recording my thoughts, they know all about her. Run Flower, run for your life. They know, they know about you. She wanted it rough, I swear, it wasn’t rape. Tongue curved, against my lips. Soft skin, naked breasts. My fingers around her butt cheek. Other hand on lower back, her spine. She’s against me. Pushing. A bouquet in my nostrils, lying in a field of wild flowers. Her hand is on me, groping. She pulls me down. Rough. Fear nothing. Hurt me. More. Don’t stop. I want to scream. Hard. I’m wet. Make me cry. Fear you. Fear.

* * *

A curtain. That is sad, sad business. Someone is speaking on the other side. The audience applauds. Hurray for him who can make the masses drool. There are others around him, he feels them pass when they brush against his sleeve. What am I wearing? Hands against his back, pushing him. A cloak. He is moved towards the curtain. Some sort of hat, it feels like. The curtain parts and he is on stage. I think I’m naked underneath. The audience looks at him and begins to laugh. What is this? The man at the pulpit is clapping, grinning in a sort of mock reverence. He’s gesturing for me to take my position. Is it a speech? Why are they laughing? They are rolling in aisles, what did I do? Am I a comedian? This is simple business, then. The man has stepped down. He climbs the stairs of the pulpit and looks out at the swarm of unknown faces, laughing and pointing at him. He turns to make sure it is him they are looking at. Yes, no one else.

There is paper in my pocket, ah, my speech. He pulls it from his cloak, the sides parting. The laughter rises higher. What did I do? I’m naked; my crotch is exposed. They’re laughing at my nudity. I have a vagina. Tits, too. Big ones. I bet I could suck my own tits. They’re laughing, again. Did I just have a nipple in my mouth? My fingers, I’ve got to keep them out of there until I’m done speaking. I think I have an asses ears, how is my ass? A bit flabby, I think. Nice big hips, though. Did I just flash them my ass? They’re laughing. I’ve got to focus on the speech.

I didn’t even write this, some guy from Rotterdam wrote it. There’s a cup of wine, I’ll take a sip and gain my composure. Okay, let us begin.

I’ve always preferred the lyre to the flute; I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m modest, I didn’t even write this. It makes me sound conceited. A satire? Well, why didn’t you say that? I wasn’t masturbating in church, I was massaging it, I have a rash. I think they can hear me speaking, they seem pleased.

I’ve invented a lot of things from the sound of it. I hope it’s all true; I wouldn’t want to be brought up on charges. A god, so that’s why I’m an orphan. I don’t have earthly parents. Why don’t you just say ‘good things’, no one understands what ‘asses in lion-skins’ means for god’s sake. Where’s Flower? Can one woman rape another?

Some people might say this is slander, I’m sure those men are fine people. Should I be reading this? It seems to be going over well. God, I’m eloquent. Do you think they know I didn’t write this? I remember writing it. It sure sounds like my existence is advantageous; I’ve proven that without a doubt. Boy, there sure are a lot of people on my shit list. I hope they don’t take it personally. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I’ll be honest, I don’t agree with that one. I’m pretty stupid, comparatively, and I definitely don’t live a happy life. Are there really still philosophers? Now I know that this is all a joke, but really, I don’t have the right to be so irreverent. I don’t even know who Momus or Harpocrates are? I’m sure these ‘ecclesiastics’ are fine fellows. I’m going to be in real trouble when I’m done. How long is this thing? I’m a woman, though. This is strange. Have I been caressing my breasts this entire time? It’s true, I don’t like parties, nor do I have any friends to speak of, cheerio for that one. I never beat my wife, and do you really think crocodiles are capable of reason? It’s not love that binds us all; surely you know that, its tranquility. This is absurd. I’d rather be exploring this body of mine.

I’ll agree with that one, marriage, what a terrible institution. Am I still married? Would my wife accept me as a woman? That would put the fire back in the bedroom. How would I fuck her? We’d have to get some tools. Who am I?

Politics, what a boring topic. Go on, now. You can’t mix fire and water. I may very well know what is good, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. Think of the pear-stealing story, my man. I know I shouldn’t be touching myself on stage, even though they can’t see me, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. That is a horrible description of me, I have donkey ears for god’s sake, and breasts. I’ve got to stop touching them; they can see that.

Ass-kissers, nature, worship, good, images, yes, the community of goods, now that sounds like folly, teachers, okay, there aren’t any more of those, this is all null and void, there’s no religion, kings, whatever, war, this is all very dated, trees bare fruit, that’s it, there hasn’t been a poem written in two-hundred years, you fool. The dream and the cock, now that sounds interesting. Just the word, makes me…

Thank you, thank you, you are too kind. Thank you, bow, bow, clap along like they all had a hand in it, thank you, thank you.

* * *

An anonymous building, just one of many, two more just like it up the street, no reason to pay it any attention, move along now, no pictures… The sign outside says: “The Department of Social Tranquility” with an emblem directly underneath. The insignia is a circle cut evenly into twelve portions (like a very well sliced pie), two olive branches border the circle and there is the silhouette of a bird of some kind that frames the insignia (probably a raptor of some sort); within each of the twelve pieces of the circle are smaller emblems, which represent the Sections. There are no guards or fences around the building; it looks, for all exhaustive purposes, like any other office building in the city. The sign that reads The Department of Social Tranquility is off the road, set very close to the building, and slightly turned away from the driveway, as if it doesn’t really need to be there. It’s not hidden, not really, not when you consider that it is out in front of the building, but it is slightly, simply, inconveniently placed. No one who doesn’t work at the department needs to really know where it is, it’s not the kind of place that people stop by or come to visit or have any business with; it’s large, but not too big, it’s just another angular silhouette in the skyline; the architecture’s utilitarian, no one would take a picture of it for its aesthetic qualities, it doesn’t really stand out amongst all the other buildings, it doesn’t appear that much really goes on there either.

Not that its uninviting, Captain Vincent feels comfortable enough there, as he strolls down the stark white hallway with the grayish blue tile floor and the clinical walls. There are no placards or posters or pictures hanging from it, none of the doors have suite numbers or people’s names etched into them, and to the passive observer, it looks like a labyrinth of halls with the same door replicated over and over and over and over again (thusly, the agents call it the Puzzle Palace). All the floors look the exact same, but in truth, every three stories are devoted to a Section, with the department head and his administration (an ingenious abstraction of sloth feigning enterprise) occupying the top six. Captain Vincent, now that he thinks about it, has never actually been on any of the other floors, or he might have been, but he didn’t know that he was, because it looks just like the floor his office is on. Sometimes he wonders if he were to get off on the wrong floor and go to his office if he’d find himself sitting there or a man that looks just like him, with the same life and the same tasks, who’d probably look up as he walked in, wondering what his twin is doing walking into his office without knocking, with the same calendar on the wall (the only thing hanging from it, in violation of department regulation we might add), the same desk, the same gray filing cabinet with the top drawer that refuses to close all the way, and the same fan hanging limply from the ceiling.

When he first began working at the department, they sent along with his employment informational packet detailed instructions: “take elevator to nineteenth floor, step out of elevator, turn left and walk to end of hallway, turn right, count doors, the thirteenth door on the left, open and step inside, turn right, count doors, ninth door on the left, open and step inside, take right and follow the hallway to the door at the end, step inside, third door on the right” and Vincent had used these instructions for a full year, until he didn’t need to refer to them anymore and he could find his office without their assistance.

By now, Vincent knew exactly how to get to his office, from his office to the john, from the john back to his office, from his office to the vending machines, from the vending machines back to his office, from his office to the stairwell, from the stairwell back to his office, from his office to the cafeteria, from the cafeteria back to his office, from his office to his supervisor’s office, from his supervisor’s office back to his office, from his office to the ‘interviewing’ rooms, from the ‘interviewing’ rooms back to his office, from his office to Agent Tobias’ office, from Agent Tobias’ office back to his office, from his office to the conference room, from the conference room back to his office, from his office to the information containment library, from the information containment library back to his office, from his office to the lab, from the lab back to his office, and one or two other places (both ways). Everything else was a bit of mystery, and potentially (he’d have to look into this) off limits anyway (ID passes were miserly passed out for specific purposes only).

Once Vincent was in his office (he very rarely could be found occupying it — being primarily a field agent), he usually checked the view screens in the adjoining room, where thirty or so nameless, voiceless women (once in awhile he could hear someone popping gum) monitored the network and administered assignments. They all faced the same way, sitting in stadium style rows in front of the master wall, where two hundred large screens broadcasted surveillance and fed evidence into the Machine. Each woman had three smaller monitors in her seating area (there were small, plastic dividers separating the women), a keypad and connection switches. Elisa’s screen (not always on her case) was third row down, sixth from the left (Vincent gave the Machine a rather benign feed from three of his in-house cameras, none of which ever caught her doing anything but walking by or reading) and had been for the last twelve months. Her assistant’s screen (not always on her case) was the twenty-second row down, eighteenth from the right, only recently being fed into the system (and with no censorship from the captain). The two hundred or so screens flickered back and forth from different cases every six seconds (although the women could capture an on-going feed on their monitors if need be) and followed the surveillance of women currently under investigation so that at any time, while thirty or more women sat typing, plugging jacks into different connections, and monitoring different cases, a variety of different images appeared on the master wall, everything from sexual interludes (the six second switch always being halted) to showering to panty adjustment to masturbation (red light, red light) to peeing to sleeping to the mundane (such as watching sites or doing laundry). Vincent prized peering out at the master wall and watching, he could spend hours simply examining the screens, focusing on one, then switching to another, and over time, he’d grown to know the women broadcasted into the room.

But this morning, he didn’t have the luxury; he had to report to the director’s office (his supervisor) for a briefing of some sort. Vincent left his office and went to the end of the hall, where he took a right, counted nine doors, entered, took a left, counted six doors, entered, took another right, counted eight doors, entered, moving rather briskly, turned left, or maybe right, he turned left (sound of door opening and closing), counted (any doors look like they’ve just been opened?) four… maybe five… three, counted three doors, entered, went down the hall (faint voices, one of them could be Captain Vincent’s), yes, he went down the hall, door number six on the right, yes, he’s inside, and entered…

“As I said, Section 9 is up in arms about this.”

“Section 9 doesn’t have jurisdiction over this case, director. Section 9 doesn’t even have precedence, now if Section 2 or 7 were complaining we might need to explain ourselves, but Section 9. Tell them to take their petition and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“It’s not that simple, Captain. They have indicated that certain information about the subject has been withheld from your reports. They believe that should this information be exposed, we would no longer be in charge of the operation.”

“They always say that when they want to muscle in, director. I comply with the full disclosure ordinances, I play my operations by the book. This is all just politics and it’s wasting valuable time.”

Vincent, standing, Director Fitzgerald (Fitzgerald Fitness Worldwide, Inc.) sitting behind his desk, both men speaking over each other. Vincent knows what to say to the director, he knows because he can tell what the director will say before he does, and he has a ready-made response. They want to retrieve her, already, without his report’s completion. No evidence, just the length of his investigation… won’t be long now. The director has reservations — he’s concerned…

“Perhaps, you could share with me the current status of the operation?”

“Of course, we are currently in Phase 5. She is under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Nothing, as yet, has indicated to me or any of my officers that a Section 9 movement is required.”

“Haven’t you been in Phase 5 for longer than normal?”

“Yes, but my surveillance is not yet complete. I assure you, Director Fitzgerald, as soon as we’re ready, we’ll initiate Phase 6.”

“You’ve got to give me something to get Section 9 off my back, captain.”

Spineless… he should just roll over and let them butt fuck him… jurisdiction, he’s observing jurisdiction…

“They shouldn’t be on there in the first place, this has nothing to do with their operations. Nothing, as yet, has indicated to us that rebranding is required.”

“You haven’t heard or seen anything suspicious, something that Section 9 may have picked up in an independent investigation?”

Knows nothing… just weary… gullible (old trick), appease his concerns…

“No, not at all. She’s a recluse almost, she has an assistant, her brother came to visit her the other day and they had a fight. That’s about it. We need to gather more information, director. Don’t let those jug-heads in 9 push their way in, they’ll fuck up the entire operation.”

“All right, but you’ve got to speed up your mission control. I can hold them off, but as soon as they go to the magistrate and start saying things, there won’t be anything I can do.”

Insert team player lingo now…

“I thought we were all on the same team. How are we supposed to do our jobs when we have to worry about another section coming in and taking over?”

“9 is pushy, always have been. They think they own this damn department. That director of theirs, that Donahue, he’s a real S.O.B. We’re all in the same boat, my boy, every section in the department, trust me.”

Sympathy and just a little force…

“Fine, but if I see even one of those black-clad neandrethals come anywhere near my operation, I’ll bring him down and explain later. I can’t have them moving in, it’d ruin months of work.”

Vincent departs before the director responds, knowing that he has nothing more and would continue only for the sake of it, as the director has the right to do, he nods in such a way that communicates his subordination (a trick of plagiarized body language he’s picked up that causes the person it’s directed towards to feel as though they themselves waved him away).

* * *

“Are you ready? Okay then, sit down beside me. Ready? A long time ago, in a land not far from where you are now, there was a mighty king. Do you know what a king is? Sort of like a president. This mighty king was called Midas and he was sad. For the citizens of his kingdom, do you know what that is? Like a state. For the citizens of his kingdom were not happy and he did not know how to please them.

“King Midas sat on a giant tower and looked down upon his lands. See him up there? He sat for days and days, trying to think of a way to make his people happy. But nothing came to mind. Midas could not solve the problem and so, he sent for an ancient wizard named Merlin. Merlin lived in the city of the dragons, who were not at all mean or angry. They were nice to the old wizard because he made them pies and cakes. See him making the pies and cakes?

“When Merlin arrived at the castle, that’s a castle, he saw how sad the king was and offered him his best blue-berry pie. King Midas ate the pie but it did not help him. He asked the great, old wizard: ‘how can I make the people happy?’ And Merlin, who was truly wise, whispered the answer into the king’s ear. Not even the queen or prince heard. Midas was pleased.

“The next day, after Merlin had gone back to the city of the dragons, King Midas sent barons out with instructions to find a valley circled by mountains. Barons are like senators. After two months of searching, a baron named Mithra returned with the news that he’d found a valley that was encircled on three sides with mountains that reached beyond the clouds. King Midas was happy with this and he put Baron Mithra in charge of his plan.

“Baron Mithra rode his horse back to the valley with one thousand men. They began to build a giant wall around the valley so that it was enclosed. See them, they’re building a wall so that the valley doesn’t have an opening. After a year of building, the castle was complete. Baron Mithra went to King Midas and told him the good news.

“Within the valley, King Midas built a giant garden and in this garden he put all sorts of animals. But he did not put any mean animals. Only deer, raccoons, squirrels, giraffe, zebra, horses, antelopes, gazelles, elephants, cats, dogs, fish, and singing birds. The garden flourished in the valley and King Midas often wandered its grounds in harmony.

“During a festival for dads and moms, when everyone in the king’s lands were dancing, King Midas sent his soldiers to their homes. Their children were sleeping in their beds. The soldiers took the youngest child from every home. See them putting the kids in carriages. None of the children woke up because the wizard Merlin had cast a spell over them. King Midas had the children taken to his garden in the walled valley.

“When the children woke up, they were in the garden. At first, some of them cried. But the peaceful garden won them over and soon they began to wander through its forest. They picked fruit from the trees, patted deer on the head, played with dogs and held kitty cats on their laps. They were happy, they had forgotten their parents and the village they came from. See them smiling.

“Every week, King Midas stood on the wall of the valley and talked to the children. He told them that they were his children and that he was their father. They loved him. He told them that there was nothing else in the world except the garden and that they would be safe as long as they stayed there. They loved their home. King Midas looked down upon his new kingdom and he was happy. He was happy because his people were happy.

“After awhile, the children grew into young boys and girls. They played in the valley and loved their father. They often saw him walking on the wall of the castle. King Midas loved to watch his children playing in his garden. The children rode horses, played games, fished in the river, plucked ripe fruit from the trees, and slept under the stars. They had long ago forgotten their names and their families.

“When the children grew into adults, they had children of their own in the garden. They told the babies about their father, whom they called Böhme, and how he had made the garden for them. They told their children that there was nothing outside of the valley and that they were the only people. King Midas had taught them this when they were very young. The children learned to love their grandfather, who they called Papa Böhme.

“After many years, the children grew up too, and they had babies. By this time, King Midas was very old. He was tired and could only sit in a tower and watch his people. One night, angels carried King Midas away. See the angels carrying away the king? Isn’t this a nice story?

“Well, after King Midas went away, the people in the valley no longer saw him anymore. They asked for him to come, but he never did. They told their children about their father and grandfather and great grandfather, so that every child knew who had provided them with their home. After many years, the first children of the garden, who were now grandparents and some even great grandparents, were taken away by a flock of angels. Where they went, no one knew. But they believed they’d climbed the tower and were staying with Papa Böhme. They all wished to one-day stay with him, too.”

* * *

“All right, everyone, hold it right there. This is a robbery,” a man yelled as he paid the bus driver his fare and boarded the bus with three other people in a very Shawian posture. “Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt.”

The group was wearing Halloween masks and dark clothes, there was a hobgoblin, a wolf from a fairy tale, a friendly ghost, and Frankenstein. They rushed onto the bus and started ordering people around. The speaker, the wolf, had a machine of some sort strapped to his chest.

“You see this machine of some sort strapped to my chest? It’s a cold fusion bomb, anybody does something funny and I’ll push this button and we’ll all die. Are you ready to die for your socks and shoes?”

The passengers of the bus that morning, which was a Tuesday of all things, had never been in a robbery, they were not quite sure whether they were ready to die for their socks and shoes.

“Now, unless you want me to turn you into stardust, you’ll start removing your footwear. They’re coming with us.”

“We are the Dystopian Liberation Front (aside) and Worldwide Floral Syndicate,” the friendly ghost yelled. “Don’t mess with us. We’ve come for your shoes and socks. I just hope they’re clean,” he threatened.

The passenger’s of bus 5643 quickly removed their shoes and socks, and held them out as Frankenstein and the hobgoblin walked down the aisle. They gathered the items and signaled to the wolf that they were ready.

“All right, good job. A few more moments and you’ll have a story to tell at the next dinner party. Everybody’ll live and we’ll have gotten what we want.”

“What do you want?” a woman weeping blurted out Kafkaly as she sat rocking in her seat. “Why are you taking our shoes and socks?”

“Because you’ll not have them afterwards and you’ll have to walk the streets in your bare feet. Understand? Get those women’s stockings too, Frank,” the wolf ordered, pacing back and forth at the front of the bus. And Frankenstein and the hobgoblin stood menacingly over the women who had not forfeited their stockings.

“Give ‘em up, bitch,” the hobgoblin demanded. The women stripped them off of their legs and handed them to the robbers. “Got ‘em.”

“Now, we’ll be watching you, anybody who goes out and buys more shoes or socks or stockings or what have you and we’ll be a knocking on your door. Understand? Today you’re barefoot — understood? All right, let’s go,” the wolf ordered and the band of robbers ran off the bus, just as they had boarded it.

The passengers commuting that Tuesday morning, after the masked marauders had left, did not know what to say. They stared at each other, as if they wanted someone else to tell them how to feel. The driver, shoeless and sockless, stepped on the gas pedal and drove on. The people itched their ankles, looked down on their naked feet, and tried to understand why four men had just robbed them of their footwear. At the next stop, two women and a college student got on and noticed the new trend. You could see the college student contemplating whether or not he should take off his shoes and socks. But he didn’t. He simply folded his feet under his knees for the entire ride. As the bus continued, more people boarded and noticed all the naked feet, but they did not ask why. They simply watched as the naked feet slapped on the floor when a passenger got up to leave the bus. The robbery had been a success.

* * *

Elisa was standing on the sidewalk outside her new home, in the city. The house had been sold and the surveillance wired into the penthouse she was about to occupy. Captain Vincent was in a large white van down the street, watching her through the rear-view mirror. She was standing with her hand on her hip, wearing a short red dress and a thin chain around her neck. Captain Vincent knew that she was wearing black underwear that had doily fringes and a crimson bra underneath. He’d watched her shower and dress earlier that morning. Her last morning in her beloved house near the Steamboat Saloon.

Elisa was holding a brown handbag in her arms. All we need is a hood. The cameras are not on yet. The satellite link up is not ready. Elisa’s waiting for the moving truck, it’s late, very late. There’s a wolf upstairs, waiting for her, in her new bedroom. His teeth are dirty, long fingernail colored teeth with razors attached to the ends, all of them canines. His paws are corroded; his claws are black knife blades. She has seen the wolf before, she knows him. She prefers him, enjoys how he stalks her (the impulse almost Lawrencian). This is the granite forest; this apartment in the fashionable district was Elisa’s grandmother’s. She often visited when she was a child. But there was never a wolf waiting for her.

Elisa grows impatient and goes up to her new home to wait. She does not check the lock or check the closets. The wolf sits in the wardrobe closet in her room. He growls in anticipation. He can smell her coming close, sniff, sniff, sniff. He knows her smell, that smell that makes his fur stand on end. Elisa looks absently about the apartment, it will have to do. Where shall she put the bed? Then, she hears the growl.

This is the sound of crimson moons and the crackling of leather. She is bound and gagged, on her knees in leather underwear with studs pointing in. He has a bouquet of roses, hoists her up by her arms, hanging behind her back and whips her with them, the thorns tearing tiny lines in her buttocks and lower back. She’s crying, the tears welling in her clenched eyelids, dripping onto her toes. He has ravaged the roses, the petals are littering the ground below her, the thorns blunted or stuck in her skin.

The growl is angry. Elisa smiles and goes toward the wardrobe. The doors are closed; she knows that he is in there, in costume, furry, angry, ready. When she opens the doors he will rush her, overtake her, what big eyes you have, what big teeth you have, what a big dick you have…

What will you do to me this time?

Captain Vincent must wait for her to appear again. He can see her shadow in the window, an impression of her existence, but he cannot see into her home. For the first time in months, he cannot click a button and watch her move, watch her sit on the couch, watch her wait for the movers, watch her with the wolf.

Elisa puts her hands on the wooden knobs, waiting…

Captain Vincent calls Unit 2 and asks when the hook-up will be ready. He cannot stand being without her, not seeing her.

Elisa tries to open the door, but it’s locked. She can hear him inside, growling.

In two hours.

She backs away from the wardrobe, it is shaking.

The feed is ready for Maija.

The wolf is coming; the doors fling open, flying off their hinges.

She’s not home, though. She’s on her way to help Elisa.

His yellow eyes and dirty teeth are coming. Elisa tries to run, but she cannot get away, not in high heels. He pounces on her, knocking her down. She’s on her hands and knees. She claws at the wooden floor, trying to pull herself away. He holds her with one arm, keeping her below him. His claws grip the neck of her skirt and tear it. He stuffs one long nail against her, pushing through her underwear. She writhes; she swings her elbows and wriggles against the floor. He turns her over, holds down her arms and sits on top of them. He grabs her skirt and tears open the neckline, grabs her bra and yanks at it, trying to pull it from her body. She shifts under him. He bites her bra and breaks it, exposing her breasts. He licks them with a carnivorous tongue, nibbles on them, sucks on her. He moves off of her arms. He tears the rest of her skirt, until its split in two and falls down the sides of her body. Only her underpants covering her, she tries to cover herself, but the wolf swoops his great maw down, reaching for her breasts. He sniffs her crotch, and when he puts his nose against her, she wriggles. He pushes two large claws against her and tears her panties down her body. She’s dying for him to do it.

“You have to say it. I’ll just keep going unless you say it, Elisa.”

She whimpers. He holds her hands over her head with his fingers around her wrists and spanks her, pushing her against the wall.

“Say it. Say it.”

He presses himself against her cheeks and nibbles on her neck, takes a paw-full of her breast. She spreads her legs and leans back against him, shimmying her hips. Already, she can feel him pawing at her insides. She can smell his breath against her neck.

“Say it, Elisa. I will keep going until you say it. That’s the rules. Say it.” The wolf spins her around, her whole body covered in sweat. She is exhausted. “Say it. Say it.” He licks her lips. “Say it.”

“You can have the goodies…” she pants, her chest heaving, “you can have the goodies in my, in my basket.”

All right. He pulls her towards him, straddles her, and pushes inside her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his snout between her breasts. She moans and takes off his mask. She kisses him finally. Lays her head back against the wall and opens her mouth. She cries out, screams, moans, grabs his shoulders and pushes harder. He speeds up. He violently pushes against her, within her. Her voice, in a guttural collapse of words, seeps out in a long groan and he collapses on top of her.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Graham Greene was no longer embarrassed about his attempted meeting with Haddie Springfield. He’d absolutely forgotten about it when she called to apologize. “Well that’s fine, my dear. I only wanted to ask your opinion on some material I was going to buy for my sister. You know, she’s a clothing designer. Yes, she’s moving to the city next month. That would be very nice of you, she needs friends. Oh, we’re going to sell that place. I would love to have dinner with you. Yes, I’ll bring some wine. Seven-thirty would be fine. I’ll see you then.”

They were engaged two and a half weeks later with both families’ blessings. Graham believed his plot had worked. Haddie believed her plot had worked. Both were very happy. The newspapers were happy. The magazines were happy. The world was happy for Graham Greene and the future Mrs. Graham Greene. There were only a few people not happy with the news, since Graham was a celebrity; there were those few women who thought one day they’d marry him. The news of his engagement was quite a blow. But, there was always the chance of divorce; you know how celebrities are. Graham left the arrangements up to his mother, fiancée and wedding coordinator. His only requirement was that it be grand, that it be a fitting ceremony for a Greene wedding. Of course, it would be on screens. It had to be a Vasarian spectacle. Haddie had to be Cinderella and Graham had to be Prince Charming.

A castle in the Bavarian Alps was chosen as the venue. Bella Umgrililo, the famous cook, was appointed as the head chef. Graham would wear a Victorian suit with a silk tie. Haddie was having her dress designed by the House of Templar, the most exclusive designers in the world and George Van Santi would work on it personally. The wedding would be carried by all nine hundred sites and would be a two-hour special right after the World Serenity Bowl. Haddie would look innocent, yet appealing. Her ivory gown would be long, flowing, and modest. But, the neck line would allow for glimpses of her breasts, her arms would be bare and she’d wear frosty thigh-high stockings so that when they time came and she lifted her dress up there’d be some skin for the viewing public to see. Michelangelo Tijuana was doing her hair and she would appear to be wearing a crown. There would be sweepstakes for six lucky citizens to attend the reception. It was the most talked about affair in recent memory. Graham Greene, the most eligible bachelor in the world, was marrying Haddie Springfield, daughter of one of the richest men on the face of the earth. The entire country was holding their breath. How exciting!

* * *

“Graham Greene’s getting married to Haddie Springfield, of the Springfield shipping empire, honey. Can you believe that?”

“No.”

“It’s so exciting. Can you imagine how much they’re going to spend on it? Why the flowers alone will probably cost millions. I can’t wait, it’s going to be on every site.”

“What happened to me?”

“The doctors aren’t sure, honey. Somehow you had 9,000 milligrams of medication in your system. They were hoping you could tell them what happened. Their current theory is that somehow you’re lunch was infected.”

“So, I didn’t die.”

“Well, you almost did. You gave us quite a scare. You’ve been so unlucky lately, honey. My word, I mean falling out of that window and the steak knife incident and that head-on collision in Ralph’s car. My word, honey, we’re lucky they got to you when they did,” Norma Moore said Aristarchusly.

“Why?”

“Because they were able to pump your stomach and induce counteractive inhibitors into your system in time. A few minutes later, well, you can guess. Just sit back and take it easy. The company’s sending over flowers and an apology, they’re looking into the infection, there’s an investigation going on.”

“Okay.”

“What kind of dress do you think she’ll wear?”

“Who?”

“Haddie Springfield, she’s so attractive, don’t you think,” Joseph’s wife asked, holding a magazine article in front of him.

“Yes.”

“Prettier than me? Do you think she’s prettier than me, Joseph?”

“Yes, you’re an ugly cow. She’s an angel.”

“Joseph! How can you say that? The doctor’s told me this might happen, it’s okay. I know you don’t mean it, it’s just the drugs.”

“It’s not the drugs. I’ve always thought you were ugly. I just married you because no one else wanted me.”

“Joseph, please, honey, try to control yourself. Don’t say mean things you don’t mean.”

“I won’t. Why don’t you go away, now?”

“Why? I’m not leaving your side, Joey. You need me.”

“I need you like I need to hear about all that shit in that magazine.”

“Joseph!”

“I don’t care if Graham Greene’s a pedophile and he’s marrying his favorite horse. I don’t care if he’s marrying the mayor. Who cares?”

“I care. You should care because I do. We should care about each other’s interests.”

“I’ve been having an affair.”

“What? With whom? When?”

“Her name is Flower.”

“Do you work with her?”

“No, she’s my guardian angel. I tried to tell you about it before but you wouldn’t listen. She comes to me and we have rough sex. She talks like a sailor and she loves me. I think I’m in love with her.”

“Jesus, Joseph. They told me you’d act like this. It’s okay; I can handle it. It’s the drugs.”

“No, no, it’s not. I’m fucking Flower and she’s cumming every time. I’m trying to kill myself, you dumb bitch.”

“I can’t do this, I’m getting a nurse. Stay there, Joseph. Don’t worry; I don’t hate you. You don’t mean it. There’s no Flower; it’s the drugs. Stay there.”

“There is a Flower!”

* * *

Arthur Dodger and two other men were in the back of a van, with a fourth driving and fifth riding shotgun. “Two minutes,” the passenger tossed over his shoulder. The men in the carriage began to suit up. Arthur placed his mask over his head, cocked and ready to go. He dove into his bag to check his equipment. “Book?” “Check.” “Mask?” “Check.” “Radio?” “Check.” “Alright, remember guys, in and out. We do this and we’re out of there. No lengthy stay, just a quick job and we’re back at the house.” “We’re at the park,” the passenger hollered. “Alright, ready?” “Let’s do this.” The van lurched towards its preset position, a small compact car zooming away conveniently just as the van approached. “Space is open.” The passenger leapt out and slid the side door open.

Dodger and the two men poured out of the van and jogged towards the center of the park. One of them veered off at the fountain with the ducks, while the other turned at the statue, while Arthur continued on towards the main thoroughfare. Several groups of people were picnicking on nearby lawns, walking along the lengthy path towards the park’s man-made lake (complete with swans, ducks, and geese), jogging, riding bicycles, and other exercise-related activities. Arthur ran across the lawn towards the apex of four of the paths, where several large groups were sitting and a lot of foot traffic would be present, and pulled his wolf mask down over his face. From a hedge nearby, he pulled out a wooden box and placed it near an ornate lamppost. He stepped up onto it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, just a moment of your time, if you please. Here you are, enjoying a beautiful day, but let me ask everyone of you to consider the question: are you truly free? Can anyone of us be truly free when we are controlled, from birth to death, by an enormous invasive machine, with no face, no accountability? I say no, I say we are lulled into this quasi-tranquility under the pretenses of harmony, yet we give up too much for it. It is our right to pursue happiness, our version of happiness, not a democratically sanctioned version of happiness, not a homogenized, same for every person version of happiness. But our version of happiness, our version of what is that which makes us, each one of us, content. Does working yourself to death for more and more useless things make you happy? Does following all these rules, all these procedures make you happy? Why are these in existence, do any of you believe they are there for our happiness? No, no, they are there to make us believe we are all rocketing towards the ultimate place, the realm of harmony? But is harmony reasonably our ultimate aim, or is our own happiness, collectively the general good? Do you wish to live a life of bought and bartered for happiness? Someone else’s version of what would make you happy? Why must we consume, buy more houses, buy a new car, buy more boats, buy more electronics, buy more, buy more, buy more, buy more… Why is it that insurance is mandatory, why is it that we’re all on drug regimens, why is it that we allow our government to determine when we should marry, whom we should marry, how many children we should have, and how often we should have them? Why is it that we allow them to engineer our children as if they were computers, to wean them on drug cocktails, to infuse them with their ideals and not our own? Who amongst you wishes to live a perfect world that is only perfect because they force it to be? Is that utopia? No, I say, no, we must forge onward, for it is possible, we can achieve perfection, but not this way, not with our liberties stripped from us like we’re pets, as though we’re children that just don’t know any better. We must work, do not accept the chains, regardless of how lightly they bind you. For only through our continued attempt at a true, libertine paradise shall we ever evolve beyond apes.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“I beg you, my fellow citizens, do not go gentle into that good society, do not just accept what you are given but fight for what you deserve.”

“Code red, Johnny’s on his way, I repeat, Johnny’s on his way, Code red.”

“Dream large and live beyond your means. Accept what you need and ignore what you don’t. Think on these things and ask yourself, is this really perfect or is it’s just a perfect marketing scheme?”

Arthur leapt from his perch, threw the box back into the bushes and ran back the way he came. The crowd had not said a word during his entire speech, they remained motionless, unable to process what they were hearing, confused by the spectacle, unsure what they should do, think, or react. They were bewildered.

“How’s my route?” Arthur asked the dispatcher as he ran, unmasking himself and tossing his brown coat into a nearby garbage can.

“Good, they’re coming from the north. Keep moving; they’re onto you. Keep moving.”

“Where?”

“We’ve got two cruisers stalking our position. Keep coming towards us.”

“Where’s my backup?”

“Right with you, west and northeast. Just keep coming, keep moving.”

Arthur moved quickly through the crowds of people, no longer running but maintaining a constant course towards the van’s position. He could see two agents flanking him, but wasn’t sure if they knew it was him or were simply checking all exits. Arthur kept moving, he joined a small group as if he was member and was trailing behind them slightly. His backup arrived and motioned that he’d give Arthur an opening. He addressed the agent as if he was an eyewitness to the event and Arthur slipped out of the park. He moved towards the van, but was signaled not to board, so he walked passed them and down the street towards the second pickup spot. The van pulled out, followed by a tail and went towards a nearby freeway entrance. The two backups remained in the park until the agents had given them permission to leave. Arthur went into the first café he saw and had some coffee and a large piece of apple pie. He wasn’t sure if they knew it was him or not. He didn’t want to go back out onto the street yet, not until dark. He clicked in the proper code into his radio and waited for dusk.

* * *

It’s a stock-market Tuesday, the second saddest day of the week, behind Monday, of course, since Wednesday is almost Thursday, which is the day before Friday, which is a day he can manage, considering all he has to do is make it to five o’clock and then, well then, he has to cope with the weekend, but at least he’s not at work, he can say that at least. A Tuesday is no one’s birthday, there are no government holidays on Tuesdays, Tuesdays are always just another day, even when he’s on vacation: “oh, it’s Tuesday, we’ve still got four whole days left”, it is the most neglected day of the week. This Tuesday, a stock market Tuesday, with things important for only an exclusive few appearing from time to time, but otherwise, same old, same old, the sky is overly mixed, appearing gray, but not noticeably gray, not: “hey, do you think it will rain” gray or “boy, I think it might clear up” gray, just gray like a crayon, non-judgmental gray. The sidewalk is still recovering from the night before, Monday night, when the inclement temperature dropped and the moisture in the air became ice on the pavement so that every so once in a while someone stepped on a patch and keeled over right in front of everybody in one of those humorous: “oh my god I’m falling, must catch my balance, break my neck, whoaaa” falls that erupt without notice, forcing the unfortunate person to flail their arms, scramble their feet, make funny faces, and embarrass themselves involuntarily, or causing some random motorist, not paying attention, but taking a few moments to sip their coffee, or fix makeup, to slide out of their lane and into on-coming traffic (this was Joseph’s excuse after all, after he’d driven Ralph Cinn-Cola’s car into a truck going the other way, which is why poor Joseph can be found walking to work after taking the train in), attempting to correct their folly, while remaining on the ice, so that they veer strongly, too strongly, turning their car like a top, three hundred and sixty degrees three times, out of control, of course coffee goes everywhere, burning hot coffee right on his lap, a big streak of bloody red lipstick across her cheek, before hitting non-icy pavement and grinding to a “holy shit I thought I was dead, am I alright, I almost died” stop in the middle of the road, other drivers passing, shaking their heads, thinking how absurd he looks as he steps out of his car with his pants all wet, steaming, like he pissed himself, or how desperate she appears with that tawdry smear of rouge skidding up her profile, that wild, doe-eyed, near death (but not really) look of “someone please stop and comfort me” until someone finally does, some grinning handy man who’ll look over her car for her and say: “its fine, no major damage, just a scare” to comfort her and get her to wrap her arms around his neck again, because it was so dramatic “I thought I was dead”, that smell of perfume, that half-made face mimicking the look of a woman after love making (subconsciously), when her makeup has leaked, her lipstick been deluded by saliva, her eye shadow and blush disintegrated by sweat and friction. “No problem” he says, as she collapses against him melodramatically, furthering the fraternal dominance, until he can get her to “just calm down” and she takes a moment, the first moment of consciousness, to check herself in her tiny vanity mirror: “oh god, oh my god”, worse than her exclamation after the almost accident (actually quite an inevitable occurrence caused by immutable natural laws), she begins fussing with her hair, her lips, and her cheeks.

Joseph though, has large feet, large tennis racket like duck feet, so when he steps on a patch of ice, he feels a short, millisecond joggle, and recovers without anyone noticing, not so for the woman behind him, but by that time he’s already cleared the hidden obstacle and forgotten about it, although he hears the “whooaaaa”, he doesn’t turn to see what happened, which is unfortunate, since the sudden exposure of concealed femininity would have done him some good, but he hadn’t because of what was coming that day — at work — stooped his shoulders. The woman had hit the ice, tottered violently, before her legs jumped out from under her and she hit the cement with a flabby gynecological thud, stunned, not recovering for two and half prime voyeur seconds, until she clamped her knees together, assured herself that no one had just seen up her skirt and accepted the invitation of a passing gentleman to be helped to her feet. Joseph hadn’t no attention because he was gazing at a small, lean-to sign in the middle of the sidewalk ahead, causing the streams of people coming and going to treat it like a delta, making it visible from quite a distance. The sign read:

CARL REAGAN READS FROM “THE RABBIT’S SAVIOR” TODAY!

He did not know why he stopped, why he wanted to meet Carl Reagan and hear him read from a children’s book, but he did.

Behind a table, with brand new, hardbound versions of the story displayed nicely, was a bald, black bearded man with intense eyes. He was reading a thick volume and ignoring the loud racket of children screaming, pleading with parents, arguing over toys, reading out loud, and kicking the legs of chairs. He was Carl Reagan, renowned author of twenty children’s books. The Dr. Seuss of his day. He was reading a book and waiting for the program to begin. He was asleep.

Joseph stood at the table and picked out a particularly clean copy of the book. He thumbed through the pages, staring at the familiar pictures, drawn by the man snoring behind the counter.

“Mr. Reagan?” Joseph whispered. “Mr. Reagan?” The man awoke and looked up at the speaker, unalarmed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my children love your books.” A yawn followed by a slight raising of the eyebrows, big, bushy eyebrows that look like pubic hair of a Cro-Magnon, before the hand goes up to the mouth, two seconds too late, as the yawn has already occurred and will forever be left uncovered. “Well, I just wanted to let you know,” he continues uncomfortably, out of necessity, “I’ve read them all, twenty or so of them.” Now he’s focused, he looks in Joseph’s eyes, perhaps slightly motioning with his head in agreement, perhaps he’s shivering because of the daunting number of little urchins howling like mad invaders in metal chairs, impatiently waiting for the sleeping man to begin to read. “Do you intend, I always wanted to ask you, or, well, I’ve realized it’s a question I have for you, if you don’t mind me asking, what, before the reading has begun, just between the two of us, I always wanted… well I was wondering, perhaps it’s silly to think there is more to the story, but I, well I wondered: are you suggesting that through communication a practical effect may emerge, may emerge because of conceptual distinctions,” Joseph asked Peircely, “and that these distinctions should be correlated with the effect?”

“Evil odes or prose do live.”

Joseph, head aside, lips moving as he repeats after, two wrinkles over the bridge of his brow, looks down at the book in his hands. Says it again and again, looking for an apparent answer. He places the book up to his mouth, reflexively beginning to chew on the tough corner, “I guess what I was asking, I beg your pardon, is well, from what I can gather, I’m not a writer, a bit of a bibliophile in my youth, you could say, not by any means a connoisseur, like yourself, or a creator, but it appears to me, well it seems as though many of the books I’ve read to my children, yours and say, Father Nicholas’ or the Timera series, can’t remember who wrote them off the top of my head, well it seems that you have, like the Brothers Grimm or Aesop, anecdotal purposes, satirical observations, and the like, and I was just wondering, well, if that was intentional?”

“Evil I did dwell, lewd did I live.”

A repetition of the repetition of before as Joseph, repeating earlier and repeating the latter, realizes he’s gnawed the paper of the corner and sets the book back in the pile, which is snatched up by the author — Joseph assuming to inspect the damage and demand payment — who tosses it open and in the lectern of his palm begins to write in it. He waits, his hand fidgeting with his face, as if to suggest a neurosis, an explanation for his earlier meal, finally settling on his earlobe, which he tugs and rolls between his fingers like a lock of hair, cups the back of his head and massages his neck before effortly putting it to his side, now aware of it, hanging limply, he twittles his fingers, slaps his own thigh, aware he’s justified his teeth marks, scratches nose, and leaves it clasping his own waist effeminately.

Lovely Reader:

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders requires the presence of nine symptoms for a diagnosis. The number of symptoms is as exaggerated as infinity. We’re all mad, if you can believe that, as this present author is no surer of his own sanity than a resident of a madhouse, since it really comes down to perspective. “Sir William said he never spoke of ‘madness’; he called it not having a sense of proportion.”

Proportion is acquired most scientifically by observation, normal activities, propagation, an occupation, behavior matching that of one’s peers, a lunatic in an asylum is still not sane, though, even as he follows all of these maxims. Are you ecstatic? Are you sad, depressed? Are you mad? The relief is in none of these, in no polarization of the emotions. One must be at all times harmonious, as harmonious as a mythical bodhisattva, an example, a teacher, a god, with no strong feelings. Outrage, fear, sadness, glee, exultation, sexual fervor, narcissism, desire, it is all disproportional to social reciprocity, social interaction, social functioning, and social development.

I would like to dispel any rumors you might have heard about me. I am not a human fly, I do not favor spiders for lunch, dinner, or any other midday snack, I do not educate delinquents for juvenile delinquency, I do not stretch my telekinetic fingers out over the expanses of time and space to grope unexpecting women’s crotches, it was not I who phantom phucked that virgin, it is not in my demeanor to eat the stars. I am not here to sell magazine subscriptions or insurance policies. On the contrary, I am the professor of a new algebra, a mathematical prediction formula for proportion’s sake called the ARTMEYYBO system. Read and understand (the grape vine, so-called for its Bacchus excesses, is wrong, I tell you this as a friend and a former/future lover, to be sure).

Creativity (a), Desire (b), Opportunity (c), Intellect (d), Emotion (e), Reason (f), Anger (g), Beauty (h), Body (i), Mind (j), Madness (k), Logic (l), Learning (m), Lie (n), Language (o), Kindness (p), Justice (q), Death (r), Jealousy (s), Hope (t), Love (u), Fate (v), Grace (w), Perfection (x), Destruction (y), Ability (z).

A + C = Z, just as Z + C = A, or A + Z = C

U — T = K, just as K — T = U, or U — K = T

I + J + H = X, just as F + L — E = C, or K + B — M = Y

If you are hoping for X, without I + J + H, E + F / Y = T, you are mad.

* * *

The darkness of the room was oppressive that evening as she entered, only the faint shadows of faces and forms, the synthetic colors of their masks receding out of the darkness, a surreal parade of jesters and comedians. When she came out of the air in the hallway, the room was stifling, the breath of all those men clinging to her skin, the soft hum of their voices intermingling with her thoughts. They did not look like men; they looked like tormented spirits in a godless dungeon. She was transfixed by it.

Elisa was the only woman present. She was always in the company of men, the same man multiplied a thousand times. He said the same things with a hundred different voices. He looked at her the same way with all those different eyes. She was a compliment to the proceedings, her face hidden by a mask: a smiling black cat with white whiskers and a protruding pink tongue. She always wore leather pants; she had to peel them off of her body. She knew what the pants did, how they shined in the faint illumination, the contours of her body highlighted by a ribbon of white light, punctuating her sensuality. The black boots with six-inch heels, the tight black tank top, her little gloves, she was a costume, a character. The men’s little pussy.

She joined the Wolf like she was his lap cat. Her eyes, which never seemed to focus on any one person, stopped on the sheen of organic blue. Like one star in the night sky, it twinkled in the darkness. She stared at it because it was out of place and because it was beautiful. All alone, set apart, surrounded by the faces. It took her several moments of constant focus to realize it was an eye, an eye set within a face, the face of an unmasked man, a man who stared back at her. His gaze didn’t tumble over her body. She did not feel like he was looking at her, it felt to Elisa like he was boring into her, like he was entering into her body and remaining, like he planned to dwell in there as an occupant, not a visitor. Her mouth had gone slack, she leaned awkwardly against the man beside her, like she had fallen and didn’t have the strength to recover. She had not resisted, she had not accented, either. It was as though he had tricked her into exposing herself, she felt anger and pleasure, she had not wanted it and yet, she wanted him to continue. That invasion roamed within her and Elisa let it, she felt it move inside her and she felt it drain her. She couldn’t force herself to repel him, to fight for what was left of her, to make a last stand, she wanted him to lay claim to it all.

And he expanded within her, he didn’t go room to room, he no longer moved within her, he filled her. Elisa quivered noticeably, her upper lip curled around her teeth, her nostrils flared, and she exhaled him. She felt wasted, deliciously exhausted, she felt as she had never before, a purposefully sublime feeling that slowly dissipated, emanating out of her body and she only wanted one thing, to feel it again.

His eye closed and she was released. She was able to move again, she regained her composure, she touched her own face, she hadn’t been able tell her own expression and then, she regained control. His ownership had been complete and he had chosen to relinquish it back to her. She was frightened by it and she wanted nothing more than for him to take it back, for his presence to be once more within her, but she didn’t look at him again. She told herself that she couldn’t, that she could not give up again. She only needed to make it through the proceedings without ever looking at him again.

* * *

Him the omnipotent state tossed headfirst, like a comet, from their spires down to endless perdition, there to dwell in defiance. His doom reserved for him a wrath, a foresight of conviction, for now the thought of happiness did not torment him. Joseph moved lengthily down a hollowed street towards his destination. He had deciphered the message, he had argued with the causes and the effects, the thesis and the antithesis, he was lighting his lantern and venturing out, towards a supreme enterprise, to be initiated, joining the baleful and the afflicted, the rebel angels. At the door, where peace and rest can never dwell, hope comes in utter darkness, a password delivered and a final step into the pale hallway. Joseph, in the dungeon, listens only to the silence of the hall, the movement of lips against earlobes, the shifting of cloaks against arms, the plastic rubbing against the collar, the faces all disguised as Halloween deities, the crowd amassing around him as he’s led to his place, the stage unlit, the furnace flaming without light, the congregation quietly waiting.

In the beginning he knew no difference, no heaven or hell or paradise or pandemonium, only the sameness of lack-luster days, the information told over radio waves, the screen’s promises, the packaging of tranquility in rainbow boxes, the inert force of future conquests, of suppressed sexuality leaking out of the hooded tubes of products, the whole perfect world balancing on terms and definitions. These were the prejudices, myths in a definite Sorelian context, the foundations of which held the entire structure of his consciousness.

The stage was set, a great black wolf joining a friendly ghost, Frankenstein, a skeleton, and a pirate. They cheered quietly. Joseph watched without joining in, he was already a member, the words were impeded within the text he’d read to his children for years, they’d been hiding in the last place, having been systematically gleaned from all the rest, they’d wisely escaped to children’s books. There are no more courageous verses, no cadence of bardic splendor, timbre has been called on their poetry, they are checked, censored, stiffly adjusted for maximum consumption, they are made democratic, they are the victims of Readian notions of accessibility, they are the failing voices of dissention. He is introduced; there is no guilt. They look upon him suspiciously.

Prowling on stage the Cat advances on cue, fluid, graceful, publicly expressing midnight thoughts, romantic poses, cocked head, hips extenuated, the long line of her abdomen, the crescent shadows of pert breasts, the posture of a siren. Joseph watches her consciously maneuver their eyes to the Wolf. She sees him as he wonders what she thinks of her role in the proceedings. She does not turn away.

“Good, good, I’m glad you came, we’re all very glad to have you,” the ghost of Carl Reagan’s voice says into his ear. “He’ll speak for a little while, then it’s off to meet and greet your new friends. We’re calling you Morning Star.”

Mr. Mephisto.

“No one has a name here, that’s the Wolf, I’m ghost, the woman we’re all gawking at’s Miss Kitty, and so on. The Wolf’s the boss, he’s going to ask you to agree to certain terms, the most important of which is for you to throw off the manacles of your oppression, namely the drugs, we’re all off of them, not a bite. You see that’s the control factor, the rebranding technique, the gone for the thirty days and brainwashed into submission, convincing us all we need tranquility and can only achieve it through managed care of our emotions, but they’ve engineered us that way, my friend, you see, I may have my problems, but they’re not natural, no, for every solution they’ve coded into my chemistry they’ve added their little defense systems, making it oh so believable my friend. But I’ll let him tell you about it more. But welcome, welcome, welcome to the Players.”

Joseph had not turned his eyes away from her; he saw her standing alone (usually meaning one is in bad company) on the podium. There was expression to her stance; it was odd to see her body capped by a mask so queer, so opposing to the organic angularity of her limbs. Her legs were posed oddly, highlighting the curve of her posterior and the slope of her back, as if she always advertised her body parts, those portions of her flesh that men noticed first, her chest, her stomach, her crotch, her backside, her legs, and hid her personality. He felt a soothing pleasure, she seemed unable to turn away from him, undisguised, her eyes searching him without turning away, he felt himself transported across the wires between them.

Then he was guided away. She watched him. He was looking off, above them as they were introduced. He glanced back towards her every few minutes, as if he was making sure that she was still watching, as if he was about do to something and she needed to see it.

* * *

As an introduction, which is currently, coincidentally, occurring in the plot, the Player’s Rebellion (they prefer the more anfractuous term ‘resistance’) is a loose rabble of hardly fifty members that meet infrequently to devise nyctophoniac plots against their fellow citizens in order to ‘awaken’ them to their own (subjectively speaking) proverbial social incarceration. Arthur Dodger, also known as Father Nicholas (and amongst the rebels: the Wolf), is recognized, both ceremonially and conventionally, as the leader (however he knows far better), and during this initiation service, as Joseph is, shall we say knighted, he passively (very nobly) welcomes the new recruit by delivering a kalokagathical sermon that is Derridian in its pure deconstructionalism, although the Bonhoefferian undertones are missed by many of his listeners. If we were to be metoposcopic about Arthur Dodger, we would have to say he appeared to be reflective, while at the same time given to grinning widely (this we deduce from facial etchings) rather than jocularity, that he had unused working man hands (thick fingers with cinnamon rolls for knuckles), a prejudice for treating people as inferiors (he puts on certain apparent airs), and a philosophical brow. His eyes were slightly large in comparison to the phrenologically sound size of his head, giving Arthur an innocence that was mere mirage, and providing him with that attribute so utilitarian in his occupation that one might say it was exploited. Seated in a large, plush (throne) chair and surrounding himself in bona fide tobacco smoke, Arthur Dodger stares at the new initiate as three other ‘players’ co-mingle in hushed voices and in an evident orchestration of dutiful behavior.

Since Joseph doesn’t know him, he cannot be aware of Arthur’s true nature (we won’t offer a prosopography here), and is forced to rely on the face set so strictly before him. However, the paradox has some indications, Arthur’s interest in grapholagnia while at the same time being afflicted with gymnophobia is indicated somewhat disinterestingly by his tendency to cloth himself in high collars, long sleeves (overly long, down to his own fingers), and full-length socks (so that when he sits, there is no sliver of hairy leg between his trousers and his socks). But, of course, Joseph makes no mention of this and patiently waits to be addressed (as per the instructions of Carl Reagan).

Carl Reagan is not present at this time. Although, seemingly always present for the entire interview, is Noah Petrov, known as Granny Winslow to the children’s book reading public (and amongst the rebels: the Pirate), who, unbeknownst to Joseph, is given to treating the movement as his very own expergefaction due to his undiagnosed sophomania coupled with bipolar desipiency, causing Noah to say things like: “the rhadamanthine hierodule that I am, I cannot uncover a dolorifuge to end my suffering.” Noah scurries about the room, mumbling, stopping to see if he can add anything to the conversation, and then, continuing his asymmetrical hyperboles. He is a small man, easily confused as a woman if seen from the back, due to slight shoulders, supple arms, and a tendency to swing his hips quite violently when he walks (which has recently become a point of great irritation for poor Noah, who realizes that he’s doing it and tries to stop it, giving the appearance of a hula dancer with no tempo). In order to combat his effeminate stature, Noah Petrov has an enormous Whitmanesq beard that he allows to grow impudently and unwashed hair he slicks back with grease.

Standing in the corner, as though he’s Noah’s personal trainer, as he enjoys providing commentary on the other’s obvious geometrical swath, is an angular man who could very well have been a ballet dancer but who was not, never trusting himself diametrically in tights, whose name is Oxford Carlyle, although he writes under the name Oxy Freelander (and is known amongst the rebels as the Captain). Oxford, unmedicated as the rest, suffers bouts of lygophilia, that sprang, in the clinical opinion, from his attempt to cure himself of taphephobia, which was brought on from an obvious xenogenous episode during his childhood in which he buried his dog, believing it to be dead, only for it to start whining an hour or so later and for poor Oxy to dig it out with his hands in a frightfully guilty mania. Otherwise, Oxford Carlyle is outwardly, a normal man of thirty-seven, with no features too defined and no character traits one could say were ill-becoming.

Although Michael Rand would disagree, having had a considerably long rivalry with Oxford over the Indigo World Book Award that they were both in the running for during their secondary education and which, unfortunately, went to neither of them (although Oxford received an honorable mention). Michael writes under his real name, Michael Rand (known to the rebels as the Angel), and has the sorry ophthalmic condition of xanthopsia, caused by years of ingesting a prescription pill called Vemodremium that was supposed to help him with the unfortunate witzelsucht he suffered after his first book was so well received (the Guardian calling it: “a clever chuckle wrapped in a hilarious up-chuck”) and after his proceeding attempts did not receive the same praise. Now Michael avoids humor like his own voice is urticant and is very near to becoming a valetudinarian, so much so that Arthur Dodger has to make certain concessions in order to get him to attend meetings (which is key, since he is the minute-taker). Michael pays no attention to Joseph or Arthur or Oxford or Noah as they begin their interview, he is too busy considering whether or not he is claustrophobic or just a little too warm.

At this point, Arthur began to actually speak with Joseph, who listened attentively, if not a little distractedly, and nodded his head when it appeared that this would be appropriate and turned his attention to either Noah or Michael or Oxford every four and a half seconds to allow them the opportunity to add a little something or to amend their leader’s point. Then, it was Joseph’s turn, or at least it appeared to be Joseph’s turn, as Arthur finally went quiet.

"Listen… I was reading to my children, from a popular series of books concerning orphans, and as I read, I found myself elaborating on some of the characters' names, titles of chapters, ideas presented… it was more of an intellectual exercise than the books proffered for my consumption… because I was investigating why the author chose particular names, titles and ideas and relaying that to my kids… I was saying, do you know why the author chose to name that character Ersatz? Because that means replacement or substitute… and what does that say about this character? About who he is in the narrative? They were learning about allusion and reference, about metaphor and narrative devices at its base… the book became an intellectual experience… one in which my children could chime in and say, ah ha! that is why he's named that… that is why the chapter is titled that… that is why the author presented an idea… We're so preoccupied with how it feels… my wife will suggest emotion from the slightest hint… from a commercial… from a puppy… from a card… and yet, we've relegated so much of our art to a dependence and a myopia on expressing the emotions of characters… providing drama… which is, of course, an essential human feature… however, anyone with a pet will tell you that it is not an exclusive human trait… that we share it with most animals on the planet… dogs smile, pigs weep, and monkeys riot… our novels are filled with dramatic interludes so overused, we already know the prescribed outcome… we can see the protagonist turn his or her back on the other character… stare into the mirror… we insert dramatic pauses… and for all this drama, there is no catharsis… no enlightenment from invented emotion… we do not benefit from it… and so I wonder, why do we feel it needs to be there? Why is there such a requirement that to call a book a novel, it must tell us how the characters feel? Of course they feel… even as millions of us non-fabricated figures do not… it is a given… and some critics may argue otherwise, they may say so much fiction is filled with fodder… the minutia of one author's research to the point of boredom… but if I am reading a novel and the protagonist is a scientist, wouldn't that character be filled with scientific fodder the rest of us would find rather mundane? Of course he will feel anger, remorse, sadness, love… he is supposed to be human… but what of his intellectual capacity? The greatest novels enlighten… and not from catharsis… not from an emotional awakening… but from the font of a crackling mind… when the reader is engaged in an intellectual test with the novelist… when the novelist is providing the audience with ideas that are new and different and strange… when characters are challenges… when they dwell in an environment altogether normal but express to us a wholly new vision, creating for us a place where our minds can engage the subject and mull it over… put the book down and consider what has just been said, what that lines means, what the piece of dialogue suggests about any number of human adjectives… who are we and why are we here? What is the meaning? By asking that, from a painting, from a sculpture, from a book, from music, we demand from our minds more than what we know… I know sadness… I know pleasure… I think I know love… lust… beauty… but tell me not how does it feel… tell me how it illuminates my finite condition… my relation to the idea… the idea is the thing… give me an idea… please… I beg you… one new idea! Just one… and you will have accomplished more than a million believable emotions… yes… I believe that character was sad when she left him… you do not need to tell me that… you do not need to tell me he was depressed… you don't need to show me… I believe… I know because I am human… I am so human I knew before I read the onomatopoeia of the slamming door that he would be crushed… I knew his reflections would swirl around her presence and her absence… the shock of her departure is like the crash of cold wave on the seashore… indeed… I agree… I understand the ruminations on suicide… the fears and the pain… the prediction of this response is so inherently human, so expected, it is seemingly predestined… so then why do you bother me with long tracts detailing the phases of despair? They are there… hanging… dangling… obvious… in the mood… and for all the eloquence and all the expression… I am left hollow… shall I move on to the next book? Perhaps there I may find some awakening… something more than a retreat to the given… something altogether inquisitive and something that causes my mind to stir… to consider for just a brief second more than the bombardment of emotions… something that will cause me to pause and consider the ether of intellectualism… something that bears an idea and causes me to wonder… to wonder for days… reexamining this small notion so profoundly… or, are you afraid? Are we afraid? What will happen if we have a million readers wondering about… considering more than the emotions life gives them organically… actually philosophizing… and what if they actually verbalize this notion? Say to another citizen, I was reading a book and it caused me to consider a very important question, which has nothing to do with practical life or shared emotions, but is wholly subjective and useless… it won't help anyone… it is odd and scary… but I can't seem to stop thinking about it because it means something more and it itches my mind… what do you think? And of course, you will say, shut up! Do you want to cause the French Revolution? No, no, no… think about emotions… think about the obvious… the expected… the given… this whole dalliance with ideas is useless… it will only make you unhappy and unsure… what good can come from you considering it? Where is the money in it? Where is the progress? Egads… try to think of other people for once… and so, we read what we are told and we swallow their regurgitation like good chicks… all the while, wanting something more… something we know is right there… on the periphery of the written word… the possibility… but we won't go there… we can't… that way madness lies… and the critics say, tell me how does it feel? I know… I know…"

The interview did not last too long, thankfully for Joseph, who was shaking with anticipation, ready to head out on his first mission, and he was sent out of the room to speak with another representative (he was hoping that epigamic fitchew would, at some point, come across his path and that she would actually be afflicted with galeanthropy and he will be required, by hospitality, to give her a good petting).

This was Joseph’s introduction to the Player’s.

* * *

Arthur, that Baudelairian sycophant of some strange excess, under investigation (this he was always aware of), sat unmasked in a make-shift sitting room in the recesses of the warehouse, after meeting Reagan’s recruit, just as Reagan was telling him: “Well, you should have talked to him about it, surely you don’t expect anything from a Director of the Continued Production of Isotopic Inhibitors to provide anything altogether too meaningful to the cause.”

“I only expect what I believe I can from my people,” Arthur offered between puffs of a personally rolled, completely carcinogenic cigarette he put in Elisa’s lips before drawing his first drag.

“How do you suppose you can gather from a chance, three minute meeting what you can expect from him? Has it ever dawned on you that the rest of us might not want to see some poor sap ousted simply for numbers? We’re talking about the man’s liberty here.”

“I see. You wanted me to initiate the poor boy fully. Give him a rank and a number and put him to work. He’s no writer, this is delicate business my friend. Besides, your friend there’s not what I would call altogether all there. If he proves useful, that’s when we call him up. Otherwise, he stews until I say,” Arthur explained, eyeing his darling departing to go work the new guy. “Darling, give him a sound entrance, but no info, darling,” he yelled after her.

“Useless. He knew how to decipher my message. He’s already on the wavelength, Arthur. We’ve got to continue onward, its forward or nothing,” sneered Reagan, waving away a large, blue plume of smoke.

“They’ve been busy my friend. Remember Auto; it wasn’t his real name. He was good for nothing, yet we let him in and let him have access. Now he’s disappeared. He deciphered the code too. He was here during our planning of the transit operation. Am I the only one wondering why our shipments are being delayed? Why we’ve got a big white van following us around? Why the other day I had to duck into some damn corporate building and sit there for two hours in a broom closet ‘cause I had a tail. The same’s going on for a lot of us. They’re onto something. I don’t know how they found out, whether it was Auto feeding them info or through another route. On any account, we’re not handing out passes right now.”

Looking away, shaking his head: “Well, at least let me have him run an errand or something, something that’ll let him know he’s involved.”

“Nothing real, you understand,” the Wolf replied, placing his mask over his face out of sheer boredom, “a mirage detail.” Leaning back and drawing on his cigarette, watching the flickering ashes creep towards the filter. Cough, cough. “Nothing real.”

* * *

“Joseph what are you doing?” his wife asked as she walked into their backyard and found her husband digging a large, rectangular hole, of which he appeared to be quite far along, since she could only see his shoulders and head. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I decided not to go. I haven’t been for three days. I went to a book reading instead. I met Carl Reagan.”

“Who?”

“Carl Reagan, the children’s author. Kimball and Alexzen love his books.”

“What are you doing?”

“You won’t be surprised if I don’t astonish you?”

“What?”

“He bore me on his back a thousand times.”

“What are you talking about, Joseph?”

“No one would accuse me of virtue, but from vice I have been rewarded.”

“Joseph, what are you doing? Tell me.”

“Digging a grave.”

“Who’s grave.”

“Mine.”

“Are you okay?”

“I haven’t been able to kill myself, so I thought it might be better to build my grave first. It’s not the normal procedure, but it might help,” he replied almost Senecaly.

“Joseph, you’re scaring me. Why are you digging your grave?”

“I’m lying in it.”

“Okay, I’m calling Dr. Wheeler. Have you seen Theo?”

“Theo?”

“Yes, the cat, the orange cat we’ve had for six years.”

“No, not since I released him.”

“What? What did you do to Theo?”

“I opened the door and let him go.”

“Why?”

“To liberate him. He was not happy, he was going mad. Theo’s not the type of cat that can live in a house.”

“Theo’s our house cat. The children love him. How could you do that, Joseph?”

“Devious with words, and from practice doubly capable.”

“What?”

“Theo’s gone mad.”

“How’s that?”

“Strangely, very strangely.”

“Joseph, get out of there, come inside. You need to see a doctor.”

“A few more feet, or I won’t last nine years.”

“Did you kill our cat?”

“I will have to behave if I want to be unruly.”

“Is he dead?”

“That, I don’t know.”

“Get in here,” she said, walking up the steps of the back porch. “Joseph, get in here.” But, Joseph continued to dig and she ran inside to call his doctor.

“To dream, what wonderful dreams death has, dying and sleeping. The questions are all answered, simple verbs and nouns are bedded in the mind, the noble organ suffers no piercing superstitions, the vessel is safely moored to the shore. To be a feast, the numb death saving the heart, wishing for devout dreams. Pausing without respect, its carriage rides to immortality within a consciousness without boundaries or walls. Time is no longer our dominatrix, life is no longer baggage to be lugged about, it is a birth and a riddle of the will, a trip without a return ticket. Conscience makes heroes out of the petty. The dreams of death are fine acts, true illusions, spirits of remembered indulgences, a current carrying brooding corpses, where we do not refuse love.”

* * *

Lieutenant Tobias was positioned kitty-corner to the door in an unmarked van that had two cameras focused on the building. It was Morgan’s Distribution, a leading distributor of hardbound volumes of encyclopedias, children’s books, and cookbooks. Lt. Tobias had been stationed at the warehouse for two days and Arthur Dodger had not emerged since the captain saw him enter. He was still inside. Or, so the surveillance team thought.

At about four o’clock a man fitting the subject’s description was observed moving towards the door with another man. They were talking animatedly. The lieutenant ran the other man through the database. He was Xavier Ing, a.k.a. Coach Tom, the host of the popular children’s Virtuascape show Coach Tom and His All-Star Imagination, a running serial in which the host interacted with cartoon characters and taught children to explore the world through their imagination. Section 9 had retrieved a producer of the show the year before on allegations of misconduct when the word of the day was “Perfect” and the show had treated it as a subjective term.

This fit the profile drawn up by the captain. The lieutenant observed the two subjects enter the warehouse and radioed to the Puzzle Palace to report his findings to his superiors. After a few minutes, Lt. Tobias reported, two other men entered through the door as well, one was Carl Reagan, popular children’s author, and Gregor Heely, who wrote fantasies geared towards young adults. The two were followed by a parade of writers, editors, and cartoonists, all of whom entered through the same door.

They had not observed Arthur Dodger leave the warehouse and the buildings schematics showed no other exit. Lt. Tobias remained in his position and observed the delayed departure of the entire band of men a few hours later. He had just witnessed a meeting. Captain Vincent was not present, as he was delayed at a subject’s residency. Of the twenty persons who entered, sixteen departed. Four remained inside and never left from the door.

* * *

“Ah-ha,” he said thumbing through the pages. “You don’t find this kind of guide book every day.”

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden

Do you follow? It isn’t safe to follow. It adds a bleak undertone to the operation. How seriously shall he play the game? It isn’t that kind of game. No, the laurels are reserved for the foolish. He follows fine. The measure’s English heroic verse without rhyme, Homer’s Greek or Virgil’s Latin, that responsible guide of Dante. Rhyme is so barbaric in longer works, the wretched timbre. Rejected rhyme, like an old Spaniard of Italian, like Shakespeare and juicy tragedies of note. The game’s one of neglect really, a heroic bondage of language.

Placing the book inside his coat. Steal this book? He is liberating it from the prison of the shelf, as they say. Some argument, this is a how-to guide. There would be no Drydenesq treatment, not by Joseph.

She was the first to read it to him, and only selections. They’ve made it disappear along with the others. Sniff, sniff. But this one’s authentic. No adjustments or alterations to please the Sensitives.

Halts, seeing two young men pawing over The Sun Also Rises, peers over nearest boy’s shoulder. “Oh no, no, that will never do…” Joseph inserts rather socially, considering his mission. The young men turn, share ‘nuts’ glances, as Joseph removes the book from their hands. “You see, they’ve had their way with it… it’s been cleansed by the Index. Don’t bother with it,” he is flipping through the abridged pages, shaking his head, “so tragic…” he continues “this is all wrong…” reading the back cover “do you know what happened to him?” he finally looks up, into their eyes “there was no accident…” he muses, rereading the short author’s biography beside the robust image: mustached, unposed, youthful, “he killed himself, some say because of depression or futility… no, that’s not why, not if you actually read him… no, he did it for the mythology, a pure fabricator this one… his entire genesis is legend, false… injured in the Great War… tis true, but falsely so… brave man of Africa, Nick Adams, the whole expatriate scenario… this one’s an autobiographical enigma, worked fluently with lives… an inventor of his own ego, if you know what I mean… and the final act, the last great insertion into the myth of his own making, must be an artist… that’s right, he did it for posterity… remembered great… add conflicted artist to his historical resume, so romantic and tragic… what he never did shall be forgotten… what he portrays is the marrow of it… assassinated by his own psychology… the proverbial artist archetype, my boys… you see?” handing back the book, “that’s not Ernest Hemingway,” he stabs it with his index finger, covertly pulls his selection out of his coat, peers around to make sure its clear, and presents his find like a product model, one hand cupped underneath, the other framing it with swift motions, highlighting its features, he nods to the gentlemen as if they know what he’s talking about, and departs quickly…

Right passed the counter and through the door. There are no thieves to fear. Take a seat and follow his instructions very carefully. One: the serpent, or rather the devil in the serpent. Two: revolt and draw to his side a legion of angels. Three: journey to the garden. Four: evict them from their paradise. Keep it to yourself. This is a game of solitaire. He follows fine.

* * *

Captain Vincent is a spooky agent. Captain Vincent had not been invited to the marriage festivities, but he was there. He was lurking behind the backs of gentlemen, hiding within the crowd of well-wishers, standing behind the pillars and walls. He could not explain surveillance on the Greene wedding and so he was forced to go himself. He could not let her escape.

He had seen the man leaving her building, the man who had slowed the progress of her move, the man who had made the movers wait in their truck outside. She had appeared in the window, her dress held up to her chest, her shoulders bare, her face flush, her lip bleeding. He had missed something. He would not miss anything else.

The man was a writer, he wrote children’s books under a nom de plume. Children worldwide knew him as Father Nicholas; his real name was Arthur Dodger. Captain Vincent had seen Arthur Dodger leave Elisa Greene’s new apartment building with a plastic bag in his arms. He knew that Arthur Dodger had been with Elisa, he knew because he felt jealousy and he knew because of Arthur Dodger’s thoughts. Arthur Dodger had no health records, no medication regimen on file, no consumer quotas he was assigned were ever met, he did not vote, and he did not work for a living. Arthur Dodger was currently under investigation by Section 6 for impurities and the intent to undermine social harmony. He was a Class 5 threat according to Section 8.

The phone call, the appearance of Arthur Dodger, the misuse of medication, the lifestyle, the job, it was all evidence against Elisa Greene and Captain Vincent wouldn’t be able to protect her for long.

You do exist when I’m not thinking about you. You do exist when I cannot watch you.

Captain Vincent followed Arthur Dodger that day, he left his van parked outside Elisa’s apartment and walked forty meters behind the suspect. Arthur Dodger did not drive, he did not have an identification card, he was not registered in the domestic classification system, no one could say if he was A-lister, B-lister, C-lister, D-lister, X-lister or on a list of any kind. A wolf has predators too.

Dodger led Captain Vincent away from the fashionable district of the city. In the dark, a closet. That’s why she agreed to the move to the city. He entered the business district and spent an hour inside Barron’s world headquarters, a company that specialized in meat processing, packing and shipping. Barron’s was the world’s leading meat processor, packer and shipper. One of their Vice President’s was on the world’s board of directors. She’s come inside; she’s in the room. She’s outside the closet, trying to open the doors. She’s backing away; the game is on, a Clausewitzian relationship. After Dodger left Barron’s, with seemingly no purpose for his visit, Captain Vincent followed him twenty-four blocks down Dromi Avenue. Out now, she’s scared, running. Got hold of her, hurt her, make her afraid. Make her feel alive, she wants that. She’s always asked for that. That skin and that body, destroy her, ruin her, I remember that too. He’s a rapist. He writes children’s books. She wanted it that way. She invented the game.

Now Nick, don’t you, of all people, understand the story of Rapunzel? A tower, she’s locked in it. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your beautiful hair. Ever notice how phallic castles are? The turrets are giant penises poking into heaven, great symbols of the masculinity of the king. It’s in every line, dear Nick. I want Hansel and Gretel, I want Little Red Riding Hood, I want the Three Bears, I want Cinderella, I want Puss-in-Boots, I want the Frog Prince, I especially want Sleeping Beauty and the Three Pigs.

That was the Perraultian game. They would not see each other for months and then, the wolf would pounce. Elisa was asleep in her home, lying in her bed. He was inside. She turned over. He was beside her. He had needles and bramble bush branches. He caught a hold of her and tied her arms and legs with the thorny brambles. She was awake, fighting. He cut her nightgown off of her body. He knelt over her, pricking her body with the needles. He stabbed them into her breasts and licked the tiny beads of blood. She writhed underneath him. My sleeping beauty.

She was taken out into the country, blindfolded and drugged. He brought her to the woods and let her go. She removed the rope around her wrists and took off the blindfold. She did not know which way to go, why she’d been abducted and brought out into the wilderness. She followed a path and it led to a house. She could barely keep her eyes open. She went to the door and knocked, no one answered. She entered the small home and saw a table with seven chairs. She went into the next room and the next. Finally, she mounted the stairs and opened the only door, it led into a bare room. As she entered, the door slammed shut behind her. It was locked and she was trapped in the room. She passed out on the floor. When she awoke, she was naked; several hands were rubbing her body with oil. Seven men surrounded her; they had children’s masks on their faces from a famous cartoon. They were touching her all over her body, massaging her skin. She was asked to pick seven positions.

Some game. Captain Vincent was following Arthur Dodger into the industrial district, walking behind him as they passed warehouses. Where the hell are you going? Where does this guy live? Dodger went behind a corner, and when Captain Vincent followed, he saw the author at a door, waiting for someone to answer. Another rendezvous? Busy guy. The door opened, Captain Vincent couldn’t see the person behind the door, and Dodger entered.

I could be a wicked witch.

* * *

“There must be some easier enterprise. This city, whose high-rises fear no dangers, is an untamed expedition. There must be a place (if the newspapers are prophetic), another world, the sewer of heaven, with evidence of weaknesses. By force or subtlety, the Atlas of the city may be tempted. The high arbitrator may sit secure today, resting on the strength of the mould and the substance of his power. Let me follow the bending of all thoughts, learn the place of the border, left unguarded, as an arsonist, a thief, a murderer, a rapist, a conqueror, a con-man.

“They will seduce them to our party, enemies unrepentant. This is not revenge, this Babylonian captivity, the paramount will be an Avignon pope, sitting in the darkness of a vain empire. Re-enter the city and dwell in the temperate waters of the night. Who shall attempt this wandering feat, rise out of the abyss of the synod of voices, cross the vast chasm of unwanted days?

“This prison is strong, this vault of ideals and utopian fantasies, this unessential yawning void, no crack or chip, an impenetrable construct of achievement. What remains may be less than the unknown. The fall may raise a deathly race, even more asleep than the present. The sky that crumbles may house pirates in want of more than bodies and minds. This state is royalty riding on the backs of hallucinations, a tyrant consciousness and a hazardous monarch of humors. The thief always has the largest mansion, the con-man the most money in his account. Necessary angels always fall.”

* * *

Captain Vincent wasn’t going to let Elisa out of his sight. You never know when the Wolf might strike. She was wearing an ocean-spray green bridesmaid gown and her ebony hair was tied in a bun. What is this from? The Wolf can orchestrate anything. This is from one of the stories. All sixteen bridesmaids were wearing the same gowns, but Captain Vincent didn’t bother with that fact. The Wolf is going to come soon. Elisa never thought about him, not once. Captain Vincent would know if she did.

She was standing next to a woman who looked like a contorted mirror image of her. It was her sister. She was married and did not smell like the Wolf. She is thinking of her brother, the groom. The wedding is over, the reception has begun, the band has started to play. The guests are taking to the floor. Elisa stood awkwardly by her sister, speaking in broken sentences, making simple observations. Margaret nodded and went back to her conversations with other guests. They were standing in a circle, Margaret within the ring, while Elisa stood slightly out of it, staring blankly out over the hall.

Now.

“Excuse me, would you care to dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

“ELISA,” her sister said, horrified. “You go dance with this gentleman, you’re a beautiful dancer.”

The man stood waiting, as if she was a woman in his apartment who said ‘no’ unconvincingly. His eyebrows were raised, like he had not received an answer to a question.

“Shall we?” he finally asked.

“You’re not one of these cultured gentlemen who can bore a girl on any subject, are you?”

“No,” Captain Vincent replied, offering his arm. He felt her long fingers wrap around his bicep and he led her out onto the floor. She turned to face him in one, graceful motion and his palm was lying against the naked skin of her shoulder while the other, pressed a little too strongly, laid against her waist. She faced him, her mouth un-adulterated, her cheeks un-rouged, her languid air finally focused upon him. “Do you follow engineering?”

“Engineering… isn’t it like architecture without the art, isn’t that right?”

“That’s sounds to me like a stereotype.”

“My opinion’s based on experience. What’s yours based on?”

“Common sense.”

“Common sense tells us that the world is flat, at least it appears to be so. Common sense has led a million fools down a million wrong paths.”

“Engineering can be very creative.”

“Really? I haven’t seen many creative roads or bridges lately. I’m sure it can be… just as I’m sure it’s not.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with you Miss Greene…”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine that you would. People without reason often have a hard time with it.”

“Leonardo Da Vinci was an engineer.”

“Was he? It’s interesting how well he’s remembered for it.”

“You’re delightful.”

“Am I? I’d send a compliment your way if I knew of one.”

“There’s no need, I didn’t give you one for you to respond in kind.”

“How very uninteresting you are.”

* * *

Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem:

Dulce est desipere in loco.

I am a herald with winged feet, the trumpets are blaring, the starry dynamite of the stars send my footsteps onto terrestrial gardens, sprouting hyacinth and jasmine between my toes. Hark! I ride the voices of the janitors of Pythian fields, the cooks of the Olympian games, the butlers of Elysium, the servants of Titan dance parties. Hark! I run on wind springs, my cape a bathmat from the crystal palace, my scepter a dowel from God’s own closet, my restless thoughts a season of cruel months, my sandals are the wheels of mythical heroes’ chariots, my gown is synthetic fox fur from Maxy’s winter catalogue. Hark! Within this air is the sublime, the sudden orgasm of thundering emotions forgotten in a flicker of harmony. Ride the lightning, third row from the back on the thunder, the rain is my semen in the wrong species, the clouds are my sad choices, the stars are the superlative fiction of a coward’s deeds, the oceans are bathtubs for whales and sea serpents, the lakes are fish farms for Jonah’s revenge, the mountains are my mother’s perky tits, snowcapped in foreplay, the hills and dells are billy-goat playgrounds and sing-song auditoriums, the pastures are the minefields of nature, beware of the bombs of seeds, they procreate more soldiers against our frontlines. Hark!

* * *

“Please sit down, Mrs. Moore. I called you here today because we believe we have had a confirmed sighting of your husband.”

“Where is he? Is he okay?”

“Mr. Moore was able to flee the area before an officer could apprehend him.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know how to say this. Our investigation has led to certain, shall we say, abnormal findings concerning your husband. He checked into the Rainbow Hotel, the penthouse suite to be exact and well, the staff at the Rainbow Hotel noticed some strange things. He ordered room service twice using different names and gave the same room number. The registry listed a Mr. Joseph Moore, but he claimed to be someone else. He then accosted a member of the staff with a broken mini-bar bottle and claimed that the young man was a serpent who’d been trying to sneak under his door for the last few days. Mr. Moore had only been at the hotel for an hour at this point. When the manager of the facility attempted to discuss the altercation with Mr. Moore, he was challenged to a leg-wrestling match and accused of being, I quote: ‘a scissor wielding sissy’ unquote, who had quote: ‘come to groom ear, anus, and neck hair’ unquote while Mr. Moore slept. The manager was alarmed and requested that Mr. Moore depart. At this point, Mr. Moore calmed down and agreed. The manager of the hotel allowed Mr. Moore to gather his things and meet him in the lobby. At which point, while the manager waited in a seating area, several witnesses reported seeing Mr. Moore running through the lobby with a bathmat around his neck, a dowel in his hands, and a shower curtain wrapped around his body like a toga.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes, well, let me continue. A woman was waiting for a porter to bring her luggage up to her room and your husband apparently attacked the woman. He was able to pull a fur coat off her and remove some sandals she was wearing before the hotel staff could come to her aid. Mr. Moore struck several people with the wooden dowel and made his escape out of the front doors. An interesting note, according to the manager, was that he seemed to get trapped in the revolving door. The last confirmed quote that Mr. Moore made was: ‘Death to the doors that swing in scandalous pirouettes. They are the trenches of the revolution’ before he disappeared down the street.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Moore. Due to the nature of your husband’s activities, we’ve called in Section 6. They are an elite group trained in dealing with these kinds of events. We believe that Mr. Moore has been afflicted with some sort of drug overdose, or perhaps a chemical imbalance caused by misuse of his medication. Review of his medication files has led experts to speculate that this may be the cause. We do not believe Mr. Moore is behaving rationally.”

* * *

Balls out down the street, after the greatest escape of an angel since Lucifer waged a phony war, an entire bounty of paradise’s toiletries, booze, and confections, Saint Peter didn’t even know what hit him, he hasn’t been that bamboozled since Nero gave him the old piñata treatment, the keys are in the bag, baby. Time now for a quick Wrightian spirit trick so they don’t catch him, he lies flat against the wall of a building and becomes a part of its shadow, the dark chilly plain of the servants of the light. This is how we walk amongst you. He sticks to the wall, scampers across a street to a flagpole’s shadow and tightrope walks it all the way to the other side, unseen, unheard, unknown amidst the citizens. Of the four infernal gutters that disgorge into the rancid sewer, there is that of hate, sorrow, rue, and rage. Joseph stands by the whirlpool, the crossroads of the shadows and the rivers, a witness to the Baudrillardian landscape. He knows the way, he sticks to the unsunned side and crosses onto Lethe Street, a mighty thoroughfare that seems to continue on for oblivion, so long and wide he forgets his joy and grief, pleasures and pains. Luckily, a great building of cold concrete keeps some shadow and Joseph follows the signs straight inside. A major meat processing factory, it whirls with snow storms, great torrents of snapping wind and hail rain down from belching winter giants, as he traverses dunes of snow and climbs bitter icebergs to the beginning of the ancient maze, a labyrinth of icy piles housing the unthawed remains of primordial monsters, those fearful giants born in the comets and seen riding them in a great invading bombardment. Joseph does battle with many of them, still pumping their deity blood, sustaining omnipotence even in cryogenic sleep. He remembers his Saint Mike Commando School of Slaying Pagan Usurpers training and in expertly strategized maneuvers outflanks them by using his scepter as a decoy. Imagine it, monstrous cries that split open the ether of space as Joseph backsides eternal prisoners of ice and snow with their own turf, ice-balls right in the noggin, icicle swords he slices open navels with, spilling female headed gorgon armies that he traps in crevices that reach down into eternity, snowflake ninja stars he tosses like hand grenades right into their all-knowing eyes and unclean soupy noses. They fall like the Yeti that they are, the dirty pig worshippers. Now for pillaging their super powers like sea sponge on a muscle.

Joseph makes it out of Antarctica with a menagerie of new talents through a service entrance. He is now able to howl like a hound of hell, shift into the shape of any dead man (not truly Meinongian, but close), his first choice is Abraham Lincoln but he later settles on Pope Louis XVII, who he wrongly believes is the founder of the blood libel cases against Jews, having been Johnny Norwalk for awhile and realizing it was those dirty gypsies and not the children of Israel, which was right after a spooky encounter with a psychedelic Trotskyite who refused to give his name and a rather formidable few minutes as the primary financer of the Globe Theatre who murdered the mouse that was the pet of Daniel Webster, he can also speak in a thundering voice the law of the pagans, cause things to burn without catching on fire, make rivers run upstream, find a needle in a haystack, wield the sword of the dragon’s back if he ever happens upon it, rise high the roof beams, speak the tongue of prophet’s of the proto-mammals, unlock the holy garment bag of peccadillo, force snakes to do his bidding, control the north wind (partly, this is not to suggest he can order it to blow on ships and to cause storms, only that he can, should he choose to do so, request special favors, for the wild winds of the sea are like kitty cats, one does not train them, one conditions them for certain purposes, whether they agree to perform these duties is within their very free will), bring forth famine and pestilence, blow the bugle that harkens the sun, turn offenders of the faith into salt statues (again, to clarify, these are of the Panofskian ilk and will not, physically represent the former person or persons, but rather represent their emotional, psychological, and dare I say it, spiritual personalities), force mortals to fall in love, hate, and fraternity, ride the lightning stallions of the sixth dimension, borrow, loan, or otherwise rent the chariot of death, take lessons (not a two-for-one deal) from the sisters fate on weaving, needle work, embroidery, and tapestry aesthetics, request from the dwarves of the center of the earth certain metal work articles such as armor, weaponry and vehicles, plague offensive perpetrators with non-lethal but aggravating curses (these are limited to things like continuous hair growth, turning everything they touch into manure, never being able to see straight, etc.) and lastly, the ability to seek and gain an audience with the particular ruling body currently holding office in heaven.

So he does make it through his first obstacle as an escapee, but being an impatient demi-god, Joseph lands (Mercatorianly) right in a vast gulf as profound as the Serbonian bog. He grips the receding air with his angelic fingers, tearing at the clothing of time (theoretically aging), trying to pull himself back out as star clusters, quasars, quirks, googolplexies, infinets, meteors, planets, asteroid girdles, engagement rings, flying saucers, alien outposts, space debris, a vacuum cleaner, doppler effects, newtonian laws, galilean oversights, copernican apologetics, hubblian rainbows, ptolemiac chronicles, a slew of Arabian theories, besselian measurements, herschelian swatches, einsteinian twins, and hawkingish evaporations are pulled into the gaping fangs of forever more. The force is immeasurable, tightening its vacuous noose, abominable, big, grand, all those things, but Joseph and his magical winged feet cling to a non-existing molar, refusing to be swallowed and refusing to become food for the galactic juices of perpetuity’s full tummy. He finally grabs hold of a soda-pop can, then a plastic wrapper from a discarded candy bar, then a whole bag of garbage, its shudderingly horrific plastic darkness holding steady in the end, he digs his fingers into the bag, breathing in the smells of rotting produce, coffee grounds, leftovers from the last supper, and pulls with all of his might. Light! Glorious, life giving, mother of all, light! Joseph hangs over the side of the abyss, his feet still dangling into the hollow void, resting…

“Oh, you’ve come back to us,” a distorted radio voice says. “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again.” She is a maiden that fair princes would have fought dragons for, a woman so tempting wicked witches couldn’t keep them away, a femme fatale with the gaze of fuzzy logician, a nose like a buttered crumb, a mouth with discharged lips that make her appear to be pouting. She is wearing a men’s dress suit, the full sports jacket hangs off her frame, the long trousers bunching up at the bottom of her legs, the too large black shined shoes giving her the appearance of a cat in men’s boots, the gray button-up vest with her clear sternum underneath, the faint shadow of her chest, a large, out-dated bowler cap on her head, miscellaneous strands of black hair writhe in the wind.

“Pardon me?” Joseph says.

“Why don’t you get in line?”

“What for?”

“Well, you’ve come back to us.”

“I’m going the other way.”

Standing behind the vision in the business suit Joseph can see a long line of ragged wandering ghosts of men, haggard, sycophant women in shredded clothing, some with dirty, rotten children hanging onto their hands, trailing behind them with teddy bears and traveling games click, clacking, whistling, speaking. They all have swords dangling over their heads, hanging from their own personal cloud, which holds a piece of thread tied to the handle of the sword. It is ghastly. Joseph lifts up his wand in a menacing way, preparing to fend off the temptress and she smiles cynically back at him.

“What are you doing?” she asks innocently, mockingly. She removes the large sports coat and throws it over her shoulder.

“You can take off whatever you want, yes, I see you’re not wearing anything under that vest of yours, I know what you’re insinuating, but we both know it’s not going to happen, this is all a set-up to get me to come back from whence I came. This is all a mistake of the probability of set membership.”

“Erinyes? Could you come over here?” she called in a consumed voice. More women in men’s clothing moved towards Joseph’s position, their large patent leather shoes clapping on top of water, their hips swaying provocatively, there is something about women in men’s clothes, a whole gaggle of leering women undressing him with their eyes. Joseph surveys the enemy army, the back of hands running up their bodies, tongues protruding out of luscious lips, circling in phantom fellatio, simulated masturbation fingers wrinkling trousers, winks with all sorts of allusions to kama sutra images, horny whistles, eyebrows raised in feigned orgasms, and one woman wearing nothing but a dry-cleaned white cotton shirt who steps away from the crowd and runs the palms of her hands up clear brown thighs, gyrates her hips, arches her tongue as if gesturing for Joseph to come to her, a fillet in her hair capturing the curls so they hang behind her ears, she sways her falciform body as she moves toward him.

“What do you want? Leave me alone,” Joseph tries, stepping back, his heels already hanging over the abyss.

“You know what we want, we want to help you.”

“I was told the guardians were formidable, but I had no idea. I was picturing some sort of hunchbacked sphinx or perhaps a phoenix but this is infinitely cleverer. The men’s clothes, you can’t change them, can you? You have to keep your clothes the same. You know that we men have strange fantasies about it, so it works. If I was a woman, though, you’d suddenly be male, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not falling for it, no sir e bob. You want me, you’ll have to fight me, none of this erection magic, it won’t work on me.”

The woman dancing moves closer, turns her back to Joseph and slowly lifts up the tails of her white shirt. “Why don’t you give Herapee a spanking? She’s being very naughty.”

“Yes, hit me, I’m a very bad girl.”

With this, Joseph makes his move. He alters his facial expression to that of a lust-bag, mimicking the look of men he’s seen in strip clubs, and gestures with his index finger for her to come to him. The woman swaddles over, unbuttoning the shirt from the neck down, revealing perfect skin.

“Bend over,” he commands and she spins on one toe.

“Yes,” she whispers, bending over before him and lifting her shirt over her waist.

His hand whips through the air and barks against her backside, causing the skin to ripple and her to take a few steps forward, she utters a hideous peal.

“How do you like that?” Joseph demands. “That goes for the rest of ya, too. I don’t play games, you want a spanking, I’m going to smack you so hard you’ll be a transsexual.”

“More, more…” the woman replies, backing up to him, arching her back and spreading herself open with her fingers. “More.”

“Freaky bitch,” he lifts his arm over his head, takes three steps back and runs towards her, sending out an echoing clap and causing her to fall forward, her red cheeks still shuddering from the blow. “Stop saying my name.”

“Well, if Herapee approves of you,” the original woman says Masochistically, grinning and licking her lips, “I don’t see why we can’t all have a chance.”

“That hurt like hell, didn’t it? You ready to say ‘uncle’?”

“Yes, it was exquisite,” she replies, standing back up and coming towards Joseph hind-first. “Uncle, uncle, uncle. I’ll say whatever you want. Use something this time, something really hard, or sharp.”

Joseph, realizing his tactical blunder and Rabeliasian situation while staring at the woman bending over and spreading her butt cheeks, sees that they’ve encircled his position and are all now unbuttoning trousers and unclipping suspenders, pulling belts out of loops to give him to use, unzipping flies, stepping out of pants crumbled at their feet, squatting, getting on their hands and knees, moving towards him in a great wall of asses, all prepped and ready to go. Now what are you going to do?

“All right, one at a time,” Joseph hollers, “I can’t whip every ass at once. Who wants it the most?”

“Meeeee,” a chorus replies, closing ranks, leaving no space in between. So Joseph, up to his ears in women’s hinnies, takes two of their belts, two large, thick and strong leather ones, and like a gladiator trained by samurais in the art of kendo, begins the most fantastic display of abuse anyone has ever seen. He’s a blur of brown pain, a tornado of snapping dragons, random women yelp in pain, scream uncontrollably from the sting and sigh deep throated sighs of voluminous ecstasy. But still, they do not give him a hole to escape from, when one ass has fallen, two more take its place, like the barbarians of antiquity, they use numbers against the surgical precision of the enemy. Immediately already smacked asses are back up, ready for another volley, pleading for it, backing towards him, hips pushing against each other, jockeying for position, shaking in anticipation, jiggling, flexing, trying anything to catch the torturer’s attention.

Joseph looks for an opening, any available escape route. He goes to work on one bruised ass, sending the woman reeling, and when two more smack together to block the daylight, Joseph gives them a flurry of blows. They’re screaming in felicity, just loving all the attention, adoring the fact that he’s chosen their two asses from all the others to do his best. When they go down, which takes all of Joseph’s energy, their perverse endurance overwhelming him, he stomps on their bodies and dodging several hands in an ominous argyle pattern, he makes a break for it.

There you have it (Beckettly). Wave goodbye to those sad sobs lining up for a ticket to ride. Give the last face you see, a particularly wanting young gal still chasing him with her hinny forward, a promising wink. They’ll be dreaming about the day Joseph Moore whipped their asses for years to come. He can hear it: “There was this one day, when an angel crawled out from within the void, no one could sit down for weeks” and “I was liberated by the seraphim Joseph, he beat my ass so hard I farted my soul out”.

Meanwhile the adversary of man and machinery, with thoughts of naked butts and mean pain, puts on swift wings and crosses rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death, a whole multiverse of abominable creatures, to the end of life itself, where the pale rider resides, breeding with worms, maggots, flies, slugs, bacteria, viruses, what have you, in a prodigious, yet spicy, orgy that causes our hero to pause for a few moments and say: “wow”.

The double-swing doors, the adversary of order, as confusion consistently ensues via egress and ingress, mounted an evocative defense against his distended thoughts, as the onslaught of scepter to chrome, like two dueling homosexual whale onyxes, perpetuated the swift stasis, before he’s caught mid-balestra by the frieze broadening the contours of the distant fortification, of umber partitioned starkly against navy waves, dark boundaries and calligraphied distance, a neutral survey of sandy highlands filthy with frosting swirl mounts and confined, prison shadowed valleys, deep fissures thick with metaphor and desperate heights emaciated of allegory, tumbling down into wild wrinkles splotched with steppe and flora green, capsizing into anthropological pampuh, awfully discriminating hemispheres tantalolagnical in their suggestive virginity tugging him beyond the fleshy recesses and into the forbidden fissures, which contrast Menelausly with the coastal squalor and even more so with the misplaced urban sanctuaries, attempting so desperately to Linnaeus or bathe the organic withdrawals, but he retreats beyond mystery, yielding to that final conduction zone, into cobbles and bones, until he has dropped, humid, horrified, under, into the navel, and although there are unknowns, this foray into the true unknown, where fear is sovereign, like a child pushing the profound limits of allowed territory to simply glimpse the forbidden and finding it, despite its familiarity, a scene of great awe, with its different lawns and strange homes, and being unable to breach its boundary only because of the law, is profound, because a limit is constant, protection, maternal, and that point in which it is violated is transcendental, where the human gateworks collide with the limits of the unreal…

Who do you want it to be beside the great dooryard? Surely not your child, your father or mother, or pet renovated triumphantly, dog or turtle, cat or goldfish, surely not your friend, your spouse, or rival jangling keys. She’s none, and altogether Rockwellian in her plump waste, doughy raised raisins moistly staring eagerly, capacious chest and vast belly bulge, the hidden cauldron of children bones and the listing stern of her haunches, a kennel of a womb, wherein he can hear the angry bark of lost dogs chained to her spine, and lastly, the blushing lunar vacuum of her charms.

The other figure, shrapneled via luminescent echoes of the commune of the street, reversed in shadows, and distended beyond the corona of fluorescence, shook an inked crown as if calling for a new jester, and once he’d traversed the threshold, the space contorted in a wrathful gait, the rustle of pandemonium raged, and the racket of eggshells rioted.

Sometimes, Joseph soars over the right hand coast, right passed Bengal, watching the merchants in sweeping camel caravans, following them on their ancient route, right into Ethiopia and down to the Cape of Good Hope. There, he makes a few loop-de-loops around the small lighthouse, thrilling the tourists with his dogfight-like aerial acrobatics. He has several pictures, probably too many, of him standing behind the sign: “Welcome to the Cape Point, the furthest southwesterly point of the African Continent”. Then, before sundown, he heads for the pole.

"…of course, you must see at least one of the islands, but I would try, if I were you, because I’ve been a few times over the years, to see at least three… yes, they’re divine… so much to do… but you’ve picked a really good time of year… the weather… yes… oh, the beaches are gorgeous… warm… the water is so warm… you’ll be just… maybe one or two blocks… with a view… palm trees and beautiful sunsets… just beautiful sunsets…"

"You are not my father! Who are you? Why do you torment me? I have to pass…"

"…hold on… yeah… wait, hold on… there’s… just one moment…"

"Why? Why are you doing this? I have to pass…"

"Kathy… can you? Kathy… sir, I’m not sure… if you could just… calm down… and let me… hold on… Kathy? Sir… I don’t know what…"

"False fugitive? Grow more… I’m not afraid… your scorpions do not sting me… your pestilence does not ail me…"

"…I’m not sure… sir… Kathy? Are you? Sir… I assure you… I’m not… calm down… let me… hold on… are you okay? There’s nothing to worry about… I’m not… I’m not sure… what you want… how can we help you?"

"Going on a trip? Can we help you?" (the clatter of her keys)

"So strange… your words… orphan voices accusing me of your birthright…"

A threefold gate of infinite layers of brass, iron and impenetrable rock blocked his path, an all-consuming fire of blue light circling it. Joseph lights his wand on fire and like a teenage cheerleader dancing in the state championships, he causes two great black clouds to rise to the nose-level of the giant.

"The gate? It closes at 5 sir… we’re not open as late as the mall…"

"Oh, dear, dear daughter… we’ve fallen so far… from our mutiny… all of us… from them I go… on an errand unholy… to a vacant room, or some such place… shhhh… this is a secret… once I find it, you can come too… all of us… as soon as I pass… I will send for you…"

"I’m afraid the gate is closed sir… at 5… we’re not allowed to open it… by law… there’s an alarm…"

"Are you my daughter? Do you want to escape this tartarian gloom? Take your infernal key… and unlock the forbidden… here you are in perpetual agony and pain… release your gate and reveal the bliss… let me coax your lock open…"

"Sir! Please! Sir! Don’t… no… I… no…"

"Whoa there… no… leave her alone… Kathy…"

"Come to me my ravished daughter…"

"Kathy… open it… open the gate…"

"But…"

"Let me pass…"

"Kathy… open it!"

"Oh! Stay away…"

"Permit me passage…"

"Just a moment sir…"

"Hold on… wait a moment…"

She opened the gates wide for him, and at that moment, time and space were lost, as Joseph stepped out into Chaos incarnate and anarchy’s brood. It was Epicurus’ wet dream, a case study in the facets of chaosology, probable systems rapidly impacting as a range of elements glided by in a meteorological ballet of stardust. Energy never dies, but here on earth, it becomes bodies. You could be swallowing a piece of Leonardo Da Vinci’s eyeballs with your next breath. Joseph, perplexed by the creation of embryos from ether and debris as unnumbered as the deserts of Cyrene, looks out from his vantage point in utter and complete awe.

My next obstacle. “This is the world only half done.” Little Chicken Little will have her retribution. Joseph steps out in the mall hallway, collides with several impatient shoppers and falls over a woman’s parcels. It is a horrendous, unfathomable fall, his arms spinning, his feet attempting to run, his body twirling uncontrollably. For ten thousand fathoms, right into the Leviathan, the deep end of Poseidon’s bathtub, where Neptune and Triton lather each other up in giggling, flirtatious sea sponge melees, slapping each other’s asses like fraternizing sports heroes, pinching nipples, tickling scrotums, exfoliating each other with cleaners from Syrtis. Joseph goes right by, bouncing off of Neptune’s shoulder like a drunken fly, neither god noticing. Joseph’s able to slow his descent by clutching the ribbon from a riotous cloud from within the woman’s bag.

“Get away from my pillows, I just bought those.”

He takes his leave, pushing the cloud back on course, and swims or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies through the stunning sounds and voices and bodies and bags and objects until he reaches a central location, where all paths meet. There, he sees familiar faces, Orcus and Ades, Rumour and Chance, Tumult and Confusion, Discord and an old friend who drowned in the Aegean Sea some years before but allegedly rises on full moon nights and abducts expectant virgins. The word cannibal has been used but Joseph has always believed it is meant metaphorically, due to the primal nature of his long-lost friend’s actions.

“You crazy kids, who’ve been born from the infernal abyss, who swim in chaos, I am no spy,” Joseph announced, standing on a fake wood bench in front of an ornate fountain (enter to win, you could be the lucky new owner of a garden fountain from Homestead Landscapes) and raising his arms. “I’m an explorer, you know, an anthropologist. Yet, I want nothing from you, I do not visit to exploit your secrets, your customs, your beliefs. I only want to make it through this desert of want but I can’t seem to find the door. Would someone mind telling me where the border of heaven and earth is? I need to revenge my life.”

“I know who you are,” a particularly decomposing old gentleman said, stopping in front of the orator. “You’re that guy on the news, the one who’s lost. I know a thing or two about life, I feel like I’m losing land to an invading army, to be honest. I own this mall, although probably not for long, if those damn corporate buggers get their way. I’m in the middle of a hostile take-over, so I’m wreaking all sorts of havoc around here. You’re welcome to stay; it would be my gain. But, I can show you the way out if you want. None of these doors lead to heaven, though.”

Joseph, seeing the skeletal finger pointing, did not remain to reply, but seeing the shore after a night in stormy seas, runs headlong into the crowd, knocking people over, dodging angry arms, more endangered than Jason and his buddies against the jostling rocks of Bosphorus, feeling quite like a homesick lord captured in Charybdis, but finally making it to the door, the phantoms of sin and death seemingly riding on his coat tails like castaways, but also paved before him the broad and beaten path over the whisky twilight of the dark abyss between night and day, whose simmering chasm was bridged from hell to earth and the central highway of the transportation of perverse spirits copulating with the tempted and the punished, except from dead Nietzschian lantern carriers and good seraphim guarding the grand grace of heaven. Joseph, whose crimson wings were unfurled and flapping in mad gyrations, clung to the lowest ring of Jacob’s stepping stool, like a giant staircase above all the beanstalks of folklore, and witnessed the Hubble constant expanding out from the blank expanse of the storm of ions and eons like it was fetus emerging from the womb of nothingness.

* * *

A small tinkle of rain, very moderate, quiet, the kind of rain that clings to felt but does not wet trousers or require pedestrians to carry umbrellas, the perfect walk in the rain kind of rain. Its tiny beads cling to the one window, darkened by a black curtain, a small spider web crack forming on the lowest pane. Inside, the uneasy owner of the harmatiological establishment wipes clean glasses with a dirty rag mechanically, eyeing the man sitting in one of his booths, sipping a pride and true alcoholic beer (six-percent by volume) that arrives by truckload at three in the morning every Tuesday by way of the mountains and is manufactured under moonlight by men he’s never met. His name is Bernard Quigley; he owns and operates The Blue Moon Speakeasy & Tobacco Bar. Bernard…

“BurrNaard.”

Bayernaard.

“BuurrNnaarrd.”

BarrrNNaarrd.

“BuurrNnaarrd.”

BuurrNnaarrd.

“BurrNaard.”

BurrNaard.

“BurNaard.”

BurNaard (spelled ‘Bernard’) allows the resistance to hold special meetings and engagements at his establishment from time to time in exchange for protection and secure clientele. He operates a criminal business for a hush-hush subculture. If the Sections ever found out BurNaard would be retrieved immediately and re-educated thoroughly, it has made him a suspicious and humor-deficient man who listens carefully and finds conspiracies in the timbre of voices. At least once a night the place is closed down and everyone sent home because BurNaard believes an agent is present.

Arthur Dodger finds him amusing, he purposefully changes his tone any time he speaks to him, especially when ordering a drink: “BurNaard, I would like a BEER, a BEER with ALCOHOL in IT, can YOU get me a BEER with ALCOHOL in IT?”

“That’s not funny.” BurNaard growls and pops the candle wax cork off a new forty-ounce bottle. As BurNaard serves Arthur Dodger his second ALCOHOLIC BEER (still not amusing), the doorman announces the arrival of Miss Kitty (a.k.a. Elisa Greene, no names please), who’s shown in and treated like a guest of honor by BurNaard.

Both men watch her entrance (causing a sort of lallation of their thoughts), which is always treated with genuine rhathymia by the subject. Her hair is down around her shoulders and she’s wearing her familiar simper (suggesting self-knowledge), along with an aubergine corset dress, fitted bodice has a drawstring scoop-neck, velvet placket and hook-and-eye closures; waist seaming and ruffle detail; side zip; cotton/rayon hybrid cloth, size XS, twenty-inches from waist; Giovanni Camolle designed; seven hundred and eighty digits; page 67 of the Hoffberg & Yoyando spring line catalogue, and very lovely. The drawstrings are loose and the scoop is forgivingly low. Elisa orders a glass of red wine from BurNaard who meekly grins and never makes it up to her chin. Then she joins Arthur Dodger at his booth, BurNaard pleased to watch her walk away, bend forward to peck Arthur on the cheek (dangling shadows accentuated nicely as she leans down) and finally, takes her seat.

“You know,” Arthur reaches exaggeratively for her hand and cups it in his palm. Elisa lets her appendage dangle there, as he rolls his thumb over her knuckles, admiring them, damn, even her knuckles, dapatical, smooth little ridges sweeping gently… “you know, you never can quite tell who you can trust…”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me…”

“Do you know who you were dancing with last night?”

“You want to know who I danced with last night? I have no idea — several people.”

“No, do you know who that man was, the one that came up to you while you were with your sister?”

Elisa handles her glass indelicately with her little fingers, sipping rather than gulping every twenty-five or so seconds, licks her lips by rolling her tongue out and over each one and looks away at nothing quite often. She adjusts a boot cuff lying against her shin.

“An engineer, I can’t remember his name.”

“An engineer? That was Captain Vincent Belacque, Section 6 investigator. He’s the author of the Children’s Fiction report — you know the one.”

“Are you sure? You might be getting a little too paranoid, Nick.”

Of course the youngest son of the miller was disappointed. What would he do with a pussy? This was all background information Arthur detailed to her prior to the beginning, he was the youngest son and she, well she was…

“No, it was Belacque. I know him; he’s been watching us for some time. I’ve been waiting for him to make some move and it looks like you’re it.”

“Why would he ask me to dance?”

“Why else would he be there?”

“Because my brother getting married brings out the worst people.”

“He was there because of you, Elisa.”

“So?”

“So, if Section 6 is on to us, if they know you’re involved, it very well could be the end of it.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, he was just like all those other men who asked me to dance, he didn’t seem to want anything more.”

“He wants more, my guess is that you may be under surveillance, Elisa.”

“If I’m under surveillance Nicholas, why would he come up and introduce himself to me?”

“I don’t know… but Belacque’s ambitious, he might just be trying to use you to get to us. Possibly, he’s had you under surveillance and it’s led him to us.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“Do you think you could find out what he knows?”

“How?”

“That’s not protocol, Elisa. Section 6 doesn’t work that way, there’s no way he’d make his presence known without reason. I think there’s more to him asking you to dance than official business.”

“But he didn’t make his presence known, he said he was an engineer.”

Elisa reached down again and adjusted the corner of her leather boot.

“He had to realize that you or someone with you would know who he really was. I think it was a calculated risk on his part.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Well you’ve been introduced, if he is following you it shouldn’t be hard to tell. Then all you have to do is initiate a relationship.”

“I’ve never been one to conceal my hidden charms.”

“From there it’s just a matter of finding out what he wants with you and if he knows anything about us.”

“So I’ll just be the girl waiting for the right man to come along, I’ve had a lovely time with all the wrong ones after all.”

“You’ll have to be careful, we don’t want it to backfire on us. He’s probably trying to gather evidence on you or the resistance or both. We can’t have you being a pawn.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to focus his attention elsewhere.”

“There should be indications of his intentions, Elisa. If you can find out what he knows about us — if anything — we can adjust some of our future operations. For now, we’ll assume he knows about us and that you’re his contact. If you can find out otherwise, we can move forward with the Program.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’ll have to be discreet, quiet about it, otherwise it’s to no avail. Pretend it’s a random encounter, that you’re oblivious to his case or who he is, that all you really want is a person to spend time with, he’s pretty conservative.”

“So I’ll be the opposite.”

“Initiate intimacy and get close to him, close enough so that he’ll confess to you what he really does and why. Then we’ll know.”

“I’ll get him to expose himself.”

“I’m serious, if you can find out what the Sections know about the operation, we can move forward, no more waiting. It’s really important, Elisa. I wouldn’t be asking you to do it if it wasn’t.”

“Sure you would.

“Speaking of my brother’s wedding,” Elisa mentioned associatedly, “there was a woman there, she said her husband was ‘lost’, that he’d runaway.”

“So.”

“Her name was Norma Moore.”

“So.”

“Her husband’s name is Joseph Moore.”

“Okay.”

“Joseph Moore, don’t you remember? You initiated him awhile back. Carl introduced him and you had me talk to him.”

“I can’t be expected to remember all the people I’ve ever met.”

“He’s disappeared Arthur, she doesn’t know where he is and the authorities can’t find him either. Section 9 hasn’t retrieved him and obviously you haven’t sent him on an errand. Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

“He probably ran off with another woman or something.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that, he was genuine.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to him, remember? He had two different colored eyes, he seemed altered — before he quit his cocktails, he was unique.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, you seem a little distracted lately.”

“I remember he asked me if I ever thought he could have been content, that was all he really said to me, the rest was odd quotes or poetry or something. I did most of the talking, it was strange, he seemed wounded or something, I felt like I needed to care for him.”

“Very odd — you taking the time to bother with him.”

“He said things to me that were like my own thoughts, I found myself confessing to him, however it was like he already knew all of it and I was simply reiterating. He was very different Arthur, he needed me to help him or something, however I don’t think he knew yet what he needed assistance with…”

“He’s just another messed up casualty, Elisa. Don’t put too much thought into it.”

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about. After I met him and we spent the night in the room, I’ve felt like he was still listening to my thoughts, but not outside, like he was inside, like I’d involuntarily allowed him to know myself truly, not what is filtered out.”

Arthur Dodger was silent, having never heard Elisa speak in such a way, he considered her diagnosis of the meeting melodramatic and romantic, two things he abhorred. He lit one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and passed it to Elisa and took out another one for himself. “Fantasy, drug induced fantasy.”

“Maybe.”

* * *

Graham Greene stood on the ledge of Eduardo Automotive Falls, his arm around his new wife, staring down into the Edge Sport River. They had just arrived; tonight was the big night. Haddie would be ceremonially obliged to get naked and crawl into the bed covers with him. This was all foreplay; this was all in preparation for denting his new wife’s head against an ivory headboard. He stood like a triumphant Viking in a foreign land, the native wench beside him, having seen her husband die, she was prepared to mate with the enemy. The next day, after one wild night of lovemaking, they’d be leaving for safari, to see his family’s greatest achievements. The wedding had been a complete success, everyone thought so, and the reception was a great to-do.

The only thing that had bothered Graham was the woman he had met and his sister’s split lip. Elisa was living in his old apartment now, living in the city. She said she had run into the refrigerator door, but it didn’t settle well with Graham. Then, there was the sweepstakes winner, the woman whose husband had disappeared, the woman talking to Elisa in that animated voice, the cartoon drama of her words. She had lost her husband. Graham had read about an attack on a public bus, people had been robbed of their socks and shoes. Now, a man was missing. The world, so ideal, so well looked after, appeared to be losing its perfection. She was medicated, but she was crying and laughing about her husband. She said he had been digging a grave and had disappeared. The shovel was still in the dirt. Their cat was missing as well. She wanted Graham to speak to him, the husband that is, if he was ever found. Graham had agreed.

“What are you thinking about, honey?” Haddie asked, snuggling up to his arm

“Our wedding.”

“Wasn’t it just perfect?”

“Yes. However, the reception was not what I hoped for,” Graham replied.

“Why do you say that, darling?”

“Did you meet that woman, the one who would not leave Elisa alone?”

“Um, no. Well, I might have, I don’t know. There were too many people to remember.”

“She was one of the sweepstakes winners, her husband was missing.”

“Oh, dear. How could he be missing? I mean, how could she not know where he was?”

“That is just the point. The world is changing. We’ve worked so hard to make it right and now, now it seems as though there are evil forces at work trying to destroy it,” Graham managed with an extreme hesternopothian tone.

“Oh, honey, it’s just a man, he probably got lost or maybe he got amnesia or something. It’s just one man.”

“Yes, but that’s how it begins. Did you know that her husband had been afflicted with all these accidents before he disappeared? Yes, it’s true. He almost died seven times. Then, you have these robbers stealing people’s socks and shoes on public transportation. I can’t help but see these things as offenses to our way of life.”

“That was just a prank, probably college kids with nothing better to do.”

“I never did anything like that when I was in school. It would have never occurred to us to do something like that. And this man, this missing person, what if he was abducted by someone? What do think that says about the world we live in? We have to remember, history is watching us, every decision we make, the way we raise our children, the way we handle crises, the way we handle our obligations, all of it is being recorded by history. I cannot help but wonder what it’s going to say about my lifetime. I will not have my life coexist with impurities, my life will be perfect and my community will benefit from it. I will not have robberies and missing persons sharing newspapers with my life. That is unacceptable.”

“But what can you do about it, honey?”

“We all do something about it, everyday that we live pure and wholesome lives. Don’t you see? We were able to conquer disease, mental instability, extinction, pollution, wars, all of it, by leading lives of hope and promise. We surged forward, we said ‘no more’ and we worked together to change things. This could be a sign that we did not accomplish what we set out to do. All my grandfather’s work, all my father’s work, all my family’s work, will be judged based upon these events. Our lives are perfect, our society is tranquil, our world is prosperous, these are things we need to work on sustaining every day. Not just weekdays, not just on government holidays, not just when we celebrate our achievements, but in our actions and thoughts every day,” he replied Leibnizianly.

“You are so noble.”

“Yes. I have to be, I have to be for the sake my brothers and sisters. I am Graham Greene; my actions are monitored by posterity. It is my duty and my honor to be remembered as one of the great men of my time. I take this role very seriously and I want you to as well. You are now a part of me, we are now Graham Greene, you must work to lead a life of purpose. We are examples, you and I, Haddie. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course. I won’t fail you, honey. Let’s go inside. My knight in shining armor needs to be awarded for his chivalry.”

“I don’t expect awards, I do this because it is my nature.”

“I know and I love you for it. Let me show you how inspiring you are.”

“I hope I do inspire people, by my example, by my sacrifices, by my honorable acts.”

“Yes, I’m ready to sacrifice myself, too. I want to sacrifice myself to you, but for the time being, my acts won’t be honorable.”

“You cannot, even for a moment, Haddie, sway from our purpose, our mission. There is no ‘time being,’ for we exist for all time, as history’s children.”

“Oh, I agree. Let’s go give our all for history, let’s go right now.”

“Well, honey. We can take some time off for the honeymoon. I mean, we don’t have to start right away. We should take some time for ourselves. You only have one wedding night.”

* * *

At first he thought she was going back to her flat, but then she walked through an alleyway and entered a small Mediterranean diner she had started frequenting. Several nights a week, a provocative belly dancer filled the dining room to capacity and Elisa could sit, alone, at a table without being hassled every few minutes by a gentleman offering her his discreet loins via an offer for his company. She was already seated when he made it to the door and Captain Vincent took a stool at the end of the bar so that he could keep her close, as she thumbed through an old book and ate her dinner.

He made himself comfortable and quickly, considering the size of the crowd all feigning over the available belly of the woman on stage, got the attention of the bartender. He ordered himself a drink and pleasantly made small talk with a steering wheel moustached man seated directly to his left. She would be awhile, she enjoyed sitting in a restaurant and pecking away at some dish while she read, the more people surrounding her the better. However, as Captain Vincent glanced craftily over to her location between audible observations he was making to continue his conversation, she had left her seat and was nowhere to be found amongst the chiming crowd. He abruptly, although not rudely, broke off his soliloquy and sought her with his extra-sensory means, which were crowded to the brim with all the absent meanderings of the controlled substance minds in attendance. She was still there, just out of sight.

Captain Vincent, having never been much for metaphysics, considering their unreasonable demands on mysticism and heroism of a less than physical fashion, allowed any influence the ancient music may have had to slip back into his subconscious and convinced the musicians to fumble a lengthy breath so that they were required to stop and regain their composure. As for the gyrating hips and flexing tummy of the dancer, she was a carnal emblem of repressed sexuality (he meant this in an Ellisian way) and compared to the now missing flanks and abdomen of one Elisa Greene, she was a poor example at that, although in continuing without music, by maintaining the masses attention (provocatively smacking her hips against the seated audience), she had taken on an almost pathetic air that would have perked the predator in the captain had he not been so focused on searching for his lost little honey bee.

Realizing altogether at the appropriate moment that he was still conversing with his nearest barstool neighbor, Captain Vincent turned his gaze back upon his fellow citizen, only to find the pleased face of his prey there beside him. At first, of course, our agent believed she was out-spying him, announcing to his otherwise calm demeanor that she knew of his query and was prepared to find out just what he thought he was doing ‘shadowing’, as they say in the biz, her. However, she made no mention of it, but had actually remembered him from their short dance at her brother’s wedding reception and, even more incredible, requested to sit with him.

“You look familiar, yes I remember you. Didn’t we dance at my brother’s wedding a few months ago?”

“Yes, in fact we did.”

“You’re an engineer aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Mind if I sit down? I’m getting very sick of eating dinner all by myself.”

“No, of course not, please. Would you like something to drink?”

“That would be lovely.”

“To be honest, I thought I’d be the last person in the world that you’d ever ask to sit down with.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I didn’t get the idea from our dance that you liked me.”

“Oh, I can be a bit cranky at times, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t hurt my feelings, I found it refreshing.”

“Yes, I remember, you said I was delightful, I think that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that about me. What are you doing around here, I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I live nearby, I’ve seen you here quite a few times.”

“I must not have noticed. Would you be a doll and get me out of here?”

“I thought you wanted to eat.”

“No, I’m bored with food. Let’s go to a speakeasy nearby.”

“A what?”

“A speakeasy, you know where you can have a real drink and a smoke. There’s one in the warehouse district, just up the street. Do you drink or smoke? They play great old music.”

“All right, lead the way.”

“I like men that do whatever I want, we should get along famously.”

It was not long before he found himself, in a clear daze, if there is such a thing, which we assure you there is, especially when a love is so nearby, walking with her down the street, her head rested against his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his closest arm as if they had been dating for three or four weeks exclusively and had grown comfortable enough for physical contact, meaning, of course, that a kiss and some moderate fondling of non-erogenous zones were to follow very quickly, at least by the next date, which meant that as long as he kept his mouth shut, he’d be pulsating within her sweaty crotch by month’s end. After that, he would have every opportunity to witness her naked, as the first few love making sessions were always punctuated by the utmost modesty, meaning that both fuckers would remove only the necessary equipment for access and denial, but that any additional roving was utter trespassing and potentially cause for refusal, although it was not unknown for two people to become so amorous that breasts were exposed or full frontal nudity was allowed in the midst of a ravenous episode of first contact.

Captain Vincent was sitting in a booth against the wall of the insides of a refurbished warehouse, unbeknownst to any of his peers, superiors, or other colleagues, it had been converted into a thriving disco where debauchery was promoted with unqualified music, alcoholic beverages, and the pungent fumes of tobacco smoke, all of which were strictly forbidden under Article 876-04 of the Social Ordinance Revised Codes, pages 789 through 795 (very Baylian, he must admit). Elisa, though, had already departed from the captain’s company and was currently standing, quite pleasantly, considering her back-less, black ribbon dress and perched head, at the bar, having been immediately serviced by the gentleman behind it, not even having the opportunity to consider what she intended to order before he stood attentively before her, ignoring the angry grimaces and whines of patrons who had been waiting for up to five minutes for him to get to their orders and returned quite triumphantly with two martinis and a package of hand-rolled cigarettes that were allegedly prepared by underground rollers from an island that had an ancient tradition of tobacco expertise. She immediately lit one of the cigarettes and blew out a large, thick plume of blue smoke like she had just heard the words of god and had been promised some sort of royal position upon her death. The captain, quite out of his element, since he’d never tried alcohol before, nor smoked a cigarette, nor did he intend to that night, knowing full well that excesses were always the symbols of rebellion in the historical annals (see for instance the feminist movement of the late-21st Century country of India), did not intend to ignore the attentive vixen who plugged a cancer stick to her lips and drew in an enormous furnace of ashes but couldn’t very well help it since the dance floor was spilling into the seating area and several scantily clad women were being dry humped by their partners, both male and female, right there before him, as well as the momentarily exposings of ass cheeks, cleavage, and nearly non-existent panties as the women waggled to the thumping tempo of some sort of sonic wave.

Elisa Greene, seated directly across from him and with her feet positioned between his legs as she reclined, seemed amused by the captain’s reaction to the hedonistic establishment, and sipped her martini between sacrificial smiles. Vincent, the professional that he was, pulled himself together and turned his attention to his prey.

* * *

Hail holy luminosity, the product of heaven’s portal, or of the eternal cooperation of deity and machine expressing an unblamed, unapproachable effluence of eternal, at least for cosmic-dynamo extra terrestrials, light that behaves like an antennae to focus the pure ethereal stream of Graham Green’s weekly, awarded from the void and infinite universe, oration on the virtue of complete supplication to the general will of the world’s prejudices, however slight. Joseph, who had escaped the Stygian pool, though he was lengthily detained within its grasp, having misunderstood a wishing well for an expansive ocean to cross with the tidal influence of an inflatable raft that had caused an obscure sojourn of sorts, to the best of his knowledge, properly exaggerated. Within the darkness of descending stars of the middle of the multiverse and with a very odd noise emanating out of what was surely an Orphean lyre, unbeknownst to our hero, due to its antiquity related usage, he stood at the cusp of dawn, amongst the piercing rays of the ultraviolet morning, so thickly were the neon, serene drops of pollution quenching the atomic laws of thermodynamics, and witnessed, for the first time, the clear spring of words that flowed upon the hallowed feet of an angel’s wisdom. No equal, save the blind Thamyris and equally vision deficient Maeonides, as well as Tiresias and Phineus, could so properly feed the thoughts of the harmonious numbers as he warbled like a wakeful bird a nocturnal note on the missing subject of our prose.

Now had the all-knowing agent who stood from a vantage point above, from the imperfect empyrean seat, bent down his gaze, to view the maneuverings of Joseph the Angel, as about him stood the sanctities of Section 6 and from his sight received beatitude beyond poetry; on his right was the monitor in which the radiant image was interrupted by his main ally; whom, within his rural sanctuary began to lament so eloquently upon New Urbanization, that highly-fashioned mixed-use development scheme that promised Norman Rockwell mirages to spring from front porches and tire swings as neighbors gabbed about the weather, the postal worker greeted little urchins with a friendly pat on the head, and the sprinklers fed the chem.-lawn. Graham talked on as he was joined by his new wife and as his voice resonated out into the firmament, his own private happy garden was explored in its blissful solitude and transitioned with cinematographical articulacy to scenes of the actual urban streets, as Joseph mounted a mending wall and shot out in the air like an archangel invading the terrestrial plain. It was then, that Vincent observed his substitute query.

Rage transports our adversary who cannot be bound by Fenris chains or dismayed by frightening chasms, so bent was he was on some desperate retribution for the hours and the days. Captain Vincent watched the prey as he was lit by the ambrosial vision of the blessed spirit who he had so recently bed and heard the words of her brother, by some false guile perverting the flattering lies he knew she had been serving him and providing him with an honest glimpse of the fall. No doctor created this spirit, so freely standing in mock ignorance, who has no true allegiance, no constant faith or love, where only her needs must do, whether he wished they would, for what praise could they take delivery of? The pleasure he received from such disobedience, when his will and reason (his choices) were useless and vain, for there was no freedom, but all was made passive and he would serve necessity. No force has caused this revolt, no destiny or fortune or fate, they themselves decreed their own rebellion, it was not for he, although he knew, for his foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, so without the least influence or trespasses, as authors of their own fall, as they judge from themselves of what they choose, they themselves ordain the collapse.

* * *

With Elisa laying across Vincent’s lap, in the Hotel Van Tryst, her mouth hovering near his throat, her breath rebounding off his airy, recently shaved neck, floating like fog up his jaw, it was the captain’s move, for she had suggested the purchase of a nameless bottle of wine, had directed him to the hotel, and had flung herself so carelessly onto him after several moments of hesitant silence (neither party missing the Blauian affects of the scenario). Captain Vincent was no expert in the art of spittle exchange, but he did have a certain seriousness about him when he did it that conveyed to the recipient how much he appreciated the shared experience. The captain gave the matter his full attention and avoided such abandonment that can lead to extraneous amounts of saliva trickling down the sides of the mouth and causing the other party to slide off of the lips. This simultaneously, though, gave the operation a clinical feel and Vincent had never been given the attribute of passion, causing, irreparably, the few women he had been fortunate enough to lock lips with a rather sour feeling for the entire procession, unnaturally causing them to move a few steps forward in the process and arrive at the final destination without sufficient lubrication. Thus, the ultimate aspiration of every man had always eluded poor Vincent; he had never experienced the throbbing, writhing wail of a woman in ecstasy. Fully aware of this, the captain was hesitant to embark on the operation with Elisa, fearing, rather compassionately, that he would so disappoint her that she would calculatedly end their relationship based upon his deficient skills with her wanting mouth.

Elisa, in striking opposition, had a kissing surface that seemed to be divinely ordained to be the absolute perfect place for a lovely embrace, the curve of her upper lip systematically met her palate, offering to a lucky fellow a Valhalla like curve for tongue twisting or, praise be to the lord, fellatio. Elisa had been endowed with two such heavenly flower buds, with a faint hint of bloody animation, that they seemed to plead for contact, one of the primary causes of her popularity, along with the stench of her pheromones that emanated out of her pores in a seemingly unique fashion, like a wild cat in heat. This aroma had been surrounding Vincent since he started the relationship with her, it was on his clothing when he got home, it was on everything she touched, it filled the room when she was present and it caused other men to make foolish gestures, to ignore propriety and make open advances towards her, even in the captain’s presence.

Now, she was on top of him, he could feel the pressure of her thighs on his legs, he could feel the soft underbelly of her arm against the back of his neck, and his entire face was filled with her smell, like an allergy.

Elisa, realizing the captain’s hesitation, lifted herself off of his lap, causing for a few moments Vincent to believe he had missed his opportunity, and walked back over to the table with the wine. She bent her head back and drew forth a large swallow directly from the bottle, sending streams of the creamy liquid rolling down the sides of her jaws, dripping onto her exposed collarbone and causing dark blots to appear on her blouse. She said something about her shirt and crossed her arms by her waist, lifting it off in one swift motion, exposing for him her bare front down to her belly. She tugged a knot on her left hip and the arcipluvian skirt she had been wearing floated down to her ankles, leaving only a thin, dark line of cloth between Vincent and her. He watched her like he had several times on the screen, focusing, commenting to himself the word exquisite, feeling the rippling heat well up within him. He kept his hand on the bed covers, unmoving, and she moved carefully over to him, stood just before the end of the bed, a few inches from his knees and slid her underpants down her thighs, then over her knees, and finally down her shins. He stared forward, her loins hovering within reach, her breasts so close to him the smell clung to streams of air, magnified by her nudity. With one forward step she was against him, tugging open his shirt, he felt her smooth hands slide his pants and shorts down his thighs, his eyes were closed and he could feel her naked flesh against him as he laid back on the bed, with her skin gliding against him. She inserted him inside and began to move, the quivering ache slowly growing within his belly, it began softly, like the opening of the great concerto, slowly building, sounds adding to the general peal of noise, within him, conscious of the wild whelps she uttered as she surged forward atop him, the strange rhythmic motion of her hips, his own guttural moans that he involuntarily expelled from his diaphragm, the building movement, the jerking slap of her hind against his thighs as the motion increased in intensity, every tissue, each pore of his skin, the electric shock of her touch, convulsing across his skin as he slid within her internal folds, until, as if the energy was erupting from within him, to implode within his gut and spew forth his entire essence, his eyes wet with unconscious tears, he spasmed, his fingers clenching the bed sheet, the sting of the sublime spitting out, and a sudden silence and inertia, only their breath slowly receding.

He lay motionless, exhausted, spent. He closed his eyes, they were simply too heavy to keep open, and sank into a fulfilling slumber.

Elisa carefully allowed him to slip out of her and retreated into the bathroom. She took a short shower to feel clean and re-entered hotel room proper, where the captain lay motionless, only his chest rising and falling, breathing shallowly and turned over on his side. She wouldn’t be crawling back into that bed, he’d leaked onto the sheets while he slept. She didn’t dress — if he awoke she’d need to recapture his attention and so she squatted down, nude, freshly clean, considering the episode, not fully satisfied, but that was really not the purpose than either. She’d have to educate him a little more if she was going to be expected to do this much longer.

She snapped the two locks on the briefcase, made sure he was still sleeping, and opened it up, thumbing through all sorts of papers and folders. She read some things, things that appeared to be of interest, like documentation on her assistant’s sexual habits, or the detailed reports on her movements, as well as a short note about a meeting she’d had with Arthur Dodger. Her file was considerably thick, photos (some arguably non-official), reports, surveillance logs, a contact list, a character profile (this she found amusing), but nothing about the resistance. There were some questionable notations, obscure references to something outside of her existence, Arthur’s name underlined, photocopied pages from what must have been his file, field notes on a mysterious character called ‘the wolf’, but Elisa didn’t have the time to read it all, she was too nervous, with him sleeping five feet away from her, all he had to do was roll over, all she had to do was rustle a piece of paper or snap a paperclip, and he’d catch her.

Her hands shook as she flipped through the papers, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder every few seconds, and she was thinking about what would happen if the captain ever turned her file in — that would mean she would be retrieved, that one day a group of men would come to see her and they would order her to go with them and she would be taken away. She didn’t know what they did to them, but she’d met a few ‘rebranded’ women before, they were lobotomized, strange wraiths of life, constantly repeating the same preprogrammed words. You could see it in their eyes, there was an absence, a lack of will left, a sort of zombie look, like the dead eyes of a shark. She gulped in air as she poured over the files, as quietly as she could. At least she’d found some information, at least she could tell Arthur something. She placed the papers back in the briefcase and snapped it shut. He was still sleeping.

She picked up his coat and rummaged through the pockets, nothing but a watch and a pen. Then she felt something in the collar; it ran down from the lapel and inside the sleeves, ending in one of the buttons. She followed the thick plastic wire from the sleeve and into the back of the jacket, just about at waist level. It was a transmission device. He turned it on by pushing one of the buttons on his sleeve — how many times she’d seem him fidgeting with them as they conversed — and there was a tiny microphone in the collar. Was it on? She imagined two husky men sitting in a van outside, listening… they’d heard all of it… they knew the captain had intercourse with her that evening, they’d heard her moans and his haughty breaths. Could they tell what she was doing? She put his coat back where she’d found it and took his wallet from his pants: his ID card (C-list), no section identification (perhaps out of fear of her finding it), pictures of her (all very innocent thankfully), figures (digital account balance looked high), a membership card to a gentlemen’s club (would have never thought), and that was all.

Elisa replaced his wallet and returned to the briefcase for a second time. She unlatched it, checked him, thumbed through the reports, took several documents, folded them up and placed them in her purse, then decided that was too obvious and placed them in a portfolio of the hotel’s amenities, changed her mind, just in case he decided to order something or needed to dial out, and finally slid them underneath the mattress of the second bed (unused at this point). She checked him again, this time actually tiptoeing up and making sure he was asleep and closed his briefcase and placed it exactly where it had been before. Then she joined the sleeping agent in the bed, avoiding the soiled spot, but curling herself up so that he could encircle her body.

Just for good measure: “Oh Vincent, this is so nice…”

* * *

Captain Vincent could not get her out of his mind, she leaked into every one of his thoughts, despite his attempts at ignoring her. When he filled out reports, Elisa was reading them over his shoulder, when he talked with another agent, she was scrutinizing whatever he said, when he was away from her, she never left his side. He tried to laugh at his own foolishness: it was absurd to involve himself with a subject, one that he knew was not interested in him, but using him for information; but he was oddly obsessed with her. Though no one at the agency knew of the relationship, and he could easily keep it quiet, Captain Vincent felt that he could have no peace until she was legitimized and his completely. He was afraid of the humiliation, should she acquire information from him and it was discovered by another section. He was afraid of the humiliation of being used, of not being in control of his emotions, of other people finding out he had been romantically involved with one of his subjects and that she had gotten the best of him. Vincent made up his mind that he would give her nothing and take what he needed. He told himself over and over that he would use her, gratify himself, and call in Section 9 when he was finished with her. She would have nothing to tell Arthur Dodger and the others; she would have prostituted herself to his will, and be cornered. Then, he would give her an ultimatum, one she could not refuse. Vincent would offer her up or she would offer herself to him. For now, he would keep their relationship on his terms, he was an engineer, he worked downtown, he would see her when he had time. He refused to give her any opening she could exploit, although, admittedly, he knew that her sexuality always left him at a disadvantage, that she controlled him in those instances, that he could not handle her nudity, her smell, her wanting eyes, that she could get anything she wanted out of him by exploiting herself. And she was willing to do it.

Captain Vincent needed to control himself. He would leave her hanging for a few days, not call her, she had no way of contacting him, and then, just as she began to wonder, he would show up. He could tell her feelings from that, all he had to do was restrain himself.

The struggle with himself had taken no time, the afternoon of his decision to not see Elisa for a few days, and he found himself at the door of her apartment complex, unable to avoid his desire. Still, he reasoned, he usually came to see her early in the morning; he had made her wait until well into the afternoon. It would still be useful, how she reacted to his delayed arrival.

“I assumed you weren’t coming today,” Elisa said at the door.

Vincent reddened noticeably; his heart rate quickened, and beads of perspiration appeared around his temples. “I was detained, I apologize.”

“No matter, I always forgive trespasses,” she moved aside to let him in. His response seemed to satisfy her and he felt concerned, perhaps his plan had not worked. She didn’t seem to mind his absence at all. She was wearing a plaid miniskirt, a sheer white blouse and a necktie (a grown-up schoolgirl) though, and he comforted himself in the idea that she must have worn it in expectation for his arrival (a begrudging promise made after much begging on his part).

“I really am very sorry for my late arrival,” he repeated, following her into her studio.

“Don’t fret, Vincent, I really don’t mind. However, I must say, I didn’t put this costume on this morning for my own benefit,” she responded nonchalantly, immersing herself in a drawing. Vincent was pleased; she had expected him and had dressed accordingly; he saw the time approaching when it would be his turn to control the situation and he would have her completely. He looked at her as she worked, an ophelimitic quality to her profile, her hair in two pigtails, matching the innocence of her clothing, long white stockings, little brown penny-loafers, the entire assortment for him. Vincent grew weary, although it was he who asked for her to dress in such a way, it suddenly seemed like another way for her to control him. He already found himself staring at her naked thighs, he had already found himself imagining her disheveled, her shirt torn open, one stocking on and one off, her little plaid skirt lifted over her waist, her hair partially torn from its perfect order. Elisa’s body was Vincent’s labefaction, he knew it, but couldn’t help himself.

“What are you working on?” he finally asked, trying to begin a conversation.

“You know me, Vincent, my clothes are designed not so much to make a girl look good as to make men look good.” Conversation did not go very easily between them, for she never responded honestly and Vincent was never sure exactly what she meant, whether she was making a joke or serious and whether it was at his expense.

Elisa had her back turned to him, standing at her drafting table, slightly bent over it, absorbed in her drawing as if he wasn’t even there. Vincent was growing restless; he tried not to look at her but he couldn’t help himself; he enjoyed it altogether too much. Her short plaid skirt ended just at the beginning of her legs and he could see the faint shadows of the slopes of her posterior. He wanted desperately to drop his pants and take her as she stood, but this was as she wanted. He needed to control the circumstances. She shifted her weight and stood with her legs further apart, arching her back over the table.

“Feeling a bit thorny today?” she finally asked, breaking the silence. Vincent was pleased with himself; she had addressed him first. She cocked her head slightly and turned slightly back towards him, raising her eyebrows and indicating to him with her eyes her exposed skin.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, wetting his lips uncomfortably.

“I hope you weren’t just lost in thought, my dear, you’d be a stranger in a strange land.”

“No.”

“You poor man, I don’t mean to be rude, you’re unarmed and I’m trying to engage you in a little battle of wits.”

“I know I’m no Greene, Elisa. However, I’m no idiot, that I assure you. I don’t see why you feel the need to be so combative all the time.”

“Are you trying to have a conversation with me? I apologize, I hadn’t realized.”

“Do you want me to go? Are you angry with me for being late?” Vincent offered, hoping that this was the case and that she’d confess to it, that she’d give him some indication of her feelings for him. He was very anxious to pretend that he didn’t mind her urticant words, but he was seized with a feeling of inferiority. He had an urgent desire for her to be near him and the temptation to contrectate her was growing irresistible.

“We’ve settled that, I don’t mind you’re a whimling of sorts. I just don’t see why you want to focus on it by talking to me. We both know why you’re here, I dressed accordingly, so let’s not bother with the formalities.”

“Elisa, I’m not just interested in you sexually, I adore you.”

She had no mercy for him. He looked at her legs and she grabbed the edge of her skirt with two fingers and raised it slowly. He watched carefully despite what he had said. She had a coy smile on her face, as if she was taunting him and he wanted to smack her as hard as he could. At the same time, he wanted to embrace her and for her to weep in his arms.

Captain Vincent told himself that Elisa had to have emotions and sensibilities like everyone else, that he only needed to comfort her, to awaken them within her and that then, she would return his feelings. It was simply a question of watching for the opportunity, allowing her to maintain her control, wearing her down with small conquests, taking advantage of the physical attention, which she seemed to want solely, making himself a stable figure that she would come to depend upon.

As their relationship continued, he began to talk to her of a fictitious future life together, and she never objected. He poured into Elisa’s ears a story of stability, of family, and of progress. He never responded to her barbs, her criticisms of his prejudices, but sought to combat them by pure force of will, forcing upon her his vision, to make it her own. He never let himself be disturbed by her personal attacks, nor irritated by her indifference to his dream. By sheer effort Vincent made himself her willing whipping boy; he never complained of her cruelty, or her different habits and lifestyle. When she asked him about his life, he lied, when he asked her about her life, she responded in kind. Vincent never let her see that she hurt him or that he was desperate for her. He understood that his passion had given her the upper hand, and he took great care to appear as though he was not just interested in her for her sexuality. He never refused her, but he made sure to continue to hold her afterwards (even though she seemed to not see the purpose in it), and he did all he could to keep their sexual relations conventional, even though she was a willing participant in any fantasy and implored him on several occasions to explore his more deviant desires.

Neither of them ever mentioned Vincent’s slow change, although they were both conscious of it, he believed, quite vividly, that it was affecting her nevertheless: she appeared to become more confidential with him and more reliant on his presence. She would talk to him without cruelty and, once or twice, even appeared to gaze into his eyes with a loving look. Vincent was pleased with himself, although he couldn’t harness his own passion, he could contort it and seem less of a sexual tyrant. He knew he was the opposite of her former lover, and he believed that she appreciated him for it. No one, not even her with her foul mouth and deprecating attitude, would prefer violent paizogony, not when they had a gentle, careful, and serious partner.

“I like you when you want to make love to me,” she told him once, while they were waiting for seats at the theatre.

“I’m so pleased,” he replied.

“I don’t mind so much all of this foreplay, the nice dinners, the theatre tickets, the walks in the park, and all of these annoying acts, but I’d much rather we just spent our time in bed.”

She didn’t realize how her words, seemingly so benign, set back his plans nor how difficult it was for him to reply so nonchalantly. He had been fighting a battle against his desire for months, trying to seem to her a true and kind suitor, a serious man who very much loved her. To hear her say all she wanted him for was sex, it destroyed any notion of progress he thought he was making with her. Vincent didn’t know what else he could possibly do. Perhaps, she should be rebranded, perhaps it would help her out of her moral quagmire, perhaps it was truly the best thing for her. She was obviously of questionable moral fiber, she may never change, all his work and she was still only with him for her own purposes. The seeming headway he had made reduced to physical contact, she was still working against him, still seeking information from him. She was not with him by choice, this was her job, just as his was to watch her. He was silent.

* * *

“You see, my dear friend,” Joseph said, sitting on the stoop of the alleyway back entrance of a remarkably homogenized fashionable restaurant known simply as Top and feeding several small, slinky feral cats, one of which was part Persian, part Long-hair, with an orange coat, “it’s not so much a matter of beauty and harmony. We can liken it to a painting, if you will. My mother, not of course, my maternal progenitor, but rather my adopted caregiver, forgive me for my impertinence, I do not know feline, used to say I was page one hundred and fifty-six and page two hundred and twelve of Madam Bovary. Meaning of course — she was speaking of my eyeballs — that I am a construction of influences. Consider, my good friend, the notion of consciousness, for most people, death is a fearful thing because you lose consciousness, it dissipates into the void, who you are dies along with the flesh’s decay. But really, if you think about it, what is consciousness? Are we conscious of our liver, our heart, do we have any conscious control over blood flow or the synaptic flames in our brain? No, of course, I see you assenting — this is true logic. Our consciousness then, we must agree, is how we perceive ourselves based upon unreliable sources, other people, our impressions on how we behave, our fallible understanding of our own mannerisms, our little thoughts and emotions guided by outer influences. The more influences, the more fodder for this understanding we receive, the greater the consciousness. In other words, our access to ideas, information, art, all of these things, determines the expanse of personal awareness. You, for instance, have never read Tolstoy or Andrew Marvell, you’ve never seen a Cassatt or Raphael, you have never heard Vivaldi or Monk, and therefore, your own awareness is severely limited. Forgive me for saying so, but your ignorance, although seemingly blissful, is actually imprisonment. People, I should say, they fear death because they will lose their impressions of themselves. These they acquired based upon abstractions. It is not a fear of loss of blood, we do not fear the actual mechanism of our hearts stopping, we fear the outcome, that the energy will no longer flow to our brains and we shall expand exponentially into nothingness, no longer aware of the physical world. However, the way things are, most of these people have not had the influences to expand their consciousness beyond melodrama and what, in that, is really tragic? You see Theo, I do not embark on this mission as a saboteur, to proverbially throw a wrench in the great mechanism, no, no, my dear cat, I am an assassin, I’m afraid, the very most dangerous of the honorable, this is then, an act of hubris. How you ask, I expected it, how you ask can I leap off a bridge? Because I was fortunate enough to be given to idleness as a young man and to have been reared by an idle woman. We had nothing but our thoughts and our consciousness and we fed them like they were starving urchins. A death then, was nothing more than a loss of how I was perceived, a forcible ending to the engines of my anatomy, closing the book, if you will, on my own expansion, a return to ignorance. For does a child die if they pass before they have consciousness, before they can understand that they are perceived and that they should begin to acquire information? I think not, they go from whence they came. They do not know that they have lived, so how can they really die? If death is feared for stripping us of who we are, who we understand ourselves to be, it is nonexistent then to one who does not understand they exist. Our harmony then, makes us like innocent babes, stunting our ability to be conscious. We are as children, unaware of living so our lives are meaningless. We are the citizens of a content purgatory that does not allow us to consider what’s outside its confines. Like you, kitty cats, whom never expanded beyond the realm of simple needs, we are inflated beasts, only our needs multiplied without acquiring a true understanding of ourselves in order to fathom anything more. That is a tragedy, my dear friends, a manufactured mythology. As you may be aware, humanity has often times invented these control devices, these ways of suppressing wisdom and knowledge, these manacles of consciousness. This, I believe, is our theory of humours, the invented explanation for why we require control. We replace one fable with another, if it’s not Hippocrates’ than its Immunex’s, however both, equal in their intolerable grandeur of contortion, are essentially the same, they limit our ability to realize our existence and the innate value in it.

“You might think, and in this case you would be wrong, that I intend then, to stab Hippocrates to death. But no, my friendly audience, I intend to have Hippocrates stab me to death. For we can only disprove a theory by experimentation, this we have not been given the right to do and so, I shall take it upon myself to be our universal scientist. My theory contradicts the prevailing zeitgeist and if the world is not round than I shall fall off the side.”

* * *

Halfway up the array, slowly gliding into frame in a drapey, lucent robe with bell tower sleeves, one tie, right there, two inches under the sternum, tossed open to the sides, fingers trickling downwards, swaying to music they can’t hear, palms cupping her own flanks, bent forward, twisting, file reads like a domestic differences court proceeding: “subversive requests… immoral needs… several documented instances of perversion… indication of self-gratification rituals… husband filed action request… episode involving produce inserted into vagina… a lack of sociability…” as she sways her hips towards a mirror, licks the air in front of thirty or so people (unbeknownst to her), and leans against the wall. Hand spread open begins to descend down, pulls string slowly, tosses back the gown, two round tits, presses from the outside in, mashing them together, feigned attempt to lick left nipple, squeezing roughly, Vincent with tented pants already, two uncomfortable coughs, clearing throats, strained focus on anything else, sideward glances, stroking them stiff, snake-like torso movements, mouth open, lazy wanting eyes, hand continues downward over right breast, dips into ribs, over abdominal muscles (very nicely defined), brushing belly button, fingers pointing down, twirling groomed hair-line, disappearing finger tips, Vincent leaking, wetting lips, a few coughs, ah-hum, obviously moaning, leans against wall, legs buckling, increasing velocity of massage, red light, red light…

Vincent turns towards the wall above the seats and heads for his office, a manila folder at fly-height, makes it without being seen and inspects the damage. Takes a seat behind his desk, lest anyone should wander in, unzips, dollop of creamy lotion, and tubes his right hand, concentrates, tissue ready, UUUuuuuhhhhhhh…

A few moments later, Vincent leaves his office and heads to the end of the hall, takes a right, counts nine doors, enters, take a left, counts six doors, enters, takes another right, counts eight doors, enters, turns left, counts three doors, enters, goes down the hall to door number six on the right, and knocks…

“Good morning, Captain Vincent, please come in.”

“I got a message you wanted to see me.”

Two matured soldiers, purely formulaic thoughts, fanfaronade from director, probably commanders… Section 9…

“Yes, this is Commander Charles and Commander Franklin of Section 9. They have been monitoring your progress.”

“I see.”

Misfeasance, intolerably so too, none of their business, really, he is knowledgeable about her… no reason for questions, already know the answers, the other has been packed along for numbers, a tactic, strategy, two commanders versus a captain…

“We had some questions concerning this case, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, specifically the purpose for its continuation.”

Feign ignorance… expecting cooperation, I know that man: Arthur Dodger, the wolf, yes, tied to her… not yet… she’s changing… know about him…

“I don’t understand the question.”

“The Code is specific on cases like these, Captain Vincent, it does not appear that you are following protocol in this instance. Reports 3.4 and 6.2 indicate branding is necessary, yet our office has not received advert from you.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Could you explain why?”

No need… she’s a contact… get to him through her… a few hours in the Room… the commander is a specialist… introduce her and get it out of her…

“My work isn’t finished.”

“Yes, Elisa is an Untouchable, is that not correct? We were uncertain why the investigation began in the first place.”

“Elisa Greene has a muddy citizenship, her father was Bartalas Greene, but her mother was of questionable social standing. The Green family quietly adopted her to avoid scandal and she’s lived with them ever since, as a Greene. However, we began to investigate her based upon the criteria without prejudice.”

“That was over a year ago, Captain Vincent and your reports show she is a perfect candidate for additional marketing.”

…never see the facility… to a base… plenty of time to question her… he’s counting on cooperation, ignorance… protocol…

“Yes, but she’s still connected to the Untouchables, I don’t believe the normal evidence is sufficient to warrant a launch. However, I do believe, with time, I’ll be able to acquire sufficient evidence to present a case to the Social Court.”

“You mention in Report 16.7 that you have actually had contact with your query, is this not cause for reassignment?”

Minimize… deter… he’s contemplating loyalty… seen pictures… possibly videos… believes she’s gotten to me… nothing, it’s nothing…

“Yes, it’s an unfortunate situation. I’d personally gone to her brother’s wedding to continue surveillance and was maneuvered by custom to dance with her. After which, she confronted me off-duty at a café.”

“But you have not been reassigned.”

“I realize that it’s a strange maneuver on my part, but I believe, and my team believes, that we can actually turn it to our advantage.”

“How so?”

“It gives us additional opportunities to gather information and to gauge her psychological well-being. Already, after only two meetings, I’ve acquired additional information that will be of later use.”

Unsatisfied… no cause for jurisdictional dispute though, he’s turning to the wolf… symbolize their involvement… beyond our means… nonfeasance…

“There are four mentions in your reports, Report 9.15, Report 13.11, Report 22.5, and Report 37.16, of a male you know only as ‘the Wolf’. You indicate that the subject has a relationship with this ‘Wolf’ and that it is of questionable standing.”

“Yes, the subject has a sexual relationship with this man that appears, although we lack sufficient evidence to be sure, that the relationship does not meet the appropriate guidelines.”

“When you say of a sexual nature, do you mean they are romantically involved, and if so, should that not be cause to place your investigation on a pending status, until you discover the intent of the relationship?”

Purposefully innocent question… he knows the regulations… a trial… his colleague observing body language, voice, and facial movements…

“Normally, yes. However, we have indications that the intent of the relationship doesn’t meet the criteria for an appropriate match. Neither Ms. Greene nor ‘the Wolf’ have shown deliberate movement towards marriage or a mutually beneficial union.”

“Are you aware of the length of their relationship?”

“Yes, it appears to be several years old.”

“When you say that neither Ms. Green nor this ‘Wolf’ person appear to intend to marry, how did you ascertain this information?”

“The relationship, first of all, is extremely volatile, they don’t publicly admit to its existence, nor do they date on a regular basis. Rather, ‘the Wolf’ appears without notice and has sexual intercourse with Ms. Greene and disappears again for quite some time.”

“Can you be more specific concerning the spontaneity of ‘the Wolf’s’ appearance?”

“I don’t wish to offend, but ‘the Wolf’ actually purposely catches Ms. Greene off guard and does certain sexual acts that wouldn’t be appropriate to discuss in mixed company.”

“In other words, the two are engaged in deviant sexual behavior. Do you have evidence that they have broken the Social Code concerning their sexual relationship?”

Ah, led to it finally… wants rebranding… resolutely not thinking that… admission means their jurisdiction… very crafty… he’s led the conversation very well… continue to answer…

“Nothing admissible in court, sir. I have only bits and pieces that lead me to believe that it’s of a questionable nature. I’ve never actually seen the acts in progress.”

“How is that so? I read from your reports that you have Ms. Greene on twenty-four hour surveillance.”

…side-step, back one… he’s beginning to fray, nothing from his partner… he’s waiting for me to signal… calm, collected responses… no reason to worry… she’s safe… give them something… Dodger…

“Yes, but due to holes in our network, he seems to be able to appear and disappear before we can catch them on camera. This is accomplished by an extremely distasteful behavior by both parties to have their rendezvous outdoors and in public places, or at random times when we are not capable of monitoring Ms. Greene.”

“Do you believe this is intentional, that this ‘Wolf’ is aware of your presence?”

Yes… he sees ‘no’, slight confusion by the furrow… not thought of that… lowly Section 6 agent… he’s grappling onto loose connections… anything will work… she’s safe… no reason to worry…

“Nothing has given us indication of that, sir. It appears to be only coincidence.”

“And you have not been able to ascertain the actual name of this ‘Wolf’ yet?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of the Section 9 investigation of certain random acts of anti-social behavior perpetrated by a group known as The Players?”

Yes… he sees contemplation, reads it as egotism… no idea… probably read about it just like everybody else… heard some news about it… no connection… she’s borderline anti-social… no worries…

“I’m aware of the acts, sir, but I don’t know of your investigation.”

“It seems that there is a member of this organization who also calls himself ‘the Wolf’ and although I cannot tell you too much about the specifics of our investigation, this man is considered to be rather high-up.”

Interesting… hmmmmm… contemplation of what was said… waiting for response… itch chin… it just occurs to me…

“Do you believe Ms. Greene’s wolf is the same man?”

“Do you?”

“I wouldn’t have any idea, Commander, I don’t know enough about the subject.”

“Nothing has presented itself to indicate to you that Ms. Greene may be involved with any kind of organization or have any friends that are involved with fringe politics or may be reading certain material that might shed light onto her political affiliations?”

Silly move… he’s providing connection, patriotism… duty… relying on abstractions… she’s tangible, eatable… he’s aware…

“No.”

“Are you a big reader Captain Vincent?”

…forward onto his books, they won’t say them… she’s read them all… he’s trying to skirt the issue… see if I’ll fall for it… knows about my report… Dodger’s role… nonchalant…

“Not really, I dabble a bit, but I’ve never been too interested in it. I don’t see the reason for it when there are the Requirements and books aren’t listed on them.”

“Do you meet your Requirements?”

“Every month, just like anyone else.”

“What was the last movie you saw?”

Patriotic… good citizen…

“Alchemy, with Doug McCabe and Victoria Wexler.”

“What was it about?”

…knows the answer… he saw it twice…

“Two citizens who fail at their goals and lose everything, but later learn to work within the system and achieve great success.”

“A wonderful movie, I believe it will win several awards this fall, don’t you?”

“I liked it very much.”

…switching tactics, cooperation… we’re all on the same team, just different coaches… he’s believed me… partner will concur… no involuntary responses suggesting otherwise…

“Would you do us a favor, Captain? Would you find out for us what Ms. Greene enjoys? According to your reports, she does not see very many movies, nor does she watch the preset quota of sites or purchase music very often. So, what does she do with her time? An idle mind is a dangerous mind, as Doukhobor once said.”

“She does read, I’ve observed that, but I’ll pay special attention to the subject from now on.”

…should have thought of that nod… good… they took bait… he’s sure of me… still intent on interrogating her… not right yet…

“Agreed, please let us know if Section 9 can assist you in any way. We are at your beck and call.”

…innocent citizen’s concern… a little worried about this…

“May I ask a question, Commander?”

“Of course.”

…shall we say ‘group’, ‘organization’, he believes… completely unknowing…

“This group you spoke of, the Players, are they dangerous?”

“Although they appear to be quite benign on paper, what many officials do not realize is how these kinds of acts and ideas trickle down the chain and infect the innocent. We are handling them, I assure you.”

… relieved, understanding, agreement… they’ll leave with nothing… stand up guy that captain… real soldier of the cause… she’s safe… no plans… for now…

* * *

A lesser person may be humiliated, unsure, self-conscious. It is only a tool. Subtle reflexes of involuntary muscles studied for responses, she is a poker player, a con artist, she is certain of what she says and how she moves, she does not think about them. He will know. She is as she was as a child, only aware of the response her body makes. He is no different, the gown will block his other motives; he will forget her as an adversary.

The driver that takes her to him is her control subject; he cannot help but steal glances as she removes her coat. He will see her first like this. He will be on guard and rendered defenseless. She adjusts the lace apron. The driver smiles a micro-emotion. She stares down at her lap, where a bouquet of embroidered roses faintly covers the most elicit point. Two others, the size of quarters, make the bodice she is pouring out of slightly less obscene.

The evening had settled across the city when the car stopped in front of the hotel. He was standing by the two electric doors, his coat over one arm, his eyes reflexively searching, his stiff posture tightened, his face rigid and concerned. She orchestrates the debut as she had planned. The driver opens the back door directly behind his seat and Elisa slides out of the car, avoids fixing her dress, which clings to her body, and turns so that she tosses her hair. He had seen her as soon as she pulled up to the curb, he did not smile, he watched like a scientist, until she smiled to him and waved a bare arm in the air. He returns the smile with a faint movement of his upper lip; she is still protected by the car.

The driver steps back inside and Elisa moves away from it, her hands busy with a small black purse. He maintains his amiable grin as she appears from behind the metal cabin, the creases in his lips relax, the lower jaw descends softly, the wrinkles gathered around his eyes recede and the upper eyelid rises as two faint lines appear on his brow.

She appears amused, walking the few short paces towards him. “Do you like it? I got it for you.”

He has already failed. She has forced the truth out of him. He has drawn his cheeks together and adjusted the saliva in his mouth. He blinks quickly and his pupils roam over her. Vincent wets his lips, involuntarily. “Yes.”

“Good.” She stands beside him, her feet together, both arms at her sides, coming together to hold her purse near her waist. She rocks effortlessly on her heals, waiting for him to speak. She has not changed her expression since he first saw her.

“Where… where did you get it?” He looks into her eyes for the first time, she turns her head as if to stare down the street. The valet and the doorman are both looking at her. He has not seen the back of the dress yet.

“Its unimportant. Is this where the party is?” She shifts her weight, letting one hand release the purse.

“Yes.” He sees the other men looking at her. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable; she is a silhouette below the lace. He can see her navel, the indication of her abdomen, the falcate shadows of her breasts. Her legs are naked, her chest, shoulders and arms, interrupted only by two thin straps of rose vines. She is nude underneath. The doorman and the valet know it. The dress is an illusion.

“Shall we go in?” She takes two steps, followed by three sets of eyes. He watches her move towards the electric doors, her entire bare back, the small ripples of her rib cage, the crescent demarcation of the beginning of a breast as she raises her arm, the sloping line of her spine, the heart-shaped muscles and the beginning of the curves darkened by the lace, a slit where the two sides of the dress come together, the opening of the back of her legs, her inner thighs… “Are you coming?”

“Yes, of course.” He caught up with her, placed the palm of his hand between her two shoulder blades and returned her smile.

The captain accompanies her down the hall, listening as her heals click against the marble floor, seeing other men, departing from the lavatory or stepping out for fresh air, notice her, their eyes intent upon her. She does not pay attention, or doesn’t appear to, and they make their entrance into the banquet room.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is going to be a bit boring for you,” he said as they stop a few steps inside, gazing out over the crowd of people, the round tables covered in crisp, white cloth, the wait staff scurrying around with plates and drinks, the banner over the stage: PE & PSE A.

“Don’t worry about me, with a few drinks I can find anything amusing,” She held onto his arm and walked beside him towards an open table. She continued to smile, as if greeting the entire room of strangers. She ignored all the greedy eyes.

“All right, you sit here and I’ll go grab us those drinks.” He pulled the chair out for her and she slid into it, placed her purse on the table and grinned as he turned back towards her. By the second time he turned around, about half way to the refreshments, she had three men standing over her and a fourth sitting in a chair beside her. She was talking to them, they were laughing at something she said. They were thinking of her nude, they were thinking of her in their bed, they were thinking about her lips, her skin, her breasts. She was aware of the stolen looks; she did not care.

Vincent saw her smiling, she was amused only by their lack of originality, she was making deprecating comments, they were confused. Whenever it happens, she defends herself. She is armored against it. She has a strategy, a strategy she has perfected over years of accostings, leers, jokes, attempts, and banter. She is a fuck fantasy no matter what she wears. She is constantly sized up, elevator eyed, noticed, she is wearing the dress for him.

When he returns, the men greet him with friendly salutations, but their eyes betray their hearts. They do not get the hint. They remain, reasoning that a proper word, the right comment, perhaps some movement, will have her discarding her accompaniment and they can steal away with her. Vincent sits and tries to converse with the men, who oblige him with quick retorts before returning their attention to his date, who sits back in her chair. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“I wasn’t aware of it being a problem.”

She slides her chair back from the table and uncrosses her legs as one man continues a story about a recent vacation, stuttering as she moves, his eyes, along with every other man in proximity, focused on the suddenly exposed triangle of vinyl between her legs. The gentleman continues, though, with only a momentary lapse. Elisa places her hand in Vincent’s, holding it against her thigh. Why is she parting her legs? She is barely dressed; they can already see her. She runs the back of his hand up her thigh, up to the lace, and slides it down towards the chair. She scoots herself forward so that his open hand is against her and re-crosses her legs, watching herself do this, she glances quickly over to the captain and bites her lower lip, twisting it with her front tooth before she absently returns to the speaker. “Go on.”

The gentleman finishes his story quickly and retreats to another table. The other men find reasons to bid the couple adieu. Vincent has had his hand against her warmth for only a few seconds, but he’s forced to leave her a second time to attend to an uncomfortable situation in his pants. She waits patiently for his return.

“You’ll have to forgive me for ever doubting you,” he said once he was seated again.

“Does that mean you’ve stopped?”

“Stopped what?”

“Doubting me.”

“Do you like to torture people, Elisa?”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

“Possibly.”

“A little bit.”

“Do you hate society?”

“That’s not a very interesting question.”

“Do you hate it enough to loathe it, to not be able to exist in it?”

“I think anyone who says they don’t loathe the life they lead is a pathological liar. Let me ask you, Vincent, are you so Graham Greene pleased with everything there aren’t things you think should be changed? Why is it that change is a dirty word? Why is it so unpatriotic to question things?”

“Change will happen naturally. You can’t force it on people. As far as I know, there’s no general outcry demanding for it to happen. So why is that a handful of people, who we don’t know are right, feel their version of the truth, their version of society, is the correct one and the rest of us are all wrong?”

“I don’t know, I guess that’s why they call it government.”

“You should just be happy with what you’ve got, Elisa. You’re beautiful, look at the way men behave around you, they practically fall over each other to get near you. You’re wealthy, you have your own life, what’s so terrible?”

“I don’t know Vincent, why don’t you tell me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You talk about me making decisions and being content with those, but how is that possible when we’ve got government agencies that send out investigators to find out why I’ve not gotten married yet, or why I haven’t had any children yet, or why I’ve turned down marriage proposals. Why is that any of their business? Who are they that they think they can tell me when to get married? Then, they prescribe drugs for me, drugs that are supposed to make me more agreeable to the idea. Do you really think I need a prescription for that? Why can’t I just do as I please, why do they always have to enforce some rule about making my life pleasant, can’t I decide for myself?”

“But you’ve just said your life isn’t pleasant. Maybe you need someone to help you make it what it should be. Maybe those drugs will help. Have you ever tried to take them?”

“Why should I take them? I don’t want to get married right now, why should I be pressured into taking something that will change my mind?”

“For the good of humanity, Elisa. You are not the only one involved here. There’s millions of people who all expect to be happy. Don’t you see that we all live in a community, that we all affect each other’s lives? One of us doesn’t have the right to upset the whole thing simply because they don’t want to follow the decisions of the rest of us.”

“You sound like a slogan from one of those rebranding facilities.”

“You have dangerous ideas that you don’t know will hurt you… and the rest of us too.”

“Why? Why can’t I have a different opinion on how we should do things?”

“Because, Elisa, it doesn’t work that way. If you took some time and thought about it, you’d realize that harmony is the purest form of life and whatever way we can get it, that’s how we should run our government.”

“So I suffer so you all can think the world’s perfect.”

“No, you suffer because you won’t accept our help. You are too proud to realize that we can help you, I can help you.”

“I enjoy your help, Vincent. Unfortunately, my bodies not strong enough to handle it constantly.”

“You’ve tried.”

“Why do you care how many men I’ve been with or how many men I’ve been with at one time? Is it so shocking to think that I might need to have sex just as much as you, that I dream about it sometimes, or that I desire men? You don’t mind when I put your hand on my cunt. You don’t seem to have a problem with your desire, why are you so upset that I have the same emotion?”

“Let’s just say, I don’t mind if you have that emotion. What I do find a little strange is how you requite it. I like the way you’re dressed, don’t get me wrong. But don’t you think it’s a bit much, I mean every man in this room can see your body, you’re half naked and your breasts are going to fall out of it at any moment. Which really doesn’t matter since they’re completely visible anyways.”

“I wore the dress for you, Vincent. I was thinking of how you’d react to it. I don’t give a damn about other men seeing me. What I cared about was you seeing me.”

“So I can share you with the four hundred other people in the room? Most women I know don’t dress like that, Elisa. They just don’t.”

“There you go again, trying to make me just like everyone else. Well, I’m not. I don’t want to be, either. Isn’t that why you’re with me, because I have my own personality, because I’m my own person?”

“Elisa, I’m not used to this. I live a very orderly life. The women I date are nice girls who agree to go out with me to see if we might make a match. They don’t seduce me the second time I’m with them.”

“You weren’t complaining then.”

“I’m not complaining now, I enjoyed it very much. I love you. But don’t you see, if you’ve done all these things, if you’re so willing to hop into bed with me after only meeting me once before, don’t you see how that can make me weary of you?”

“So you don’t want me to be a whore. At least, not until I’ve met you and then, I suddenly become consumed with desire, it is so powerful that I can’t help myself, I need your dick in me, I need you to treat me bad. I suddenly realize that I’m a naughty girl. All this time, a pristine virgin, not one impure thought. Then, I see him, Vincent Belacque and like a semen flood, I must get on all fours and have him ravish me. Something like that?”

“I don’t think you’re a whore, Elisa. I didn’t mean it that way. I enjoy our time together.”

“You mean you enjoy fucking me.”

“It’s just that I worry about you. I worry that you are so provocative because you are hurting inside. I worry that I’m abusing you by sleeping with you, that you need stability and a progression of intimacy. It concerns me, Elisa. I don’t want to hurt you, and I think you are already.”

* * *

She’s roused herself finally, slipped into her camellia georgette sleep shirt too quickly for his tastes, never even made it out from under the covers before it was on, still something to see though, he sometimes asks himself if she knows, behavior and all that, she’s wouldn’t be bothered, probably put on quite a show, just morning fog. She missed another visit from the assistant, sympathetic voyeurism on his part, although he’d feel no jealousy, not if he caught it, either pretends not to notice or doesn’t, hard to really say, potential for rebranding right there, he’s got the evidence, last resort.

Tonight she’ll be with him, never accepted his reasons for short absences, always that nagging gaze she tries to feign is relationship based, no visits from the Wolf, as far as he knows, in a few months, she never mentions it, psychically speaking, no nocturnal briefcase raids either in awhile, perhaps it was all her, no conspiracy, just curiosity, to know more, wouldn’t really blame her, he’s lying, she knows, he knows she knows, she knows he knows she knows. He isn’t quite sure how involved she really is anyways, could be their liaisons are purely physical, she doesn’t pursue it with him anymore than she does with Vincent, perhaps his affects have been raided as well, as he slept. He’d like to believe that. He can’t remember ever being so confused, just wish she’d behave normally, give herself completely, accept him, no more questions, just love… He doesn’t have the luxury, couldn’t explain the investigation, couldn’t go from investigator to husband without some tap-dancing, save quitting, beyond his capabilities, he was made for his work. She’s foul, a dangerous mind, all of it hidden in those eye lashes and humping good body, sometimes wonders if he’s obsessed, endorphin addict, she’s capable of such perversity, it makes his mouth water, just thinking about it: hard-on and images invading, she’s given him so much to remember, a lifetime of pornographic memories, some without him, transfused from other partners, she can’t help but recall as she carnie contorts for him.

She concentrates on her bed, satin sheet fluttering down onto mattress, vignettes of him, not Vincent, he’s seen the murmur of it, several men merged or rag-doll man stitched together, she leans over the bed, quick, before she rises, from behind the door, quietly, four steps and on her, she begins to turn just as he grabs her, forces face into satin covered mattress, twists arms behind her back, holds slim wrists with one flexed hand, unbuckles, unsnaps, unzips, she struggles against him, body writhing, his legs holding her against the side of the bed, drop drawers, big nasty cock lined up, driven into her, she struggles harder, harder, pushing against a fleshy barrier, final involuntary relax, her labored grunts — stop, stop, really need to stop this…

She’s finished with the bed and heads into the adjoining bathroom. He’s becoming a wolf, uncontrollable fantasies, forced intercourse, desires to humiliate, injure, more perverse, surpass her, scare her, make her cry, little preteen against crab grass, ignorant, he’s going to pin her, pin her good… it’s all he thinks about… she’s out of camera range, flips over, already in shower, shower-cam, ahhhh… how did he become the wolf?

Pride over his will power, finger hovering over the button, clicks; image implodes into a faint star on black screen, waits — what if something happens? No, no, he’s got to stop, he’ll see her soon, only a few more hours, she’ll agree to anything, real…

Vincent stirs from his chair, leaves his office, follows the maze (Joseph would wonder where the minotaur is) to the Hall of Records and puts in his request to a crunchy little man of sixty or so, who speaks like the reports he manages, has no name (surely he does, but Vincent doesn’t know it). He patiently waits, a little too nonchalantly, even going so far as to whistle intermediately.

“Father Nicholas, a.k.a. Arthur Dodger, thirty-eight year old author of eighteen books, Fiction, Children’s; chairman of the Children’s Literature Institute, winner of the Seuss Award, World Book Award, Educational Story Medallion, and special doctorate from New Jerusalem University. No known address, quota plan, no debts or credits, voluntarily unclassified, no med schedule on file, no known ownership.”

“That’s odd, any run-ins with the department?”

“Yes, Arthur Dodger was arrested but not charged with a variety of small misdemeanors and small time anti-social acts in his late teens and early twenties. The first few concern a club he was involved with, some indication he was the leader, that vandalized automobiles by adjusting the content of stickers on the back window shield or rear bumper with derogatory and offensive words and images. It appears that the first altercation occurred when Mr. Dodger was caught changing a sticker on a Ms. Betty Raspell’s car from ‘My Son is an Honor Student at Hobokin School for the Gifted’ to ‘My Son is a Horny Student at Porno School for the Depraved’. Then, within two months, Mr. Dodger was arrested again, this time for altering a sticker that read: ‘I’d Rather Be Fishing’ to ‘I’d Rather Be Humping’. Mr. Dodger was remitted to a minimum security branding facility after he was questioned by a court-appointed psychiatrist because he had delusions of grandeur and refused to take his social harmony meds.”

“Delusions of grandeur, does it say what those were?”

“Yes, Mr. Dodger believed that the messages they made on these stickers would cause other people to join a revolution and the eventual overthrow of the government. Of course, the psychiatrist noted that this was a juvenile fancy that would be easily subdued through the proper treatment. Mr. Dodger was a model student at rebranding and was released in less than a year’s time. He was listed as the prime suspect six months later in a bizarre event in Blackburn Woods in which six girls of varying ages were found dancing in the nude around a cauldron which contained business clothing, it was later uncovered that the clothing belonged to the fathers of the six girls, and that they had been persuaded into stealing their father’s entire wardrobe. According to one of the women, Mr. Dodger drugged them with medication and tricked them into removing their clothing. Mr. Dodger was never arrested due to insufficient evidence. However, a month later Mr. Dodger was arrested for deviant behavior along with a Miss Sara Samedi, who was the oldest of the six girls in the previous case, after the two were found engaged in sexual intercourse in a public park. It is noted that both Mr. Dodger and Miss Samedi were dressed in costumes and that the way in which they were found is against social policy. This was followed by a few petty-theft crimes, in which Mr. Dodger would break into corporate offices during business hours and steal seemingly random items from the offices. He was initially caught removing seven machines for copying documents from four different corporations and allegedly, Mr. Dodger claimed he was helping the workers of these businesses by driving them close to madness. He has reportedly been warned by Section 1 for some of the books he’s written, four of which were required by court order to be altered before their release, and one other one is no longer available for resale because of the questionable values it represents. Mr. Dodger has six books on the questionable list and he has been investigated twice for allegedly making subversive comments. He has not had a run-in with the department, though, since he was twenty-four years old.”

“Thanks, do me a favor, I was never here today, I never asked you any questions about Arthur Dodger.”

“Of course, I hope to be of assistance in the future. May I ask, is there anyone in particular I should avoid mentioning this meeting to?”

* * *

“Anyone within the department.”

“Fine. As long as we understand each other.”

* * *

Elisa was lying on top of her bed covers with Arthur’s most recent book in her hands. Two cameras were on her, the one hidden in her dresser transposed onto Captain Vincent’s largest screen. Her assistant had gone home. Perhaps she should just go along.

He had said: “It has never been perfect for me.” His hair was uncombed; he was grieving. She had been sent to work on him. She was the most persuasive of them all. Most were men. He had not needed any persuasion. He was teary eyed, brooding, eloquent, mad. He did look at her the right way. He did not see things. He was speaking too fast; she couldn’t keep up with him. He was not talking the same language. She was trying to touch his shoulder. Contact always got them. She had a kitten’s mask on. He was screaming, whispering. He shook, he was pleading. She made contact. He stared at her wrist like he wanted to cut it. She did not withdraw her arm.

“Why do we care about noise? Wherein lies the reason noise matters? Maybe it derives from the obtuse oddity of there being something such as noise in the world. The clang, the bang, the boom, the beat, the onomatopoeia, the whoosh, the wiz, the smack, the clack, the clap, the snap, the zip, the thud, the kaboom, the whistle, the whisper, the song, the melody, the note, the cry, the scream, the moan, the grunt, the wheeze, the cough, the sneeze, the squeak, the whimper, the gasp, the movement…. That such things could exist, that we have discovered how to put them in order, those yielding intervals of silence woven together with clusters of noise… that we have invented how to harness the span of the human mind into audible melodies and strings of sounds that signify so many various things, ideas, actions, inactions, et cetera, et cetera… and some say it was a mystery cult, the inventors of wine and love, that first brought noise down into our hearts… but who’s to say? Maybe it was the birds that taught us… albeit unintentionally… maybe we’re just animals who demand adulation and rapture… maybe we don’t have enough of it… god forgave us but left us pretty lonely and desperate… maybe we made it for ourselves… noise… the tower of babel was a cathedral of sound, an audible, alchemical device for transcendence… into what we thought we deserved… peer away from what is deficient, painful, deceitful, deadening, and turn it all into something else… explain it to me… sing it to me… tell me all about it… that’s something worthy of the yearn, something worthy of the mind and the opposable thumb…

"The wind… the wind beneath our wings. Those birds… they got it all… wind beneath their wings and nice singing voices… that arboreal dignity… that above-the-world haughty conceit… for it is the ground where things are buried… those little chirpers tumble like angels when they die and join us… on the ground… where things are lost and forgotten… religions, art, poetry, civilization, species… they’re all buried under there… history seeps into the ground like mud puddles in the sun… to forever be lost… never to be found again… or, if by chance, some mole discovers some fragment, its altered so, it’s so minute, it’s so carelessly there… it’s not the same thing… a crumbly skeleton of its self… like mass graves… like fissures… like fossils… stand your ground… under there… under there… is hell… hades… the underworld… do not enter… there are things in there we dare not guess… draw a line in the sand…

"Among the great exertions — good vs. evil, reason vs. ignorance, science vs. religion, love vs. death, there is an additional, little known conflict: here vs. there… the entrapment of roots and the release of flight… And if you are Beatrice, if you are this little wonder girl with ocean eyes and iris skin, whose thoughts can cross the boundaries, even the boundaries of skin, then perhaps you know every hole can be filled, every crack leapt over, every cavern avoided, and every underworld ignored, all boundaries would melt away under the heat of the sweetest tune… Off you’d wander, off away… neither here nor there… prancing and skipping and tumbling… on wondering wings…

“Beware the ground beneath your feet. This is a continent, this is a nation, this is a country, a home, a community… you are neither here nor there… Perhaps you don’t see the missing qualities of the bird’s song… These are not divine times, not our proudest moments, not our brightest hour… this is the time of the great cracks… when those underworlds begin to climb upward… seep onto the land… begin devouring… We’re at war… with terrorists, drug lords, street criminals, sexual predators, murderers, road ragers, juvenile delinquents, gays and lezes, women in general, runaway juries, mob bosses, unions, kidnappers, bumpers, psycho soccer moms, ravers, punks, degenerates, homophobes, white supremacists, anti-abortion bombers, anthrax mailers, you name it… The danger level is yellow, we’re on permanent alert, everybody hyper edgy… they’ll sue you for looking at them askance… they’ll shoot you down in a hail of gunfire for reaching over their white picket fence and touching one of their supermarket roses… a nation of fraidy cats… don’t spook ‘em for god’s sakes… gotta be careful who you say what to… keep the noise down… quiet… make no sound… silent as a cat… a cat burglar… cat on a hot tin roof… curiosity kills…

“Confusion is loss of particulars, to blur, to jumble, to mix indiscriminately, to make indistinct, to fail to differentiate one thing from another, to bring to ruin… the more simple, the less confusing… the less distinct, the more distinguishable… the more the same, the less concern… but the noise refuses to follow… its neither here nor there… chaos… anarchy… the end of the world as we know it… Suppose then, that that’s just it… Does dear Beatrice know it…? Suppose you could exist without particulars, mixing indiscriminately, indistinctly, failing to differentiate, bringing about ruin… noise… step out of the lines and mix it up a bit… AWOL from the whole thing…

“But who would do it…? Most would not… the world’s laundresses are pretty thorough… all the brains are clean… no turns, no parking, no dogs, no drugs, no boys, no girls, no birds, no loitering, no solicitors, no matter, no minds, no jumping, no picnicking, no camping, no panicking, don’t cross the line, wait in line, which line, take a number, take a seat, take a pick, pick a number, pick a insta-meal, pick a place, pick a career, pick a life, don’t offend, don’t judge, don’t question, don’t be a know-it-all, don’t be a pig, don’t be an ass, don’t be stupid, don’t be silly, do what I say not what I do, do what I tell you, do what you’re told, do what your brother did, do whatever your heart desires, don’t do that, don’t speed, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t eat, don’t fuck, don’t chew, don’t sing, don’t cry, don’t swear, don’t fear, don’t smile, don’t laugh, don’t think, don’t die…

"So, what if… what if you just did… just did do all those things and didn’t do all those things and fell right off the map… no man’s land… the wonderfall… the blessed land of the air… music everywhere… noise surrounding… sound rules all… breathing in and out the great chorus of chaos… a brother and sister to the birds…

“Oh dear girl… who will be the first to do it…? Does it matter if we jump or are pushed? Who goes first or second? And we can argue forever about why… We should… you can’t deny it, we should… We two pilgrims of sound…”

Perhaps she would try the medication.

He laid his unshaved cheek against her hand. He closed his eyes. He was peaceful, a deception. He did not say a word. She talked. He leaned against the wall and she moved to keep her hand on his cheek. She said nothing about the Players. He did not ask a single question. She found herself just speaking to him. He did not respond. She continued because he was listening. She found herself telling him about her brother. She told him about her brother in the present. She went backwards. She had never told anyone about it. He listened as though he was asleep. He sighed once. She told him about her brother tricking her. She had wanted to learn from him. It had taken her a few years to realize it. The first time she had sex was without her knowledge. She was raped because she did not know that sex is when a man penetrates a woman. She did not know that her nudity would be exploited. He had seen it happen.

Elisa laid her head against a pillow and threw the book onto her nightstand. She looked towards the half-opened door to her bathroom, a stream of light invading her room. They were in there. If she just started taking the prescriptions properly, there would be no problem. She was afraid of what might happen otherwise, she knew she couldn’t continue for much longer, they were onto her. Vincent had been protecting her. She was deathly afraid of the proposition that she may be sent for rebranding.

She had met women who had been to those places, women who could no longer think, who took their meds without question, who said things like: “well isn’t that nice” and “my I’m happy” in a sluggish drawl, as if they had heard it repeated so many times, as if they’d been forced to listen to it over and over again so that any reaction was met with one of those two sayings. Your husband was killed in a fluke accident: well isn’t that nice. You don’t love me, you’ve never loved me, you’ve only been using me, my I’m happy. Elisa had no superior notions, no ideas that she could handle the pressure, that she could go to a rebranding facility and manage to avoid conforming, she knew that she would fall just like all the other women.

He had not said a word while she spoke. He had crouched down against the wall and she had knelt down with him, keeping her hand against his face. He curled himself into a small bundle. She moved over beside him. He opened his eyes when she moved her hand. She took his head and laid it against her chest, her arm around him. He closed his eyes.

She could try it for one night.

He opened one eye, the one that was brown. He started to speak and she stopped herself. He did not go on and she didn’t either. They lay in the corner. No one was in the room. She had been left with him. He was vacant while Nicholas spoke. She would entice him to join. He did not say a word about the proposition. He stared at her with his one eye.

“Do you think I could have ever been normal?” She touched his cheek with her thumb, running it around his eye. He kept the other eye closed. She lifted up his hand and kissed the spot on his wrist.

“No, but you could be rebranded, re-taught to believe in everything they say and then, maybe you wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be here and we would be unaware of the aching desire for something more, something else besides this medicated tranquility, this façade of perfection that permeates every atom and every person. But that wouldn’t make you who you are anymore, nor would I be whom I am. We would be blissfully ignorant, but it would not be real.”

“I could marry Vincent, I know that’s what he wants and take my medication and live a very long, harmonious life, but I would be rebelling inside forever, I would never been truly content and then, on my death bed, or late in life, when Vincent was gone and all of this was just memories, I would weep bitterly into my tea, and I would wonder what would have happened if I would have been strong and would have let myself continue to fight, to go along with you on your quest, to end the misery of perfection, to be the advocate of the antithesis of the myth.”

Elisa had not said any of this, but he had looked at her as though she had, as though he had heard her thoughts and was pleased that she had said them. She looked into the camera, took a bottle of Revivoderm from her nightstand, read the instructions to take it every morning and took out four (not the two prescribed per dose) and gulped them down with a glass of bootleg wine. She kept her eyes on the camera as if she was staring into his eyes…

* * *

Elisa wandered through the next few weeks like she was a passenger in her own body. She uncontrollably thought about him. She did everything involuntarily, as though it was a reflex. Arthur had broken in and strapped her to the bed, he spanked her, whipped her venomously, inserted things into her, dripped hot wax onto her, lubed her body with oil, and finally, fucked her with his limitless force, and she faintly enjoyed it, she remembered when he left that she had not said a word, not cried out once, because she had never given a moment’s thought to what he was doing. She let him do as he pleased, received the normal gratification from an excessive orgasm and the exhaustion that followed, without considering it, without veering her thoughts. He was still controlling her.

Elisa was no longer her own person, she shared her body with a man she’d met only once and who had said those things to her. She realized that all she had been doing was for him. She finally woke from her trance and saw what she had been doing. She had purchased things for him, clothing, a chair, special sheets for the bed, shaving crème, a razor, shampoo, new lingerie for him to see her in, new clothes she thought he’d like to see her wear, food for them to have for dinner, and she had not known what she was doing, whether he would ever use these items or see her again. She was satisfied though with him inside her, she didn’t feel as though she’d lost control, she felt as though she’d given it to another because he should have it, like the keys to lock of a cell. Elisa sat for hours enjoying his presence.

When she saw people, when she went to those pesky parties and social engagements that were required of her, she was not annoyed because he kept her company. She appeared to others as though she’d changed, become more sociable, more amiable — almost happy. Elisa realized it, she enjoyed that they were so misdirected, that they were so simple that they believed she’d come to her senses, when in reality, she’d never felt so senseless, so mad, in her entire life. She could not tell you what she’d done three hours before because he was in control of her and he had decided what they were going to do; she simply followed. When she slept, he spoke to her, and when she awoke, he was quiet, communicating to her without speech. She liked herself with him.

And she very much enjoyed that no one knew of him, that while Ms. Abernathy retold the same story for the sixteen millionth time she was thinking of him, that while the duplicitous Captain fumbled over some ludicrous story about engineering that they both knew was completely false, she was remembering his gaze. People would make remarks about it, Elisa Greene was actually (meaning: perhaps, possibly) smiling and not with that coy, I know something you don’t know grin, but a pleased smile of happiness. Something had happened and it was so strong she would smile despite herself. Even Vincent, with whom she tried to be on guard, had said something about her constantly breaking out in a smile and she let the agent believe that it was because of him. Elisa would say Joseph’s name under her breath when Vincent was making love to her, she would compare every man she met to him, she would spend hours contemplating where he was and what he was doing. Nothing made her more happy than when she sat around a table of old wives and pretended to listen to their ruminations, only to think about him touching her skin, when Vincent was groaning below her, when his hands cupped her thighs and she felt his fingers tear into her flesh, she was dreaming of his lips against her breasts, when Arthur Dodger tied her arms behind her back and forced her to prostrate herself, she was imagining him against her, when Graham called and began his lengthy diatribes, she was thinking of him cradling her crotch with his arms and feasting on her moist, dripping lips. That was why she smiled.

And yet, although she felt close to him, although she volunteered to his control, she missed his presence, she didn’t want just the phantom within her, she didn’t want just the imaginings, she wanted him to look at her that way again. Elisa wanted nothing more in the world than for Joseph to come to her and consume her.

* * *

“Elisa, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re happy,” Captain Vincent said, wrapping his thick arm over her naked shoulder and caressing her thigh with his hand. She was straddling his leg, her body lying half on top of his, her head against his chest. They had just enjoyed Sunday afternoon intercourse after a failed attempt at a friendly stroll, Vincent watching her haunches move underneath of her skirt and finding himself incapable of continuing. She had never said no to him. “Elisa? Are you awake?”

She remained motionless beside him and he couldn’t see her face, but she was awake, she just wasn’t with him in the room. She was with Joseph. When Vincent had stopped, Elisa and Joseph had continued. She was still experiencing it and she hadn’t heard Vincent calling to her.

It was late and Elisa had drawn a bath for herself. She slowly stripped off her clothing and poured in a concoction that made bubbles in the water. The water was hot; she tested it with her toe and slowly immersed her foot, was able to stand it and placed the other foot in the water. Then, she squatted down and inched her backside into the water, finally sitting down. She closed her eyes and focused on him. She heard it, she was sure she heard it. Arthur wouldn’t dare though, not with Vincent nearby. She heard it again. It was the sound of someone moving across her floor. Elisa knew which boards made noises and what noise they each made and she heard the creak of the board just outside the bathroom door. Elisa got out of the water immediately and grabbed a towel. She wrapped it around her body, covering her chest and midsection. She knew someone was just outside the door. Her hair was still wet, dripping water down her back. She moved towards the door. She listened. He had not moved. She touched the doorknob. He had to be right there. She turned the knob and flung the door open.

The hall was empty. There was no one there. Elisa tiptoed towards the front room, waiting for Arthur to jump out from behind something or attack her from around the corner. But her apartment was empty. She checked the front door and it was locked. She had been hearing things. She laughed at herself and moved back towards her bath. Vincent was breathing heavily in her bedroom. His large nude body spread eagle on top of the covers.

Elisa went back into the bathroom and removed the towel. That was when she saw him standing there. She pulled the towel towards her body. He had been behind the door. He was there, just as she’d dreamed about. He was looking at her again. She could feel him entering her. She stared back at him in awe. Vincent was asleep just ten feet away. She came to her senses and motioned to him that Vincent was there. He nodded and his grin didn’t change. She held the towel up to her chin. He didn’t look away from her face. She didn’t know what to do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. Joseph reached forward and touched the bare skin of her shoulder like he was inspecting fine fabric. She tried to push him away with one hand and keep the towel in front of her with the other as his fingers slid over her chest. She let the towel drop slightly. “We can’t…” she whispered heavily, “…there’s…” He continued to stare in her eyes. She felt him returning inside. “No, we can’t.” The door was still open slightly. Her pleading murmurs could wake him up.

Joseph leaned forward and kissed her bicep. He laid his head against her arm, his cheek against her elbow. His hand skimmed over her throat, her neck, her sternum. She pressed herself against him, clenching. The soggy towel dropped. Elisa put her arms around him. He laid his head in the lectern of her shoulder. She pressed eagerly. He picked her up with one quick movement and laid her down on the bathmat. Elisa shimmied, trying to be as quiet as possible. Joseph loomed over her, her fresh nudity just below him, her wet skin allowing her to slip out of his grasp, for him to have trouble holding her in place, she squirmed underneath of him, without making a sound. She didn’t even dare whisper. He was holding her down and caressing her. She was threatening him and kissing him passionately. He plunged into her and she whelped like a kicked dog, arched her back and came. He pressed himself against her entirely; she relaxed, exhausted, incapable of fighting any longer, electricity quivering up her body, causing her to bury her face in the floor to muffle her squeals. She came again, bellowing out a noise that could only be described like a death rattle. She wasn’t in the bathroom, her skin against the shag and the linoleum, she wasn’t sure where she had been because she’d never been there before. But it was a place where every pore ached, where the slightest touch caused streams of her personal juice to pour out, where her areolas puckered like lips around a lemon and her nipples felt like they were going to split open.

“Elisa, wake up honey. Wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”

* * *

Debonair, to his great discomfort, the atheist doorman observed.

“The historical record, does it not, contains those annals of excrement? A great author on a great authority. A psychoanalytical engine taking the assault of blooming fields, ruptured by familial doubts, as one sees throughout his life.”

The specter entered with a quick step forward, avoiding, of course, the cracks of which he had, for so many years, used to save his unknown mother’s back, although it can be known, for he was well aware, like a child stomping on a garrison of black ants, that he had, at one point, whilst sitting on his cot in the attic of the hospital, where he was exiled like a persecuted scientist or artist, slammed his heel, dripping with the protection of sticks, against a spider web arching crack in oblique defiance, in anger, in pain, in abandonment. Then, with a step back, unconcerned or unaware of the grinning doorman, who assisted our prophet, without acknowledging him, towards a row of seats in the back of the ornate hall.

“Precisely,” said the voice as if it was only for loafing, “the star struck incompetent modernist who tarries near the ledges of reality. One always bows to those pure verdicts of Nabakov. The honest diagnosis of the stage.”

With no signals, not for Joseph anyway, the bald scholar with the serpent’s lips, lingered near the prickling ears and departed.

“Master Warhol,” the phantom snickered, “was living his fifteen minutes until the day he died.”

“Have any of you found valiant students,” Sir Peter Smorgasbord requested with aged indifference, “to pen The Rainbow at your ceremonies? The Trials of Zoroaster it has been called.”

At first he pickled her

Then he licked her

Then he kissed the maternal snack

For he was a student

Folly young stud…

“It appears, my dear elect, you will need additions for Ulysses. Eighteen is death to the pedophilic mind. The waning year he says of them.”

Tear stained, his halo crooked against his chipped skull, seeking faces, the prayerful, the holy seers of wisdom, prostrated to the priest’s words. He giggled a low scissor giggle of Father and Son: absent.

Bureaucrat SATAN (Security Administration Tenant Analysis Network), lamenting many lives

The grief such as saint’s express.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

It chains my melancholy to hostages.

Nicholas’ impotent army freeing their brothers. Deep-breasted Kitty, her four limbs like long coils, an invasion in her womb. And another one for sport. The Players. The shadows of masks of the park. My misfired oaths. It is time, gentleman. It is time. God bless. Good night, sweet ladies, goodnight.

They have my letters.

“Our contemporary authors,” he rejoined in chorus, “have yet to develop a personality we may compare with this Irish John’s dreams. Although I speak of him, as Ezra did, on my side is no religion.”

“All these debates are cerebral jousts,” a terrier belched Voltairianly from his bardic splendor. “I see no point in whether he is Bloom or the architect or the maid. Scientist’s symposiums on the wayward voyage of the Beagle. Art has to reveal to us the sublime, emotional quicksand. The big question about a work is how does it reinforce our achievable dreams. The pictures of Kinkaide or Rockwell are the art of lifestyle. The sincerest poetry of Keyes, the words of Stephen step close to tranquility amidst madness, Plato’s dungeon of reality. All other talk is artificial intelligence left best to the thinking machines.”

“The machine is the child of the mind first,” the phantom offered genuinely. “The compass once guided Michelangelo’s hands.”

“And so it has remained, one would hope. We are tourists into the realm of the subjective, we must focus to comprehend the setting, so imperfect.”

Formless intellect. Author, Language, and Electric Breath. All knowing, the utopian man. Magnus incognita, the poet of the analytical, the Logos who labors for us with every wire and every chip. This is the laud of that. I am the virus within the bladder. I am the martyr’s zealous last meal.

“That perfect machine,” Joseph deliberated, “would find his musing’s concerning the mortality of time, the fodder of primitives, insignificant and selfish, as shallow’s as Shakespeare’s.”

“I’ll say our visitor lacks sophistication if he intends to compare the Saxon to the Irish.”

“Neither of the two,” replied our angel, “would have flourished in our commonwealth.”

One movement forward equals four in retreat. The knight takes three and veers left. A volley on the line is conservative but faithful. The board is the field, shaken slightly by his adolescent shifting above bed sheets as she hisses into her ventilator. Remember those words, Joseph. These are the forgotten saints of language. I recall their yellow pages, their mildew stench, their aspirations outside of the circular window of the attic. This game is of no consequence, there cannot be wisdom without knowledge. Follow my hand as she takes your rook. The drama of the monologue (Eliotian in all of its morose experimentalism), the swords dancing, the blood trickling, the metal against the chain, the hooves of the war horses, the voyage home to Ithaca. This is all mishandled, dear.

“Of course, it is not common knowledge how dangerous passions can be, the lexicon of Bierce suggests rather demonically. The movements, which orchestrate the great revolutions of history, were born from fancy and delusions of grandeur. For them, civilization is not an opportunity but the nipple of an expectant mother. The will to be indifferent and violence invented the novel, sexuality and vulgarity created music, narcissism and conversation the poem, nationalism the patriot and the pauper, the life of Swift’s horse-headed, midgets, and giants.”

Upon which, the eyes searched for the invisible guest.

“Mandeville wrote these incredible stories my nurse used to read to me in the hospital. The one about half-men, one leg, one arm, etc, if you believe Plato, this is Aristophanes’ land of the loveless. How nice for them to be so obvious in their insufficiencies.”

“How quaint of you. Such a beggar’s point-of-view, really. Excellent, I’ll admit, but surely too short-sighted to enliven the topic with any sort of dialectic from which we can synthesize a new understanding.”

“A comedian, he called himself, rather like Dante,” Joseph said. “Not for nothing was he a musician and genial lounger’s son, unrepentant and splitting the sireland into thirds. A rogue’s life for every failure of his father. Our Father who art in limbo, hollow be thy name. Odysseus was an absentee landlord with horny guests and an ineffectual son, incapable of saving his mother.”

“He’d have you believe that it is therapy, like the son of Asheville surrounded by granite angels.”

“What is a journey?” the ghost asked with nerves plundered. “A voyage of discovery, a missing plate at the dining table, an absence and a reunion. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the son waiting for the return of his father, coming back from a world that has been near death and seen the eyes of gods? Who is the character reliant on the biography?”

Silence, save a few coughs hiding juvenile curse words.

“It is a cool day outside of Dublin, in the homogenized suburbs. He is returning after a year abroad, deep in studies of medicine, returning to see the last few droplets of life release out of the eyelids of his mother. She is waiting, refusing the final prayers until her son returns, hoping for a religious circle jerk that will send her on her way up to Peter’s rosy cheeks and pinchable buttocks.”

More locality, less commentary, be Firthian if need be. These are scholars, they will not feign the darkness.

“Joyce has stepped off the ship and with ceremonial irises bunched together under his arm and a book on Gaelic verse occupying his thoughts, he treads silently towards his boyhood home. This was where his father sank them into poverty, unable to save his family, the anti-Odysseus. He stands outside for a brief reflective moment. His mother will die today and he cannot save her.

“The story begins, two boys in a protective tower, a phallic projection edging its way into the sea. One is testy, wry, verbose, the other is witty, dry, patient. The latter is the author, for a time. He is artist, he is prophet, he is jester, and he has been an expert on this subject all of his life. He tells us:

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

“It is the mother of whom he speaks, not as her son who has remained with her, but of her son who has voyaged out, away from home. It is Odysseus beside the blood river.”

A musing of confusion, I think.

“Is it so impossible to think that the voice that was so artfully manufactured is not the figure, a missing father, husband, and son? He left himself, a voluntary exile from his home and his family, with a woman who could not cling to him like her namesake, but gave him children, of whom, like his father, he would not return in kind any prosperity. He is Bloom’s lazy ease, he is Stephen’s masturbation and poetry, he is idle, he is thoughtful, he is as absent as a phantom, and he is the guilty protagonist. Do you truly believe that he did not plan for these attributes to be suggested, he is Dadelas, the father whose devices drowned his son, who’s own inventions imprisoned him and his family on an isle of labyrinth mythology. He is drunk in a maternity ward, of all places. For the day Odysseus leaves, is the day that his son shall follow in his footsteps.”

“But these theories about biography invading fiction, they are given too much weight. It is so unfashionable,” an audience member discarded.

“We have his words, we know the relevance of his own life upon his first books. To now say, well he was allowing himself a minor character but he’s changed his entire stratagem, the dreams, the allusion, it is all nothing to do with the author. Ulysses is a psychological biography of the multi-roles of humanity, Joyce himself is every character. There is a reason why Bloom and Stephen compare lives in the final chapters, they are quintessentially the same man.”

BLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPP

“Good, good, tomorrow its onto the Wake. Remember they’ve organized a dinner for us at the Canterbury House. See you all there. Thank you again for coming. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

* * *

Very early one morning — after a night going room to room with her, she straddled him on the kitchen counter, he bent her over the kitchen sink, both of them standing in the hallway, the sideways entrance trick in the study, atop the desk, he feasting on her on the stairwell, her folded over the couch — Vincent woke to find her not in bed with him. He rose quickly, a little concerned — she’d been so well lately, no insomnia — and walked down the hall, with the pictures and knickknacks still haphazardly on the floor, having been knocked down while he bored into her. He could hear the sound of paper rustling, a small belt of light coming out of the study…

She is concentrating, rereading it over and over again. Snapshots of him from her memory, no clear words, sensations of protection, fear, concern, gentleness, nothing clear… they met in a room, they’re sitting on the floor, her hand is against his cheek, imagination: he is running, he is sleeping in a cardboard box, he is lost and alone. Her brother’s face, he is shocked, not angry, jealous… she’s in pain, a foreign ache, a man, or boy, a boy behind her, she’s on her hands and knees, nude, only a girl, baby pubic hair the color of honey, little puckered tits, straining against him… her brother is invidiously watching, her first squeal, like a small piglet as he penetrates the hymen, she feels it begin, further pressure, can’t see what’s going on, it hurts, a second squeal, this one an agonized plea, her brother is aghast, slow motion mouth moving, the boys, there are other boys, are chanting, she’s injured, feels a wetness in her groin along with the pain, he’s moving, a second of relief, intense pain, he forces it in, to the hilt, she’s collapsed onto her arms, can’t get away, he’s holding her backside up, his weight on her, her brother, red, contorted, through strands of hair… then that girl had said something at the sleep over: “do you know what sex is?” four or five round eyed little preteens in sleep-sacks and underwear… “it’s when a boy puts his thing in your cunny”, that spreading ardor, replay now with new information… “does it hurt?” abdomen reliving it, bloody thighs, the smell of crab grass, Graham’s voice, his covetous eyes… “it’s supposed to… because they put it inside your cunny”…

Vincent’s feels a little guilty for the hard-on, she’s thought about it before, he doesn’t ask about it. He leans against the wall and listens to her thoughts, she gives them liberty, he’s supposed to be asleep. She was too young… a few years later, holding up a blouse she’s considering… he penetrated her… she thought it was wrestling, all those boys, that creamy substance she sometimes found on her thighs or backside or crotch, dry-humping her, until the one boy… until he pushed himself inside her… Graham too, he’d touched her there… he’d suckled her nipple… he pushed his penis against her… he would throw her onto their laps, those hands roaming over her, foreign fingers stroking the little flaps of skin between her legs… the dancing, the gymnastics… when he had to study anatomy and asked for her help… laying on the floor, nude, he ran his hand around her, pinched her nipples, had her spread her legs, bend over and finger rolling around her anus… she’s started to weep, the blouse still held up, that uncontrollable shiver, remorse and betrayal… nights he would play with her, always some game with his hands on her… the pinching, small little slaps, him always coming into the bathroom… grinding against her, that poke in his pants… her hands were shaking, holding the blouse…

“it’s when a boy puts his thing in your cunny…”

He’s the first person she ever told, in that room, before Vincent… Joseph Moore, thirty-nine, the Director of the Continued Production of Isotopic Inhibitors for Immunex International, missing for ninety-two days… the report… Vincent looks into the living room where his coat hangs by the door… his briefcase no longer underneath it… she turns the page, the Moore file, FYI to all agents: missing man, repeat: missing man, potentially neurotic due to a self-prescribed alteration in cocktail regimen or misuse of assigned cocktail or due to halting of said regimen, proceed with caution, notify Section 9 upon sighting, do not, repeat: do not, attempt to apprehend subject alone, follow and notify Section 9 prior to acquisition attempt. She was re-reading it. Vincent feels betrayed, only for an instant… should have known… she’s gone through it before… trying to find out what he knows… she feels no guilt… There was a slight change in heart rate and breathing when she mouthed his name… Joseph Moore… an orphan… the very last, lived in a hospital… care-giver died when he was eighteen… married at twenty-three… Norma Greene… two children, Kimball and Alexzen, found digging large whole in backyard… subject associated it with a grave he claimed as his own… refused to communicate… evidence of severe delusional state… seen escaping out of the Rainbow Hotel dressed strangely and wielding a dowel… she laughs under her breath…

She wants to see him again… he’s listening to her again, his wild one eye focused on her, like a prolonged wink… she holding him in her arms… holding him as he shivers… “I know… I know…”

She folds the paperwork back up and places the folder in his briefcase, he hears the snap of each latch and the light turned off and her rising. Nothing new, she’ll contact the Wolf… meeting at warehouse… nothing new to report… He steps quickly back towards the bedroom, hears the study door open and her naked feet slap against the wood floor, a small clap as she places his briefcase back…

…she could try to find him… he might still be close…

Vincent leaves the bedroom and wanders down the hall again. She’s standing by their coats, moonlight from the window catching her nude body motionless as she considers him.

…if she could help, she would… perhaps he wants her to come find him…

“Elisa? What are you doing honey?” Vincent whispers innocently, startling her, who quickly, accidentally darts a look towards the briefcase, before looking up at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry… did I wake you?”

“No, are you okay?”

“Yes, I was… I was thinking about some designs I have to do… I’m a little worried about the deadline.”

“Come back to bed honey, its too early, or late, or whatever,” he coaxes her, looking over at his briefcase as well as he turns to walk back towards the bedroom. She doesn’t move at first, and then she follows him…

* * *

Graham Greene doesn’t know, he doesn’t know they are monitoring his movements, from the point when he left the house that morning, Haddie phoning in: “he’s left, he should be there in about a half hour”, to his entrance onto the freeway (two cars following), to his exit in the city, drive down Dromi Avenue, pulling into parking lot (now they have visual on him), hurry, hurry… and the chance encounter as he steps out of his car by a colleague, who annoyingly detains poor Graham as he recounts a recent vacation, ignoring Graham’s quick replies and four or five closure attempts, then begins to ask about his armory, that collection he’s so proud of, “an antique sword from the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, you don’t say”, all for the surprise.

Graham finally ends it with his colleague, who checks his watch and abruptly (without ceremony) takes his leave… subject a little confused, but nevertheless, able to go on his way, absently up the elevator to the sixty-third floor… he’s got a lot to do today, this week, recalling the Berkshire Frozen Dinner campaign, perfect jingle, remained in his head for days afterwards, preconditioning responses on test subjects flawless, time to pass it on and focus on the Sunnydale Beach Resort & Recreational Campus account…

The floors speed by: three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… no one in the elevator, “well that’s strange”, he’s not that late, really should check in with Simmons on that beverage acquisition, tell Mrs. Lautter to ring the florist, still newlyweds, really, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… damn slow, he doesn’t mind usually, strange to run into Charles Tragrooth this morning, haven’t seen him in years, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, bing, bing, “good morning, good morning” pleasant nods, two more passengers, he doesn’t recognize either, subordinates, he can tell by their tones, novelty’s worn off, used to be that he’d sign autographs and catch women looking at him, “yes, I’m Graham Greene”, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, bing, bing, she steps off, just the two of them left, “dirty elevator sex?”, “I’m a married man I’m afraid”, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four…

By the time Graham makes it to his floor, he’s the only one on the elevator, no longer pretending to read the morning paper, standing at attention at the door, bing, bing, finally, the doors open… large crowd waiting, faces smiling, clapping, it’s for him… what did he do? Must have secured another account… never had this kind of response, must be a big one… “thank you, thank you, thank you all very much,” he confusedly moves through them, hands on his back, hugs from office girls, hand-shakes, nods, a big banner: GO GRAHAM GO! He slowly inches through them, the President standing by a podium, chairs all lined up, other VPs and Directors and Fasces standing nearby, nobles allowing their inferiors the introduction, like a prince arriving at the castle, the President waves Graham towards him…

“Take your seats please, everyone take your seats,” an executive assistant barks into the microphone, “let’s sit down and will get things started.”

Graham aside to Yvonne Lizlong: “what’s going on?” only for her to smile coyly and retreat away to a chair, he walks up the center aisle towards the President, who’s still waiting for his assistant to seat everybody. GO GRAHAM GO! All the seniors are present… promotion? Big account? He’s not sure why…

“Graham Greene everybody,” enormous thunder clap of applause, he’s walking through, looking to them for answers, he smiles gently, knowingly, “Graham Greene!”

He’s shown a chair, right next to the now standing President’s, hand-shakes from all the Fasces, proud smiles, ‘good job’ kind of grasps, one hand clasped around his, the other resting politely on his upper arm with a faint squeeze and a few soft pats, ‘good job my boy’… he takes his seat and waits for the President to speak.

“Once in awhile,” the President orates to the crowd, Graham with a view of the back of his head, “a man comes along who revolutionizes a business. You can tell he’s special, a real team player. He’s the kind of man that sees the Gigantic World, who thinks from the exterior of the Big Package, and who does it with panache. We all know whom I’m speaking of… GRAHAM GREENE. Now, we’ve been given the opportunity to show Graham just how much we appreciate all of his hard work and dedication. For the first time in Hidiger, Popov, & Schlesinger’s history, we’ve capped the billion mark, due greatly to Graham. So when we were informed that we could, for the first time, nominate one of our executives onto the Board of Directors, there was only one man any of us thought of, that man was Graham GREENE. Congratulations Graham.”

Applause, loud applause… Graham begins to rise, feigns arrogant expectation of the honor, even as he’s dumbfounded, shocked, elated, so pleased, wait till Haddie hears this, ascending beyond his firm, chosen over all the others, new job, beyond promotion, he could be CEO one day, new accomplishment, grand insertion into Greene lineage, surpassing all those before him, perfect, utterly perfect, he finds himself at the podium, shaking hands with President, a few flashes from cameras, his belly churning, his hands shaking slightly, a little perspiration, he cannot believe it, repeats the words over and over to himself, expected to speak, what a surprise, humble, yet authoritative, he’s a Director now, and not just of the firm, of the board, they will never attain it, he is one amongst many, chemically ordained for leadership, this changes everything, he thanks the President, still shaking hands, what shall he say? something eloquent, but respectable, not too thankful, but pleasant, not talking down to the lowly, but not humbling himself either, he is on the Board of Directors, a representative of the government, Graham Greene, thirty-eight years old, recently married, former Senior VP, now a Director, thank you very much…

For the next few weeks, the celebration continued, nameless people calling to congratulate him, famous people inviting him to ceremonies in his honor, flowers, fruit baskets, cards, fan mail, reporters, headlines, best wishes from other Directors, interviews (of which he happens to be a master of), banquets, a whole hour special devoted to his life on one of the major networks, personal appearances, initiations, the appointment’s official proceedings, honorary degrees, fan club meetings, speeches, requests aplenty, graciously accepted or denied (depending upon their prestige), a meeting with the CEO himself, and Graham appearing so dapper in his fine suits and relaxed air — he knew celebrity and it fit him well. He smiled, made promises, detailed a plan for future posterity, was received well, not too conservative, a little progressive, but nothing revolutionary, he spoke of his father and his family, leaders everyone of them, pulled heart strings, made women weep a little, just enough, made men nod their heads in agreement, treated the honor like a great gift, half expected, but not arrogantly so, he was a smash, asked to dine with powerful people, accepted all he could, made them promises he had no idea if he could keep, held babies, kissed women on the cheek (all the while his touting, bashful younger bride [a woman with happiness behind her] in all of her pleasantness at his side, waving like a beauty pageant contestant, never speaking), reflecting all the goodness of the world…

* * *

That was when Joseph began his career in street theatre. Of course, there was no such thing and Joseph believed he’d coined the term, in fact, invented the entire theatrical genre, for who would believe a Director of the Continued Development of Isotopic Inhibitors would be capable of such a feat. He could sign his name, he did have a little higher education (three years of it), but he didn’t know any other languages, save a little Latin & Greek that he’d picked up as he read, he had never traveled, not on his salary, he wasn’t considered especially intelligent or creative, he made his living as an administrator for a pharmaceutical company and everything he owned was due to that occupation, his life was a mystery to most citizens, he did not leave any original manuscripts (these were quite obviously produced, but shredded later), he did not attempt to copyright any of his work, he knew nothing of law, and he’d neither published a quarto or a folio. However, with all this mounting against the ambitious castaway, Joseph was still inclined to try his hand at the game.

It has always been a prejudice of the intelligentsia that only through education can a truly great genius be produced and this bigotry was Joseph’s first obstacle. He had, due to his unwavering nature and caregiver’s strident leanings towards idle occupations, read and studied and understood. He had gleaned a rather substantial understanding of long dead romance languages, Homeric epics, and Norse lore, of which, he often found himself reciting in his own head from time to time, and even though he was no artist by trade (this was a social oxymoron in Joseph’s time), he did have the habit of inventing elaborate scenarios that he would insert into established story lines. Furthermore, Joseph engorged himself with imperialistic tales, he could often be found reading quite diligently about the geology of the Atlas Mountains, or the geomorphology of the Dead Sea, or the anthropological significance of the Benai Tribe of Patagonia (or what was Patagonia), and with a very Stokeresq and vivid imagination, Joseph was able to construct a setting from places he’d never visited.

At first, Joseph was given to producing monologues and soliloquies, without the assistance of a cast; he did not immediately grasp the possibilities of a one-man show, and would stand within a predetermined alleyway, two red velvet blankets he’d found in a dumpster nailed to the walls like a curtain, and give the lucky few persons happening to pass by an electric performance of speeches he himself had written. He also dabbled in, if memory served him, slightly altered (perhaps a little more) renditions of the great monologues of the theatre. Joseph’s version:

“Verbalize the verbal, I implore you, as I marked it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you oral cavity it, as many of our characters do, I would rather have the cities mourned as my cast. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus (he feigns an enormous chainsaw cutting down the curtain of the air), but use all gently; for in the very hail, the tempest, and, as I may say, world-pool of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it an eye of the hurricane appeal. It offends me to the psyche to hear a vigorous transvestite in high-heels and a powdered bustle tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable sock puppet shows and music. I would have such a fellow beaten for exaggerating terminology. It out-Herods poor Herod, out-Sophocles’ sad Sophocles, out Ben Johnson’s foxy Johnson. Pray you, avoid it like a virulent disease.”

Sadly, at the time, no one thought much of Joseph’s performances, and the manuscripts he’d transcribed by hand to pass out prior to the recital, found their way into the gutter, no one thinking that he would amount to much (rightly so, in some aspects) and so, no extant copies of his work would ever be passed down to posterity. However, it was then that Joseph began to fully fathom the possibilities of his theatrical renditions, it was then that he began to produce full-length, multi-character plays (of which he would play every part) and this break-through, this abominable notion, would fuel his ambitions for the next few weeks, as he sat on his crate, penning a great, enormously elaborate, fully evolved drama. It would debut on the day of the festival, with lights, costumes, a revolving set, pirates, knights, a prince, a pauper, a king, a queen, a princess, a jester, Death, a swordfight, an mammoth battle scene with a large cast of extras (the poor, unknowing audience), and lastly, a score of such irreverent beauty that it would permeate the subconscious’s of all who heard it. It would be called: “Rudolpho & Priscilla Fancy a Picnic”.

Alone, practically naked, shoeless, without a sole, Joseph penned a slanderous, libelous epic on newspaper scraps (writing in the margins and even using lines from the articles [what he called ‘found prose’]). He reasoned, as it was apparent to him, that perhaps he had been a bit of a recluse, that could explain it quite nicely, a bit of a Beau of Stratford upon Avon, a man who deplores public attention and yet, still feels the need to express his wordy soul. It was not impossible, there had been those Salingeresq writers, those that had quite purposefully altered their biographies, purposefully confused their own past in order to throw a great shroud over their personal existence. If little was known of him, perhaps that is exactly how he preferred it; perhaps he’d even fabricated himself another occupation, laundered money from his theatrics into a sinful banking system. Perhaps he’d even required that his full body of work not be published until after his death. True, he was an actor, but the same can be said of them, there are those that provide enormous performances and refuse the public their due, slink back behind the curtain and hide within the applause (that echo of bodily platitude). It is not what a man sees but that which he can seize.

A sort of socially designed Emily D. like career — that was true artistry, the absolute offering any creator may offer their audience, to be absent (the Flaubertian aspects of such a scheme were not lost on dear Joseph). He had not usurped anything from his words, he had allowed his ego to disappear amidst the plots — it was liberating. The entirety of all creation, all history, all literature, were his inspiration, the ghost cannot plagiarize, all is available… Of course, the omnipotence of his voice was overwhelming and he found himself queerly toying with his supposed chorus, if he would be like providence, he would embrace it fully, as he had read, he would reach beyond human comprehension, he would offer no clear explanations, confuse, contort, construct imperfectly and not express his motives. If he was to be divine, he would enter the pantheon as a jester, his absurdity would be possible, even reasonable, but still preposterous. The voice was selfish, his own comedy (despite anyone else’s understanding) would rest solely on his own humor, he would entertain firstly himself, and secondly, his audience, indirectly, almost accidentally, and if it was possible, he would stretch this fortunate vision into the ultrafidian religion of logodulia.

* * *

It was a Leonardesq (transitions from one bright exegesis to another) morning, the light refracting in shards, the environs contorted slightly, the fields of wheat and barley and long grass (all for looks) met the sky politely, blending unnoticeably. The road starts off an old highway, Greene Parkway, veining its way around a peninsula and ending at an isthmus, where between two large lakes, sits the estate.

Vincent was very pleased. She was sitting beside him, fidgeting with a cuticle, her thighs bare, no stockings, just skin, his hand was lying on her knee, and he would sometimes give it a suspicious rub, feeling the smoothness of its texture, perfect in its flawless patina. He was very pleased and was wearing his finest suit, a navy sports coat he could not afford, gray slacks, a white shirt and a modest tie. She was annoyed, more so at his pleasure, than at the appointment, and said nothing as they drove out of the city. She picked lint off her caramel colored dress, a faux suede off-the-shoulder peasant style gown with a ruffled neck and long sleeves. She wore it because it didn’t cover her knees and had a low-cut collar, showing off her collar bone, her sternum, her shoulders, and a little bit more. Her stepmother would not approve: when she sat, it barely covered her and she couldn’t lean over without providing anyone within sight a nice view of her breasts, or on the posterior side, a sliver of underwear between the arches of her backside. Vincent had talked her out of her fringe suede skirt and embroidered vest under the pretense that it didn’t match the chocker necklace he’d recently given her and begged her to wear (wanting her family to see it). She was not pleased… he’d found the invitation first, she never checked her mail, and offered to escort her. He had never met her family (the wedding didn’t count). She never spoke of them (barely thought about them either) and so, when the invitation arrived, he pleaded with her to go. It was a celebration for Graham after all, her brother, he was being appointed to the Board of Directors — they really must go.

By the time they pulled into the driveway (or more accurately the arterial leading to the estate), Vincent had managed to get Elisa to respond to him. He was quite nervous, being a bit out of his caste, and hoped she’d be considerate. However, he was more pleased that she’d been willing to go, that he’d talked her into it, she’d been changing, slightly, becoming more affectionate, holding her tongue (as they say), not being offensive, no longer speaking down to him. Perhaps, this was a sign… she would be introducing him to her family, they would meet him, he was become entrenched in their lives, “this is Elisa’s boyfriend”, a few months later: “oh, is Vincent coming” they would say, before long: “when do you think they’ll marry?” and “it’s about time you two got serious” kind of comments would emerge. Vincent was very pleased.

The Greene Estate was located a considerable distance from the city, on two hundred and fifty acres, it was six stories high, took up eight acres itself, loomed over the surrounding area like a medieval castle, had six adjoining structures, was designed to be a merger of Gothic and Romanesque architecture (as was the fashion during its construction) and had been in the family for four generations. It was where Elisa had grown up; she still had two rooms devoted to her childhood in the northern wing (as did all the children). On its grounds were also eight guest houses, two of which were currently occupied by visiting diplomats, twelve ponds, eighteen ornate fountains (in the vein of Versailles embarrassingly enough), a stable (two thoroughbreds, three triple crown winners, and ten mares), a marina on one of the lakes, twenty-six bridges, and eight major gardens in a variety of styles (the Oriental being the most popular, although a pale comparison of Giverny). At the manor house, a long line of fine automobiles were waiting to deposit their passengers at the front door (two enormous, copper relief sculptured gates imported from the Mediterranean).

As Vincent and Elisa entered, a substantial crowd was making their way down the grand hall towards the banquet room, stopping every so once in awhile to admire a tapestry or a painting or a sculpture, their feet echoing on the marble floor, dodging viewing cases of stuffed animals saved by the family’s charity. Elisa didn’t bother, she quickly made her way through the crowd, looking straight ahead, Vincent clinging to her arm as he maneuvered so as not to come in contact with any of the meandering other visitors. She didn’t seem to have changed, still annoyed.

Finally, the two made it into the banquet room, where Elisa’s mother sat in an antique fainting couch with a large assortment of older women circling her, a glass in one hand and the topic of conversation dominated by her bored passivity. “That’s my step mother,” Elisa motioned with her head, grabbing a drink from a passing waiter, “I’m sorry did you want one? There’s no alcohol.” She turned away from him and surveyed the crowd. “All the same boring people.”

“Shouldn’t we let her know we’re here?” he chanced, looking at her profile as she took her first sip.

“She already knows. I like to let her know I know she knows, she hates that.”

“Why?”

“We’re supposed to, before we do anything, go up and greet her, thank her for her hospitality, kiss her wrinkly ass a little, say something nice about her son — if we can think of anything, and then leave her alone. It’s much more entertaining not to though.”

“Won’t she be offended?”

“One would hope so.”

Vincent took a few moments to inspect Elisa’s mother, not a hint of her in Elisa. She wore a very traditional gown, buttoned up to her ears, long flowing dress that covered her legs entirely, hair pinned up, makeup applied generously, rings with large gems.

“You are supposed to go into that room over there,” she motioned again with her head, this time to a glass door where he could see the backs of several gentlemen, “and do the same with Graham, accept a cigar, thank him for having us, tell him what a beast he is, and then leave him to the other admirers.”

“Should I…”

“No, it looks like there’s a long line, his ass is probably chapped.”

“Am I going to meet any of your family?”

“Hopefully neither of us will.”

Vincent grimaced but didn’t pursue the matter, he occupied his time surveying the crowd, a lot of fine jewelry and finer clothes, little colonies of people talking, most standing just as he was, trying to appear pleasant, occupied by some task, bored. He saw a young woman in a pleasant cocktail dress that looked like an older, different but similar Elisa standing beside a well decorated man. “Who’s that?”

“My older sister, she was at the wedding.”

“Should we…”

“She’ll come over soon.”

Vincent was able to grab his own drink and a few small appetizers as he stood waiting, wondering why Elisa had agreed to take him, what they would do all afternoon if she wasn’t willing to introduce him to anyone. He glanced towards Elisa’s sister, her name was Margaret, according to the file, he’d seen her at the wedding, and she smiled back at him. He’d taken one or two steps away from Elisa in order to procure a few crab cakes and when he turned back towards her, four men were standing in a circle around her, alternatively speaking and giving her their best bedroom eyes. As she turned her attention to one of them, the other three would take the opportunity to examine her, and reflexively grin. She didn’t seem to mind that he’d been replaced; she giggled lightly at some comment, and responded with a mildly provocative observation, pleasing the men. Vincent stood for a few minutes watching the scene, unsure if he should join in — become just another man standing around, gawking at her, or leave her to her admirers. She wasn’t enjoying it, her voice was forced, she was being polite, but he couldn’t help feel a little jealous. He decided to maintain some dignity; he walked away, deciding to inspect some of the artwork on the far wall.

Before him was a neo-renaissance rendition of The Rape of The Sabine Women, he read the card beside the painting, looked at it carefully, untrained but serious, and then turned back towards the hall. She was obstructed from his view by several sports coats and sweaters; the four had grown to a small crowd. He could see only a wisp of her hair over someone’s shoulder, all those pricks competing for one hole, the scientists were right: her proportions were symmetrical, she emitted a womanly fragrance that drew the opposite sex to her, she was primed for breeding, all they had to do was prove they were the proper stock and deposit their seed. Still not enjoying it. He felt a little guilty.

“Well, you must be Vincent,” her sister said, appearing beside him. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to meet you.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, I too have been looking forward to meeting you, your sister has told me a lot about you,” the captain replied, offering his hand, which was accepted, then curled up around her arm, as she drew him towards the middle of the room.

“I don’t believe that, but nice of you to say… You should meet mother.”

The walk towards her, still unentertained by several older women, sipping another drink, insolent features, bored stiff eyes, her gaze beginning to fall upon him as they approach.

“Mother,” Margaret gently holding his arm, a nice smile as he looked down at her, “this is Vincent… Elisa’s Vincent…”

“Where is that abject little daughter of mine?” she responded, taking no notice of him. “She does this on purpose…”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Margaret’s obvious conciliatory tone she’s quite used to employing. “Mother, this is Vincent, Elisa’s Vincent…”

“Thank you for coming,” she said mechanically, still paying him no mind, as if she was being forced to greet a servant.

“Thank you for having me,” he returned, Margaret nodding encouragingly.

“So tell me young man: is that little tart…”

“MOTHER,” feigning shock.

“…is that little tart settling down or are you just another writer she’s giving charity to in exchange for… for a little tumble?”

“Mother, Vincent’s an engineer,” she offered, turning to him: “isn’t that right? An engineer?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s moved from the arts to the sciences,” she commented still passive, unbothered.

“I had to,” Elisa’s voice from behind, “the scientists pay better.”

“What a charming girl.”

“I see you’ve met my new pimp.” Vincent embarrassingly watched, Elisa giving her stepmother a soft kiss on the cheek as she replies.

“Really? Elisa,” she finally, actually looked at him, quickly ascertaining his features and turned back away.

“Yes, he’s good to me, mom, only takes twenty-percent, and those scientists, nothing kinky, just plain intercourse,” Elisa continued despite herself, even Margaret a little shocked, Vincent turned slightly, as if to pretend he’s not witnessing it.

“ELISA,” Margaret finally interjected, “stop it,” pleading tone, contortion of her face and a quick nod towards the seated older woman.

“Don’t bother,” the mother waved away, “she’s responding to something I said. I shouldn’t have said it. We’re glad to have you here with us,” turning actually to Vincent, flicker of smile, turning away again. Margaret said nothing, just tugged slightly on Vincent’s arm and led him towards a small crowd. Elisa remained, the last words he heard: “…the apartment in the city…”

Another writer, some truth to that, another writer, as though there have been many, perhaps not, a figure of speech, long term, unofficial with Arthur Dodger — had she met him? Couldn’t imagine that, he’d be worse than her… strange of her to say it though, fed info from siblings, probably, Graham or Margaret… another writer, implies more than one, but could be social prejudice…

They entered the gentlemen’s room together, Margaret’s hand still holding his arm, no words, as if they were both thinking about the exchange they’d just witnessed, probably for different reasons. She’s thinking about Elisa too, doesn’t blame her, just wishes things could go smoothly, no verbicide. They’re met by the cologne of cigars, as she led him towards the back of a man. He turned just as they approached, tall, angular, somewhat Elisa-like, but not really, just a few features mirrored, less specifically, her natural mother must have been something, he is an elegant middle-aged man who looks like he will age well.

“Graham,” Margaret offered salutations, “this is Vincent, Elisa’s Vincent.” The newly appointed Director (bureaucratically his boss), smiled politely, and offered his hand. “Vincent, my brother — Graham.”

They exchanged amiable ‘how-do-you-dos’ and Vincent tried: “Congratulations, Elisa’s very proud, I was looking forward to meeting you.”

“An honest lie, I like that,” the director replied, “it’s very nice to meet you too.”

“Vincent’s an engineer,” Margaret added.

“No, I think Vincent’s an ambassador of some kind, from what I can tell,” Graham smiled, presented the captain a cigar, which was accepted, a glass, also accepted. “Anybody who could turn whatever it was my sister said about my appointment and attending this little celebration into ‘very proud’ has to be an emissary,” he poured Vincent something clear and grinned to make sure he understood, while several men surrounding them chuckled out of respect (not because it was actually very funny).

“Graham, you be nice, I swear the whole family’s in a queer mood,” Margaret interjected, playfully swatting at her brother, who pretended to cringe… strange relationship, any wrestling between them? Would have been better if it was older sister teaching younger, imagine the memories… he matured long ago, still thinks about it, sometimes, no true remorse… she doesn’t know it ever happened… too bad, interesting memory… she’s too close in age… “Well then, I’ll leave you boys to talk,” Margaret uncurled her hand from his arm, gives him a nice pat on the shoulder, smiles and walks out of the room.

“Where is that sister of mine?” Graham asked, taking a seat in a large, leather chair.

“I don’t know,” looking for a seat and taking a stool nearby.

“Ohhhh,” first one man then joined by a few others, first man: “you better keep an eye on her,” he warned, Vincent unsure if in jest or not. “No telling what she’ll do…”

“She’s tricky,” another inserted, accentuating the last word — does everyone get the pun?

“Not me,” a third, “I wouldn’t leave that alone, not with…”

“Let me ask you?” another began, silencing the others, “does she dress like that on purpose?”

“Like what?” he honestly asked.

“All right, all right,” Graham interpolated, even partially standing and raising his arms as if to separate them from Vincent, “this is Vincent’s first time here. Go easy on him.” Then giving the captain an understanding look. “A lot of these boys grew up around here, they know my sister, her eccentricities…” he explained, “I assure you though, not a damn one of them knows what they’re talking about,” he finished loudly, unveiled provocation met with a chorus of jeers…

“I see.”

“They’ve all, every single one of them, tried,” Graham continued “all in the same way” wondering if he talks in such a way because he’s been there, “they tell her she’s exquisite and they buy her expensive presents and they tell me how she’s special, like no one else in the world and that they think they’re in love” some truth to it, “but not a one of them, not a one, has succeeded… so don’t worry about them.”

No one challenged him, a few grumbles, but no retaliations or comments whatsoever. He takes a few moments to light a new cigar, then offered to hold an old coconut shaped canister for Vincent to light his own, which is accepted.

“So finish your story,” a faceless man finally asked from behind Vincent’s shoulder, obviously to Graham.

“Right…” he feigned as though he’d forgotten he was telling one, “where was I? Right. I was telling these guys about an odd occurrence recently, since I received my appointment,” he mentioned to Vincent.

“Yes, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said a thousand times, no longer means anything. “I was leaving the Vallard Hotel after a banquet, and I see this young woman standing there. She’s attractive and well dressed. It looks like she’s waiting for someone. I head towards my car and she comes towards me. She says: ‘a hundred for sex’, I remain polite and let her know that I’m married and even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t pay for sex. She says: ‘no, I’ll give you a hundred’…” followed by a general peal and a few off-handed comments. Vincent smiled ritualistically, takes a drag off his cigar, just as Graham’s eyes widen.

“It seems I’ve been underselling myself,” Elisa’s voice, arriving through the door, the sound of clothing as the room turned toward her, all except Vincent, “I can only get twenty.” Her hand landed on his shoulder, he glanced aside, men eyeing her, Graham already rising.

“Well there she is,” his arms opened to embrace her, she leaned in, as though they were strangers contacting out of convention. He pecked her cheek, she wiped it away immediately, unaware of her response. He kept one arm around her and turned her body to face Vincent. “You remember everybody?”

“Not particularly, I try hard to forget such things,” she looked directly at him, offering her condolences, a faint ‘I told you so’ upturn of her lips. “Now I must steal away with my escort here…”

“I’ve only just met him,” a small dip in his tone, “besides, you just got here. Won’t you stay?”

“I would if I could, but you know us women, we meet a strong man and can’t get enough of his cockiness,” she slipped out of his arm by crumpling slightly, knows all their eyes are on her, dissecting, stripping away fabric, placing together her anatomy.

“You’re just trying to shock me…”

“And you’re replying just as I expect, I don’t like to know what someone’s going to say before they do,” she moved towards him and put her hand out. Vincent rose slowly, trying to appear that he doesn’t mind at all (which he actually doesn’t). She leaned into him, pressing her body against his side… why? Graham watched her… he felt her hand running down his back… why in front of them? He put his arm around her despite himself, pinched her skin… this is some theatre. She dropped away, clutches his hand and leads him towards the door.

“Nice to meet you,” Vincent turned out of custom, “all of you.” Graham nodded amiably. “Congratulations again.” Another nod.

“So I’ll see you in a year or so?” he called after them.

“Not if I can help it.”

They were back in their car within ten minutes (would have been eight and half but the help had some difficulty finding their coats) without saying goodbye to anyone or staying for the dinner planned. Elisa explained: “It will be utterly a bore, all those men standing up, giving speeches, each one trying to top the other. The only way I’d stay is if they’d let me speak.”

“But they wouldn’t do that…”

“No of course not. It’s Graham’s day,” she mimicked, as though someone had warned her with those very words. “Then I’m supposed to stand and chat with characterless women who haven’t had a real thought their entire lives, they say the same things, I can tell you exactly what they’ll say before they do.”

“Why don’t you like your brother?” now chugging along nicely back towards the highway.

“Graham? He’s everything I detest.”

“Which is?”

“Engineered… purposeful… ambitious (which means he’s selfish, but in a socially acceptable way)… simple… idle… mechanical… a follower…”

“How can you say that, that he’s a follower?”

“Quite easily actually. He’s worse than any of them. They present him like he’s a leader, someone we can all get behind and respect, but he’s none of those things… he does what’s easy, never lets himself ask any questions of real value…”

“Which are?”

“That’s why he was appointed: appearances. The whole damn thing is about how things appear, as long as there are no smudges, no obvious scars, no outward problems, its utopia.”

“You should be careful.”

“Why? It’s just you and I.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d hate your own brother.”

“I don’t HATE my own brother, I HATE my half-brother.”

“Why?”

“Because he perpetuates the lie…”

“What lie?”

“The perfect lie.”

“Which is?”

“Paradise on earth.”

“Where do you get these ideas Elisa?”

“I think them, you should try it sometime…”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t THINK at all.”

“Careful…”

“Of what? Am I going to say something that’s going to hurt you — we wouldn’t want that. But it’s so easy; you’re just like all of them, insulated against anything negative. You can’t even imagine that I might think something different than the rest of you, you even have to warn me… don’t say that, it’s different and I don’t have my citizenship manual handy to look up whether or not it’s okay. It’s pitiful.”

“I still don’t think you are aware how dangerous saying things like that can be…”

“Are you going to report me Vincent? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“No of course not, but other people would Elisa.”

“I wouldn’t say that in front of other people Vincent.”

“Why would you say it in front of me?”

“Because I should be able to if I want to… I should be able to have thoughts and entertain them and discuss them with you. Why do you assume new ideas are negative?”

“I don’t, but they have the potential…”

“They have the potential for good too.”

“Possibly.”

“You are brainwashed.”

“No Elisa, I’m not. I’m invested in the community, in protecting and maintaining it. If I misbehave, try to change things for my own purposes, I risk the entire communities well being. As long as we work to aid it, we can’t injure it.”

“That’s called propaganda Vincent… did it ever occur to you that being forced to AID the community is a form of slavery?”

“I swear, I don’t know where this stuff comes from…”

“They’re called ideas, they come from my mind.”

“Listen, I don’t want to argue with you. We disagree, that’s all.”

“I’m…”

“I’m sorry too.”

“…NOT sorry. You want me to be lovely and friendly and have no thoughts. You can’t imagine that someone would have grievances with the way things are and it upsets you even more because I’m female. Women aren’t supposed to think things like that.”

“No one is, its abnormal. There are regulations against broadcasting or verbalizing slanderous statements and saying negative things about the government.”

“Vincent, there are regulations against premarital intercourse and deviant sexual behavior too, but that doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No, you don’t think it is… because you can accept a woman sexually, allow some small leeway, but intellectually, that you can’t manage, you can’t abide by. You allow felonies in the bedroom but not even misdemeanors anywhere else… if it’s a woman.”

“That’s not true,” relieved to be pulling up to her building. Vincent stopped the car and looked straight ahead for a few moments. She didn’t move. He began to turn towards her, leaning… she turned for a second, met his eyes, annoyed, opened her door and slammed it behind her. He began to exit, opened his own door, but she was already disappearing into her building… nothing tonight…

…maybe time for a warning…

* * *

The mural, still wet and giving the room a synthetic, plastic smell, is in acrylics, very textured, so the paint lifts off of the wall. The woman is a portrait of the owner of the residence, although she did not sit for it, exactly recast. The artist has never seen her naked, but the proportions are perfect; it is her, just as though she had posed for several hours. She does not know that the work has been done. The man is missing definite features, he is wearing a lengthy trench coat he has never owned, and the face is contracted to avoid giving away his identity, somewhat in the style of Lucien Freud. She is holding his hand, leading him into the gates without rising herself. A smaller woman, in a ballerinas costume and with sprite wings, also completely naked, and with a rather distastefully anatomically correct view of the lower portion of her body, sits with legs folded against her chest and a tiara of flowers atop her head. She is musing on the other two figures, not appearing to be within the same space. The artist has lovingly made her transparent, explaining why her nipples are visible, and seems to have, at the last minute, chosen to make her caped. She does not seem to be from the same picture, and it might be said, she is blowing a kiss to one of the other figures, whether it is the woman or the man is unknown. Above the gates, El Grecoian clouds give the scene a claustrophobic impression, as though the sky was falling. The female seems to be slightly aware of it, but the male, missing perspective, is only concerned with the gates. The moon is three fourths full, with visible craters and with what seems to be an alien’s face when the viewer stands back against the opposing wall. If this was done intentionally or not, is unclear.

The artist is still holding a sienna and titanium white brush in his hand, the specks of the rainbow covering his hands, as he gazes up at his gift. He has used his own mouth to clean the brushes and his lips are dyed an indeterminable gray. He has absent-mindedly moved strands of hair from his face, causing several streaks of red, blue and yellow butter yellow, as well as a few finger marks of green and blue on his cheeks. His pants, where he dried the brushes or wiped off excess paint, look like an abstract impressionist painting unto themselves. He is not pleased with the outcome, but does not know how to improve it. He stares at it, moves forward and touches up a line between the eternal night and the Chagall hills behind the gates, the stars are twinkling like child-hood crayon drawings but are supplemented with the shapes of fables, dancing cows, fiddling pigs, starving wolves, and spoons attacking saucers. The morning star, his birthright, is the brightest, and within it, a perfect satyr sits musing on the woman with delicious eyes.

He has done this as a gift for her, to make her happy. She was not home when he climbed through the window, nor was she when he returned two hours later. He wandered through her house, not touching a thing and laid in her bed for a while. Perhaps she would not notice him if he stayed there. Perhaps she would just think he was a ghost. He could sleep in her bed, beside her body. He would have to let her know that he was there though. Joseph could not allow her to not know. He would never touch her things; he just wanted to visit her from time to time. She would understand.

In the end, he got off the bed, and found the paint in her closet, probably for her designs, as the tubes were very small, he had used four blacks and three whites on his mural. He cleaned up so that there was no evidence of him, save the painting. He stepped out onto the ledge and went to sleep on the rooftops.

* * *

Elisa has decided to spend the morning on the roof of her building, still aching from the day before, the remnants of it still lingering, got to watch what she says, despite his subordination, pettiness, he’s still dangerous. The mural, simply appearing, from him… never knew he was aware of her home. A gift, she was surprised, a little concerned — how could she explain it? Elisa spent all night staring at it, running her fingers over the tacky surface, the brush strokes where he had touched, her portrait, probably his, and a third: a pixie, patron, medium, she wasn’t sure. He had been in her apartment, snuck in just like the Wolf, but for this and nothing else. She was grateful, only wished she had caught him, not gone with Vincent to the country, not wasted her time, she would have been home. She wandered her familiar flat, guessing where else he had been, in her bed, her wardrobe, her favorite chair, her studio… she’d say she commissioned it, try it out on Miss Hanley, keep it. Finally, Elisa had fallen asleep in her chair, after moving it in front of the painting, and not been revived until the following morning.

Perhaps she’d contact Arthur, give him an update… she has no information, he does not bring his briefcase anymore, there’s nothing in it ever anyways, just more paperwork, bureaucratic forms, field notes… he’s an investigator for Section 6 after all, not 9, women’s services. They have been quiet since the man went missing, no new operations, only a few spontaneous appearances, he’s not chanced coming around, running into Vincent. She doesn’t really miss it, a little more intriguing, inventive, but finally comes down to the same thing… one of them underneath the other, penetration of some orifice… she’s growing tired of the whole thing… she hasn’t made any progress with Vincent, knows nothing more than she did before.

She lets herself doze a little… her assistant will let her know if anything comes up — just can’t seem to concentrate on a book or be bothered with her designs, in limbo… just like him, still in her thoughts, although carefully, he knows when to hide. She feels that comforting commencement of sleep, just when consciousness gives way, thoughts trickle into abstractions, the eyes turn inward towards interpretations, memories, dreamscapes…

Shudders, flows back towards… jolted, eyes open, pale blue sky just starting to roast, some fear, resonance of it… invading her sleep, she heard something, sits up, concentrating on the sound of the city, distant traffic like water over sand, the noise of bodies and voices too far away collecting into a background buzz, darkly ascending into space, one noise, flexing towards it, hear it this time…

She reaches over for her two-way: “everything okay?” No response. “Maija? Everything okay?” Maybe she left it somewhere, off shopping or on the phone. Elisa stands up and throws on her robe.

Down the stairs with naked feet, smudges on the walls where housecleaners did too good of a job, three flights, the agitation growing, every set: “Maija, are you there?” No answer, she was just there, brought up a tray of juice and a few books, said something about organizing her files.

Elisa opens the fire door on her floor (only apartment on it) just as she’s being led out, the backs of two men in all black, helmets, vests, 9 in white lettering, she retreats for a second, stops, they’ve come… Maija already being led towards the elevator by two of them, four out in the hall, they’ve come, she can’t move — do they think she’s me? She can hear more inside her apartment, run, she can’t convince herself that its real, just sleeping, wake up, he’s turning slowly, they’ll see me, he sees me, looks concerned, reading her horror, she can’t move, slowly retreats back as he stomps towards her, he’s said her name, twice, he’s said her name specifically, fourth time, he’s moving quickly, she should get out, poor Maija, by association, should run, another one right after him, they’ll be on her in a second or two, she sees Maija at the elevator, waiting, her face hung down, weeping, she still steps back, turn and go, its unreal, they’ve finally come, Vincent, she collides with the wall, trips over her own back leg, they’re running, ceiling, hands on her, lifting her up, they’ve come, her heart is striking her ribcage — where will they take her? Elisa feels them lifting her, tries to struggle, barely hears them, what are they saying? Where are they taking her? She can’t say it, never fainted before, wake up at the facility, plead for Maija’s forgiveness, they’ve set her down, familiar, corduroy, feels like her couch, her eyes are open, he’s bent down, saying:

“… more information as we are informed by the department…” a captain, mustached, feels his breath on her face “…tried contact…” there are twenty or more of them, no chance of escape “…rebrand deemed necessary…” they’re combing the apartment “…Ms. Greene?” can see them in her studio, the bedroom, “…Maija Hanley, case no. 543-87-HAN3Y…” six of them surrounding her, on the couch, “…Action Request No. 90143, initiated by Section 6 investigation…” she rouses herself, sitting up, “…and documentation supporting violation of citizen regulations 8.7, 19.4, 65.3, 98.25, and 107.38…” Elisa cups her face in her hands, they’ve finally come, “…cooperation appreciated…” waiting for him to say the words, “…Ms. Greene?” they’ve finally come, “…can be quite frightening…” not much time left, “…apologize for the intrusion…” she lifts her head, looks him in the face, “Are you all right Ms. Greene?”

“No,” she trembles, pulls arms in close to her chest.

“These operations can be quite unsettling,” he places his hand on her knee as if comforting her. “Just relax…”

“What happens next?” barely whispering, fortifying herself…

“She will be relocated to a facility and matriculated into rebranding,” hand gently rubbing her back, still crouched down before her.

“Maija?”

“Ms. Hanley, yes.”

“Why?”

“She has been under investigation by the department for almost a year and a half, Ms. Greene,” he speaks soothingly, trying to explain without upsetting her, “investigators have uncovered violations of the social code and citizen’s regulations…”

“What could Maija have done?”

“Ms. Hanley has several marks against her, investigators have gathered evidence sufficient enough to warrant rebranding,” he remains circumambagious until she attempts to question him further, “you are allowed to know. I should warn you… it could be… upsetting.”

“Please…”

“Agents raided her apartment earlier this morning. After a thorough search, they uncovered certain items that indicate Ms. Hanley has nonstandard social interactions, some of which are sexual. Documentation also designated abnormal actions towards other citizens, such as voyeurism, contrectation, grapholagnia (several of which were found of person’s she has regular contact with and appear to have been taken without their knowledge — you included), invultuation, along with general violations such as murcidity, gamophobia, and evidence of personal molestation, lesbianism, and erotic theatrics.”

“I don’t know what that means…”

“Essentially, Ms. Greene, the investigation indicates that Ms. Hanley has been abusing herself while viewing questionable images or, in certain instances, in the person’s presence when they are incapacitated or unconscious, including, at times, furtively contacting the person’s sexual organs. You, Ms. Greene, were the primary victim. Agents recovered a large collection of surreptitiously taken photographs with you as the subject matter, along with journals and other written documents indicating sexual tendencies towards the female sex. I have been instructed to leave you with information about medication that will assist in coping with this evidence.”

Elisa didn’t know how to answer, she hadn’t known about much of it; still she didn’t believe her assistant deserved rebranding. Vincent. He was retaliating. A message, maybe, unsubtle, she could believe it. Take someone away from her; let her see what could happen, what he could do if he chose to… They could have been for her. He was warning her in his obvious, coarse way… She looked about her apartment: the agents were packing up their gear; the captain had placed a prescription in her lap, remained crouched before her, but head turned, watching with her. She breathed deeply, partly relieved, still guilty, poor Maija…

Captain Vincent Belacque was standing on the twenty-first floor of the Collingswood Apartments, binoculars pointed towards open windows, a mobile unit of six screens beside him, Elisa framed in the bottom left one, still sitting on the couch, the Section 9 captain still kneeling near her, listening to the crackle of radio transmissions: “successful retrieval… debriefing… subject in transit…”

Vincent had decided to initiate the rebranding, partly as a warning, but more specifically in order to wrap up his investigation and provide results. He couldn’t implicate Elisa, but he had to justify the operation. Maija Hanley, Elisa’s assistant, offered a convenient alternative, he had incriminating information about her, perfectly suitable for an Action Request, evidence that would maneuver the investigation naturally towards her. The case would be closed, considered solved, a suitable outcome reached. Elisa would be freed from investigation (although without her knowledge) and Vincent wouldn’t lose his live feeds, just the ones wired into the system. She would realize what was possible, conform, and they would be together, no concerns over Section 9 or her involvement in the resistance, not after this…

* * *

They dart like nocturnal nightmares from behind the dumpster out into the light, across the street, and into the alleyway. Eight or more of them, the point men, followed by the cart and its accompaniment; they give the signal: “whoooo, whoooo” (meant to sound like an owl, although why there would be an owl in the middle of the city, no one considers) and the men pull it across the road. Just eleven meters further, the cart makes it across the road without being seen, only some lonely traffic two blocks away, tired people commuting through the night, as they cross the final thoroughfare unseen.

Arthur, masked as usual as a wolf, begins his hand signals like a third-base coach giving a hitter intricate instructions, with all sorts of options, depending upon the batter, the pitcher, outs, RBIs, etc. The men nod when they’ve received their gestured tasks and scamper off towards their assigned positions. The cart they hold in the shadows until everyone’s in position, followed by a small orchestra of wilderness animal calls, indicating a ‘go on five’, which sends the wolf, the ghost, the angel, and the captain out towards the large concrete square surrounded by flagpoles and a statute or two in front of the building. They begin their work immediately and within seconds give the alert to bring the first item. The pirate and Frankenstein scurry out from the alley with a large iron square, just as the rascally rabbit arrives, blowtorch in hand, and begins the welding process. The pirate and Frankenstein retreat back to the concealed cart and await further instructions…

The rascally rabbit finishes his work, flips open his hood and thumbs up the wolf, who then quack, quacks the contingent, who arrive promptly with a conic structure, set it on top of the parallelogram and disappear again. The rascally rabbit goes back to work, sparks showering the surrounding area, all the look-outs in place, the wolf steadying the frame, and cacaw, cacaaaws the next piece. Before long (meaning no one’s quite sure how long it takes, you know how these delicate cloak & dagger operations are — one second feels like an hour, one hour can be like a second), the primary work has been completed and the masked marauders (not what Arthur prefers but even generals have to make allowances for morale) complete Operation Blowjob and move onto the secondary maneuver, Operation Add-on, in which several agents attach lengthy, suggestive wires to the main structure. It goes off without a hitch, culminating in the plaque ceremony, the theft of the flags (symbolically suggesting one general’s success over another) and the replacement with unidentifiable banners in their place (one is of a coiled snake cut into pieces, while the second flag is a black fist clutching a lightning bolt — no one quite sure what any of it means, save that they look menacing).

The nocturnal ninjas (again, not Arthur’s title for his squadron) then head over to the four tulip fields bordering the cement center, and remove two-by-fours, a long rope, and begin stomping on the delicate flowers, creating, for all intensive purposes, blossom shapes (some speculating they’re the work of an alien strike squad who’ve broken away from their army and are trying to communicate the fate of the innocent world to its inhabitants, whilst others believe that it could be a coincidental floral virus that just happens to mimic that which it is afflicting, while scientists argue that no ‘natural’ phenomena could possibly create such elaborate designs and bend the stalks, rather than breaking them, giving rise to all sorts of questions: if it’s not ‘natural’, what is it? Paranormal, spectral, extra-terrestrial, dimensional time warpal, etc?). Until the team has finished, stands for just a few seconds admiring their handy-work, the wolf strolling from one plot of flowers to the other, finally awarding the beta team the award for creativity in the midst of personal sacrifice, a very nice blue ribbon handed out to the team leader, even a good pat on the back, before they hoot and holler away, back into the alley, setting the carriage ablaze, and disappearing into the darkness of a nearby park, no one the wiser until morning.

When it arrives, of course, bureaucrats and administrators and representatives and fasces and the like all stand for a few moments, gazing up at the flagpoles with their strange banners, then down to the structure erected directly before them, quite sure they’re looking at an enormous penis, complete with ball sacks and wiry pubic hair, until they tear themselves away from it and begin to walk, turning back, as if they might have hallucinated, every few steps, and notice the tulips, which are growing strangely, or altered, or wait, yes, they’ve been attacked too. They head up to their offices, luckily having a window looking down upon the entrance walkway, only to find themselves staring at shapes forced upon the lovely blooms, actual geometrical patterns stomped into the gardens, as if meant to be seen from the air. They shake their heads, strangely confused, even a little disturbed (several female workers actually scream, faint, clutch chests, cry, and go comatose when they first arrive and see the sculpture before them — the enormous phallus just too much for their sensitive sensibilities to manage). It escapes no one, as well, that the action has occurred the first day of Graham Greene’s tenure as a representative, although he makes no mention of it all day, nor intends to ever… in private, of course, he’s given his approval for action being taken against the perpetrators, whom they are, no one knows and everyone’s relieved when city engineers show up late in the afternoon and begin to dismantle the giant erection. The CEO is, obviously, very understandably, on the phone with the director of Section 9, demanding immediate military force be brought to bear on this ‘resistance’, who’ve left a calling card of sorts in the form of a plaque, which reads:

His right to govern me is clear as day

My duty manifest to disobey;

And if that fit observance e’er I shun

May I and duty be alike undone.

* * *

The Sodium Amytal was administered whilst he slept. Elisa had no more ideas. Imagine her hovering over him, a leather captain’s hat on her head, the shiny black bikini, the suede thong, a chain connecting it to her waist, her bare breasts cradled in a latex bodice, too much make up, long, high heeled boots that ran up to her knees; he’s tied to the bed post and she’s taunting him with her parted legs, pungent red jaws extenuated by the strap separating them, the mirror positioned behind her so he can watch her ballet ass quivering over him, the fake tattoos on her left butt cheek, inner thigh, and over her right breast, all the work to get him utterly crying for it, one enormous fantasy she was humiliatingly performing for him, all for Arthur and all for nothing. She brushes the tip of his penis against her pelvis, grabs it and slides it up and down her crotch, “you aren’t going in anywhere unless you’re willing to answer some questions.”

“Okay, yes, yes, whatever you want,” his arms flexed against the bonds, pulling as hard as he can, the head board creaking, lifting his mid section up to meet her. “Please, come on, alright, whatever you want to ask.”

“That’s a good boy, now,” she releases the chain and slips the leather panties off, “now tell me, lover, what were you doing in that restaurant, where I first met you?”

“First let me… let me have… just a taste, come on,” his tongue out, stretching towards the recently discarded thong on his chest.

“OOOooo, you want an appetizer, all you have to do is tell me and I’ll wipe it all over your face.”

“Following you, I was following you,” he responds, his tongue back out and licking the inside of the leather, moaning… “that’s all.”

“Why were you following me? Come on, don’t make me stop” she’s turned around, away from him, straddling his thighs, legs parted, sliding up, then down, up, then down; she smacks him against her soffit, knowing that he has unspeakable surreptitious suggestions about doing things to her winky, that he likes to fondle it, feel the crease between the two cheeks, the curve that leads to her… She s(t)imulates congress, hind first.

“Ohhhh yeessss, ooooOOHHHhhhh, oooookkaaaaaaaaaayyy, I was, I was, I wanted to fuck you, I want to fuck you, I saw you and I couldn’t get you out of my mind, I wanted to taste, to taste that, that sweet, sweet pussy.”

“Where’s your office, the address?” she’s stuffed two of her own fingers inside as she slides up the shaft of his prick, “come on, honey, one answer and you follow my fingers.”

“Ohhhh, ahhhh, oooohhHHHHhhhaaaaa, please, I work, downtown, downtown, come on, ohhhhh, I’m dying, Edwards Street, Sixth Floor, come on, fuck, fuck me.”

“And your phone number?” handling his penis, sliding its tip around, lubricated, “the number and you’re in.” Lies, the entire episode, the uncomfortable after effects, the synthetic squeals, the aching lower belly, the proctalgia, the leather outfit, the time wasted taunting him, he had simply lied to her. She was humiliating herself, giving this man everything he wanted, piss on me, by all means, whip me, why yes, just make sure you do it hard, long fantasies of Grand Inquisitors interrogating virgin witches (complete with costumes), how creative, yes please, do torture me, trashy outfits, thongs, girdles, make up, high heels, sheer dresses, eatable undies, pretending, tongue baths, more please…

One good ride and he was out. Sodium Amytal administered. Finally, no bargains, no tricks, no boring romance and no pretending she was having the time of her life. Just answers.

* * *

Champagne sunlight had toppled over the wet pavement, and the humidity rose with each hour (nipson anomemata me monan opsin). The early morning neon fragments (primarily red, orange, and yellow) were lower frequency wavelength particles least scattered by nitrogen and oxygen, atmospheric refraction lifted the Son higher than it actually was while distorting it with differential refraction, giving the city streets an ethereal smolder that Lord Scattering would have found quintessential and giving Joseph the particular impression that heaven was leaking onto the earth.

It was the day of the festival (celebrating the city’s goodwill) and Joseph had every plan to debut his first play, if only he could find a suitable place for his stage and coax his fellow ‘players’ out of their crates and lairs. He’d had a long talk with them the night before, seemingly making headway with promises that he’d find them fish guts and other scraps, while not requiring them to do more than block for him, although one or two would probably have to don some sort of costume (Joseph guiltily omitted that when he’d introduced the idea). And, he’d even found two of the C.I. familiaris, a particularly russet gray female with dyed ruby ears whom he called Daisy Mae and a dear blonde terrier mutt who answered blithely to Linus, both being essential to Scene II, in which he needed some complicated spins and an elaborate bow.

He was returning to the alleyway, having only recently discarded his angel gear and managing some terrestrial clothing (after it appeared his ascension was not to be in the near future), when he saw four of them lounging on a delivery stand in the back of a warehouse. Being a courteous neighbor and in a festive mood, he joined them for some small talk:

“Well kitties, it appears as though the day is upon us. We should pray for our soul or most certainly we will be the sole prey of eternity,” Joseph remarked ibn Arabianly as he took a seat, they casually acknowledging his entrance into their pride and furthering their reputation for idleness. “What can you say about a day like this… my, my…”

He patiently waited for any one of their members to insert their own observation, but realized their inclination for direct communication; he quickly amended his languid words and focused on le mot juste. It was a pure egotistical pleonasm how he continued on, never stopping, speaking as though they were listening like schoolchildren afraid their grades would suffer or that they would be given the ole ruler across the knuckles if they veered their attention, like so many of them could remember on cold autumn mornings, as the teacher began his lecture, snapping the yard stick against his palm and continuing on until lunch time and they could escape out onto the playground.

“They say we are not our own to govern, and they are bureaucratic men.”

On his scraps that morning he clearly saw, in his very own handwriting, an order to uncover the root of his purpose (although it was a step in the right direction, he was still suffering from teleophobia). For several nights he’d heard nothing from Flower, not one visit just to say ‘hi’ or sit down for a chat, not a single tickle, no paizogony what so ever (waking with unsoiled trousers), no new information delivered in her very special way (he particularly enjoyed the one in which the message was written all over her body and he had to twist and turn her to read it in its entirety, the conclusion scribbled in her inner thighs), no explanation for her absence, such as a vacation or sabbatical, and so he’d written himself an assignment. If she was going to leave him to do it himself, well then, by god, he’d miss how thersitical she could be and her spanking subtlety (especially when she was procumbent), but he’d carry on.

“Well then, there, now,” he said in character, coaxingly, “methinks you’ve taken a rather quaestuary view of it my friend. You speak only of truth and usury sin, of tossing them moneylenders out of the temple, as it were, but truly, if our monetary worth was the object of our pleasure, would each coin received magnify our inner light, and if so, if so, do we feel this enlightenment on payday, is it an otherworldly experience in which we ascend to a harmonious plain or do we feel sudden quiet, a sudden undulation of the spirit when we hand over those sums and find ourselves free of creditors? Nay, I say, fantasize for a brief moment, that you’ve borrowed some gem from a friend to wear for the festival, it is a sparkling, prideful rock that you wear on your lapel like a tag of prosperity, you strut throughout the crowds, chest puffed, arms back, head high as a hanged man, looking down on the passerbyers to catch their response to your ornamentation. After a few initial acknowledgements, you lose the thrill of it; their observation of it replays over and over again, the same response, until it means so very little to you that it’s plucked off of your collar and placed quietly in your pocket. You then hand it back to your friendly loaner, no more the better for borrowing it, and no better for returning it. Where in there lies pleasure?”

He patiently waits for the effect, languidly sort of acknowledging his voice; one rises slowly, arches her back, stretches lengthily, yawns, turns four times and reseats herself contentedly.

“Imagine, if you will, a proverbial life’s line-up of all the people you’ve ever known, stretching off into the everizon like a chain of sin. With each person, you’re required to give him or her a particular moniker: friend or foe. You walk like a commandant around them, sniff their cologne, stare into their eyes, smell their breath, perhaps, pinch a few butt cheeks, smack a few asses, et cetera, et cetera, and then, you begin to label these phantoms of your memory. This one you say is a ‘friend’, this one you say is a ‘foe’, and so on and so on. How correct do you think you would be? If we were to ask this line of acquaintances, would they concur with your labels or ardently disagree? My money’s on the latter, and here’s why: we are petty fortunetellers, my friends, most of us are not capable of understanding psychology, sociology or any other pertinent ologies that may come into play. One man, whom we assume is not just a friend, but was once actually considered a ‘best’ friend, well he reveals (without guilt or malice of fore-thought), that he had a little tickle, tickle with one of our former girlfriends, or our wife, or he admits that he sabotaged our reputation on several occasions, or that he secretly despised us but was, due to social convention, required to butter up our egos and give us puckered lips rather than his sporked tongue…”

A few heads indolently turn, some snout licking, he thinks the black one might have even winked (Imholtian in its mockery, i.e. teaching a feline that rather than believing people are cats, that the cat is a people), receives a knowing gaze from one, as if to suggest some justice or notion of good to friends and evil to enemies.

“…yes, yes, I see where you are going with this, two negatives make a positive, I believe is the religion, but can we accept this as truth, true truth, versus the other type, the type that appears to be true because we base it upon our own prejudices, our own limitations? I think not, not in ethics, not in morality (for they are different), because an eye for an eye, an offense for an offense, a punch for a punch, a stab for a stab, a hand for a product, money for security, does not equal happiness, or the good. Rather, as we have seen, responding in kind produces the opposite effect, evil plus evil equals double the evil, just as good plus good equals double the good, evil minus evil equals nothing, just as good minus good equals an absence of good, thusly causing there to be no good, and in the absence of good, there lies evil. We are damned if we do, damned if we don’t.

“Now when we use this superstition for government, we speak of justice, i.e. that the ruling body has the right, nay the duty, to eye for an eye criminals, or even, as was the custom in the past, an eye for an organ, fear by superior fire power, what you do to me I do a hundred fold to you, your family, relatives, acquaintances, and co-workers, which is to suggest that they can make things good by inflicting ever more evil, that by forcing evil into even worse conditions it will somehow, perhaps through psychological and social alchemy, suddenly turn towards the good. Well we know, as per experimentation and history, that this is simply not so, rather inflicting evil upon evil only makes more evil.”

They have, by now, noticed they’re on stage, and begin to adjust themselves slightly, turning good sides towards the audience, playfully toying with lint, strutting across the platform, attempting to retrieve some acknowledgement, while Joseph, as Strunckly as he possibly can, tries to roll with the ad-libing and ad-moving.

“Just as we engender art for the sake of it solely, or study history not because we believe blankly that in this way we won’t repeat it (proven time and time again to be false) but for the sake of knowing, justice is beneficial and good on its own merits, almost naturally, although I too would admit that one man’s justice is another man’s prejudice, however the concept, that of being just, or receiving a just sentence, or existing within the comforting arms of a just society, is, in and of itself, good.”

He pauses for effect, begins his Humian last words:

“Sadly, it must be admitted, that for the most part, you see how I partition my observations, people, I speak here generically, are myopic in their comprehension of the grander terminology of existence, i.e. they do not view them in their entirety but rather place one hand over one eye and read them like lines of script. (It bothers me that wisdom is only found in the wise). Herein lies our greatest of fallacies, for we, as a unit, a whole, and its particulars, determine the definition of our words, we imbibe them with their influence, their power, and yet we behave as though they are independent themselves, not our creations, but organisms naturally evolving. Justice is community property, belonging to all, and each of us should have equal access to it, however, too often than not, one person or a group of persons, decides that they will be the custodians of our honorable estate, and it is then that we lose unmitigated access to our rights and privileges granted under human law. This is linguistic tyranny my friends, purely an oligarchy of the provisions of our existence.”

Joseph waits for applause — receives none, and feels quite justified…

* * *

As per their instructions, the Black-Ops team, led by none other than Commander Samstag Derby, a roinous legend in the ingravescent bureau (his reputation stemming most appropriately from an operation four years prior in which the commander flogged a recently initiated soldier during a retrieval, both successfully carried out, and was further inflated by his tendency to remove a subject’s clothing [symbolic of their rebirth, or so he justifies] and overly restraining them with a variety of questionable fetters), had taken up positions around Morgan’s Distribution, a warehouse where, allegedly, members of an underground resistance were headquartered, and, according to the most recent sit-reps, currently holding a meeting.

Intelligence reported that all major ‘players’ were present and that the operation was a ‘go’ as soon as Commander Derby decided to give the order (retaliation for a recent venture perpetrated by the resistance upon government property, and purportedly, quite subversive), of which, as he surveyed the situation, ensured all agents were in place, listened to the ‘bugs’ placed inside the warehouse, and notified his superiors, he immediately gave, in the form of the universal military salutation and inspirational utterance: “whooaahhh”.

At which point, like the barking head of a mythical hydra tormenting a fabled city of sinners, the strike force went into full operation, while the gas snipers lobbed canisters of noxious chemicals in through windows, jumpers repelled down the side of the building, guns blazing as they swung like superheroes in comic books from the days of yore into glass, a helicopter launched a barrage of missiles into the façade, and back-up teams surged forward behind the initial strike force, who’s voices Commander Derby could hear crying “clear… clear… clear” and “don’t move mother fucka” and “freeze or I’ll shoot you dead as a damn deer’s carcass on D-Day” and “retreat, retREAT, RETREAT”, along with the rat-tat-tat of gunfire, shock grenades, zap sticks, screams, hollers, agonized howls (angel-headed hipsters that they were), and the general peal of a raid in progress. He patiently waited for the first reports to come in…

The exchange of firepower threw the old commander for a loop, it being the first time anyone had actually fought back and he was stunned for quite a long time, perhaps too long, until he regained his composure and began his strategy, which he was able to piece together from intelligence reports and field information, what he called the Thor Maneuver, in which a heavily armored, highly trained task force of commandos would act like battle axe amidst the tumult of combat and push forward, deep into enemy lines, followed directly by the shock troops and the infantry, hot with hi-tech gear and a green desire to see action. However, Commander Derby’s plan was unsuccessful and several of his highly trained task force of commandos were taken prisoner or unreported (dead was not an option, not for Commander Samstag Derby), so he was forced to repel the opposing forces with superior fire power, calling in the Car, a heavily armored rhino of an automobile with a twelve centimeter cannon, ballistic missiles arrays, and the quickest machine gun of rubber bullets the department had in its arsenal. It rammed its way through a service entrance, entered the skirmish from the flank of the enemy, was able to disable their main contingent, sending them in retreat, of which it gave chase. Just as Commander Derby was about to send in his Janitors (i.e. specifically trained agents who specialized in ‘mopping up’ operations), he received notification from an observation post that the Car had been trapped, led towards the back of the warehouse, where it fell two stories down a cargo hold and was currently burning uncontrollably, exploding rockets everywhere, bullets melting, the cannon still blasting away (probably on automatic) but aimed towards the roof, which was now quite damaged and potentially going to fall down. The rebels had escaped into the back of the warehouse. He had fallen into a trap, lost the Car, possibly one third of his men. Commander Derby ordered a full siege, meaning every available man was to push forward, himself included, and to show his leadership, he leapt from his post and ran headlong towards the front of the building, only to be mowed down by a pig-man on the other side who’d taken up a position in the third story window and was currently strafing the troops located outside. His lieutenant was able to get to him before he died, to hear his last words, which were: “one more pillow please” and dragged him back to command.

The entire operation was in disarray, no one was giving orders and men were going down like dresses on prom night. Officials listening in were shocked, tried to contact any officer they could but were met only with radio silence. Finally, a young captain named Hartfield took up the cause and regrouped what was left of the shock troopers and the few infantrymen not injured or dead. He organized a special attack maneuver quickly dubbed the V-Offensive (based on the arrangement of soldiers), and struck the resistance with all of his might, alarmingly it was met with little opposition, strangely, even occurring to Captain Hartfield, but later understood: the mass of the opposing troops had long since escaped out of special caverns built underneath of the warehouse and connected to the sewer systems.

The Janitors were called in just as the last few remnants of the resistance were overpowered and the only success they could report was that fires intended to destroy evidence were put out before they burned all of the information. The team was able to recover several documents: roll call lists, membership dues paid by certain people, codebooks, cookbooks, a rolodex, and a list of possible future targets. Captain Hartfield brought the information immediately to the department head, who set a devoted deputation upon it, just as the agents playing possum (as per the rules of engagement) were told that the operation was over and allowed to return to the land of the living.

The retrieval of named persons began directly afterwards, Section 9 agents breaking down doors, chasing expected participants, the man-hunt was on… first and foremost, Section 9 was after Arthur Dodger, a.k.a. Father Nicholas, and intelligence reported sightings of the wanted man as he moved away from the city. Other persons were also on the ‘most-wanted’ list, including Carl Reagan, Noah Petrov, Oxford Carlyle, Michael Rand, Gregor Heely, and Joseph Moore. Agents fanned out to search for the key players, and the resistance was decimated, making the operation seemingly a success. However, indications from retrieved intelligence showed several independent cells still fully functional, along with particular members on individual missions that no longer had sustained contact with the leaders. One of which suggested that the newly appointed director, Graham Greene, was in danger, that the resistance had assigned an agent to kidnap him and his new wife. The department immediately sent out a team to protect him, who found him in the city, and convinced him to move out to the country estate until the man could be captured. The Greene’s cooperated completely and Captain Vincent’s team went out to protect the new couple.

* * *

Meanwhile on the first convex of the lesser spheres of eternity, Joseph ambled along atop the debris of chaos on his way through the dark, waste, and wild of the starless desert, whose sky threatened to erupt in inclement out-pourings and fateful screams of a conduction zone between the tempest and the heavens. The boulders of nothingness soon gave way to the open plains with Himalayan vultures perched on titan carcasses, feasting on the divine spleen, only to grow tired of holy organs and seek out Tartan yeanlings and bah-bah lambs amongst the deltas and the great isthmus of the Ganges or Hydaspes which bled into the great Gobi desert of Sericana, where he found a ferry across the windy seas of land, alone, without company or life for he was treading on the border of creation. Where the convicts of vanity, sloth, greed and violence search for their rewards like lunar colonists terra forming a new world.

Those silver fields caught the words of superstition, narrowly translating the saints of Hebrew laws, Babylonian captivities, Babel suicides, Egyptian snake charmers with twisted staffs, and more cannibals than a table has room for, along with celestial wind-riders who made passionate, exotic love orgies with proto-mammal females and spewed forth a breed of towering pagans who were the key-masters of lexicon antennae that stabbed the virgin navel of god on the Sennaar plain. Others wandered lonely, leaping eternally into Aetna flames or constantly re-reading the holocaust of philosophers and chasing lemmings off cliffs into the unforgiving sea, or heretics of long forgotten papal councils whose hermitage extends into infinity, St. Francis of Assisi, with his long line of consumer terrorists, Carmilites, Dominicans, friars, and pilgrims seeking the chance to rub the enormous skull of Christ on Golgotha. All of Martin Luther’s enemies, and a few of his coconspirators, perpetually climbing the ladder, only to thrust like match sticks, back to the start, searching for their rosaries, their crosses, their hoods, and their habits.

Passing through what arguably had to be the paradise of fools, now peopled and trodden by a few millennia of ghosts, Joseph came upon the shore of the Chardonnay Sea, where dawn laps lazily upon the plains and the tide baths everyone in its gleam. Dangling like kite strings of the clouds, the fragments of the sun pierced the earth and created pools of light for any to lie in wait. Our hero, who had seen the engineer Jacob construct the highways of angels and knew the dreams of Luz, their pearly lakes and invisible visitors, waited like a patient for the chariot to draw near.

The carriage held

* * *

But just ourselves

And immortality

And once it came, it was an easy ascent through the tunnel of the mind’s eye, through the holy rocks of Mount Zion and into fabled Tel Meggio, dodging the goody-goody-winged shoes of the order, who in all of their labor, and due to our hero’s careful attention, noticed not the fiend glaring at the city of Dan, where the great Jordan begins on its way to Beersheba and the Arabian shore. Joseph, like a child on his first slide, bounded down the stairs in great kingly leaps and swoops (his arms remaining out for control) to be the first to conquer (a flag in his left back pocket intended for the highest point and a short poem written for his dear Flower, since he had, for all intensive purposes, planned to call it Flowersburgh in a fit of romantic idolatry) the new earth. Removing his careful instruments, arch-angel Joseph begins first with a topographical grid, squared off in one-foot increments and with a two-foot handicap, which he follows with a comprehensive geomorphology study (intending for a watershed mitigation ruling) that he rounds out with a Class 4 environmental assessment and hydrology model for use by the agency, until he feels quite sure that he has completed the necessary measurements and followed all the proper procedures for an immediate land use action to be proposed. That the canopy of night has befallen him, goes unnoticed by our hero, as he slips over the wall, and is embraced by a plastic atmosphere of such suffocating consistency that he flails with mighty swings and actually, quite by accident, clocks a few other worlds, ah those happy isles like Hesperian gardens of golden deciduous trees, sending them like marbles, recall dear Joseph your lonely games with string and invented opponents, on your hands and knees, that tongue locked in ready, your thumb tucked below your finger, and the pluck, the great Jupiter rolling into moons and planets, outside the holy solar system, how many aliens died that day? And what of poor Galileo, who’s reason was so concentric that he upset the firmament and made the ever-lasting sun blush with big, black acne, did he have his marbles?

No matter, never mind. Staring into the sun can make visions of Protean prophets who capture sunrays and sell them to armories appear without warning. Is that a vision or an angel there? His back is turned, a faint crown of golden laurels circles his head as he folds his wings and fixes his hair. In need of directions, the spirit impure adjusts his shape and feigns innocence.

* * *

Now to the ascent of the final, steep knoll that separated the house from the gardens surrounding its brick façade, like a wolf starving in winter and howling over the body of a child, or a burglar invading the home of a burgher and removing from him not only his jewelry and his art, but also his wife, or a mercenary on a holy mission who not only destroys his adopted enemy, but captures them alive and ravishes their women before their eyes, then impaling them in the midst of their rage and sorrow, Joseph invaded the hearth by climbing the middle tree, the highest and the one with the most fruit, and gazed through an open window, cradled by a strong branch. From his position, Joseph could see the entire estate, a heaven on earth, stretching eastward towards two large towers modeled after those built by Grecian knights in the land of Seleucia and with noble trees of every variety, blooming ambrosial fruit, along with a large, well kept brook that ran its course over undulating hills, beneath mini-mountain tops of craggy rock and split into four tributaries that seemed to guide the flora and the fauna of each segregated zone and naturally fed all the plants. The areas divided by the brooks were as diverse as the foliage they contained, some basked in the morning sun and were left open, with a profundity of hills and dales and plains that stretched into the horizon, whilst others held groves of stringy trees that blocked the midday sun and offered lounging seats for wayward strollers to enjoy the shade and feast on fruit that dripped from the vine. Still others were wooded thickets of hemlock, birch, and oak, hiding caves and burrows, ferns and wild berries; or fields that drooped into dedicated valleys with colonies of trees where Pan would play his magic lute for all the graces and the hours, where spring seemed to never leave (like Prosperina remaining at the dear side of Pluto) and the rainbow wept into the flowers (as if all of the prey of Apollo chose it for a place to rest).

As Joseph surveyed the gardens, he turned full circle and there, framed within the window like a screen, was his true query, the beautiful couple, already nude and making their way to bed, the man, godlike erect, was divine, an image of glorious manufacturing. However how equal they seemed, he was of no contest to the softness and sweet attractive grace of her; however, his fair large front declared, however sculpted his shoulders, she, with her slender waist and ringlets of hair, her wanton lips and savory breasts, implied no yielding, and although she was submissive from the start, there was a modest pride in her motion, as the two gave in to sweet, amorous touches and shameless provocations in which each seemed thirsty for the others lips, leading to a sidelong recline on top of bed covers and an appetite that seemed so grateful, as he demasked the flower, that she offered forth all the beasts of the earth, the bear ramped, the lion, the elephant blaring, the insect, and her favorite, the baboon. As Joseph watched, her body bathed in what had to be a sweet nectar, since her partner could not keep from licking and kissing her nearest body part, the two enjoyed a nuptial arrangement that ended only after six different positions, her howling like a menagerie, and he had seen every Digambarian inch of her, exposed, slapped, kissed, sucked, fondled, spread, moving in time, and finally, worked into a velvety moan of such splendor that poor Joseph found himself soiled.

“My dear, that was wonderful,” the man finally remarked, “I am so pleased to find you so liberal and free. In all this happiness, of which I cannot count it, I still feel such a burden, our lives are so easy, so splendid, and yet I cannot escape my work. I believe in the law, it disturbs me to think that others do not, we ask so little of them and yet, they pretend that it is so toilsome and that life is not sweet.”

“Ohhhh,” the woman replied, “Graham do we need to talk? My flesh is against your flesh, I see no reason why we should let it end, you are just and right, a guide for all of us to follow. I’ve never been with anyone like you. I knew you would satisfy me the first time we did it. I awoke that morning and found my room filled with flowers, I was so well done I didn’t know where I was or who I was anymore. Then I heard you in the shower, and I remembered and I crept towards the door. You were behind the curtain, and I remember I made sure I looked good in the mirror and then, I pulled back the curtain just a little bit and spied on you as you washed your hair. I felt like I’d been missing half of myself and I knew, right then, that you would make me feel whole. You caught me and took my hand and led me under the water and took me from behind.”

Half embracing, he leaned over her and his lips met her swelling breasts, she closed her eyes and let him move slowly down her body, arching her back, as if trying to meet his lips half-way. Joseph turned aside just as he shocked her with his first exploration and leered at them once more.

* * *

“I had the strangest dream last night, honey. I was wandering through the garden and I was naked, but I didn’t feel ashamed and it didn’t feel weird, like I walked around the grounds nude all the time. Then I heard you calling to me, and you were telling me to wake up and come join you in some grove or something. You kept talking, telling me all about the birds and animals and plants that we could look at when it was dark. Then, it got strange, you started to tell me how all the plants and animals wanted to have sex with me and that if I just laid down in the grass they would seduce me. I kept walking towards your voice but I couldn’t find you and you kept talking, telling me how I was going to be ravished by nature.

“I thought I’d found you, but I got to that big tree, you know the one that sort of scares me, and you weren’t there. So I sat down on one of the branches, it like dipped down for me to sit on it and I didn’t think this was odd or anything. Then I saw a man standing there and he had wings on his back and curly golden hair, like the pictures in history books. He started talking to me in your voice, I don’t remember what he said, but it was all about the tree, the xylem and phloem, the classification, all this information, which was so random. In my heart, though, I was really uncomfortable and the tree, it seemed to no longer be holding me up but holding me in place and I was really scared. I remember feeling really frightened. But he just began to pick fruit off the tree and eat it. Then he began to tell me that I could only be happy with him and that if I joined him he’d give me wings so that I could fly. He moved closer and closer to me while he spoke.

“Then he started feeding me and I was so hungry, I have never been so hungry in my life and I ate and ate and ate. But I wasn’t satisfied and so, he began to put fruit up my nose, in my ears, through my belly button, and up my vagina and anus. Everything had turned into a mouth and I was eating it all at once. Finally, I was full and I couldn’t eat anymore. I was so stuffed I couldn’t move and then, he grabbed me and jumped into the air. We were flying over the garden and the house, I couldn’t move, like I was paralyzed from all the fruit and I could feel his hands roaming my body. He had sex with me in the air, as we swept through clouds and dived into valleys, and I couldn’t do anything about it, it was like I knew it was happening, that he was inside me, but my body wasn’t functioning. He finished, I could actually feel it, it was so real, and he let me go and I was falling and falling. The next thing I remember was I was all alone, lying in a pile of mashed apples, naked, and my hand was inside myself, like I was touching myself. It was so real, Graham, it scared me to death.”

“That does sound scary, honey,” the man of the house offered. “I don’t like to think you have fantasies about other men, especially sexual fantasies. But I guess there’s nothing we can do about our subconscious. They say, when you sleep, all of your reason is turned off and that’s why people have such crazy things happen.”

* * *

“Come in Unit 3, come in, this is Control.”

“Roger Control, this is Unit 3, go ahead.”

“Unit 3, please hold for King.”

“Roger.”

“Unit 3, Lt. Tobias, this is King, I received a circuit from the department. We have reason to believe the player has been set in motion. Warning, the player has been set in motion. Be on the lookout for the player. Roger.”

“Roger, King, we sent a circuit via tele-command this morning, nothing at present to report.”

“Unit 3, I have not received a circuit, I repeat, I have not received a circuit.”

“Forthcoming sir…”

“Roger, we will take care of the review. The update is a go. Please stress the danger to the Castle, no more visitors. Understand? The update is go. Articles 2.4 and 2.6 have been declassified.”

“Roger King, Unit 3 will update the Castle at 12 hundred hours. Articles 2.4 and 2.6 are public domain, roger.”

* * *

Elisa grips the wheel and accelerates over the hill, roaring towards her brother’s estate. He will be there, this is the final act, the end game, when the king is required to take the rook or be forced into defeat. She has not seen him and she must see him, before he completes it, before she can agree to anything. She knows now what he intends and she cannot contradict him, but she will be a part of it. She knows Captain Vincent has been forced to retaliate, to save himself, after the truth, that night of truth she’d covertly prescribed to him, when he’d confessed. The following morning he was not waiting for her to wake, he had left and she had not seen him since. Then, the telephone call: “they will strike and you will be sent for rebranding, the whole lot of you will be, and the lost man will be found and the world will continue on. But, Elisa, you don’t have to be there, you don’t have to be caught and I won’t keep pursuing you, all you have to do is say ‘yes’ and you won’t have to be sent away to lose everything you care about. They will be caught and they will be forced to go, but you don’t have to Elisa, not if you’re willing to come with me and to accept my marriage proposal, because then you will be legitimate.” She had hung-up and had drawn her legs to her chest and stared down at the phone.

“Nicholas? They know far more than you thought. They know who you are and what you call yourself; they think you’re the leader. There have been two reports about you drifting around the department; he said they have you listed for rebranding, but that all they are waiting for his an Action Request from Section 2. They also know our future plans, where you’ll be speaking next, they’ve put a stop on your ability to publish anymore books and he said they know about Ghost and Frankenstein and the Captain and everybody.”

Elisa turned onto the highway towards the country. Vincent would be there, waiting for her, for her decision. She tried to imagine what he’d say if she refused, she tried to imagine him arresting her, or ordering an agent to do so. He had to, he had told her everything. Her chest ached considering it, seeing him, finally seeing for herself the proof, even as she had known since the very beginning, now she would see him in his uniform, behaving as an official and she would be required to make a decision: accept his proposal or be taken away, away to the uncertain, the uncertain place where they would turn her into someone else, someone else who would not know she had been anything different before, someone else who would not know what Graham had done to her as a child, someone else who would not know what it was like to grow up an adopted Greene, someone else who would have never met Joseph Moore, who would have never tried to change things, someone else who had never had an impure thought, who had never fucked an agent for information, someone else who had no recollection of all the things that made her who she was.

Joseph would be there too, hidden away, he would be preparing himself for the last phase of his mission, he would need her help and she, at least as one last action, could help him. All she needed to do was find him, or find him before Vincent did.

“Graham, I’m coming out to see you.”

“Well isn’t this a surprise. You’re always welcome here.”

“I’m going to stay for a few days.”

“We’d love to have you, Elisa.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Are you all right?”

“Don’t be obnoxious. I’ll see you in awhile.”

“Okay. Drive safely.”

* * *

Captain Vincent had come out to inspect the Greene estate himself. He stood before his men (those not out on patrol) and regaled them with threats, promises and accusations, concerning the invader, the guests, and the protection plan. He had not yet reviewed the guest list, although he knew there was a chance she’d be there, because he was too busy coordinating the operation. The Players had gone underground after the raid. Not one of the leaders was captured. But Section 9 agents had recovered valuable documentation.

The department blocked all further distribution of the company’s books. Godfather was real. Arthur Dodger, a.k.a. Father Nicholas, a.k.a. the Wolf was a general, not the chief. They were all his generals; she was one of his agents. Section 9 was on the rampage. Section 2 was providing support. Section 6 was off the job. They were to guard the Greene’s and maintain their surveillance. If anything happened, Section 9 would be deployed to deal with it.

In just a few days, the maneuver was complete. The rumors and tales finally came to fruition; Section 9 was now the bureau and the department. Grunts of mindless action had overwhelmed the more deliberate and cerebral sections. They were now giving orders. Captain Vincent was a figurehead; he received his orders from any member of 9, regardless of their rank. The director was powerless. She would be picked up soon. Vincent was sure of it. It would not take long for them to find the connection. Then no A-list or Untouchable status would protect her, not even Graham would have a say. It was the beginning of the end for her.

Vincent hoped she’d show; he’d left things badly. He knew she knew who he was, that she was aware that he was watching her, and that he knew of her involvement. He knew she could see through his conversion talks and pleas. She was a traitor that he had come to care for, that was all, still a traitor. He had tried to help her. She had made the choice. She’d be sent for rebranding as soon as they caught her. It was the difference between he and them. He had seduced her and implored her. They would torture and destroy her. When he saw her again, she would be a vessel of her former self. Rebranded, medicated, hollow, but a citizen again.

A red convertible passed Point 3. She is in his car. Why would she come? Does she know I’m here? She does not know herself. She is running. A few more moments…

She never thinks of me, I was just another. She never thought of the Wolf or the father either. But she thinks of him, she has been thinking of him since she first took his hand.

She has been stopped at the gate. She will be here in a few moments. Let her through.

Captain Vincent leaves the guardhouse and begins to walk towards her car as she pulls into a space outside of the garage. She is in a hurry. Elisa steps out of Dodger’s car and absently turns toward the house.

“Elisa!” He is here.

“Yes.”

There he is, his jacket, the emblem of the bureau, the patch of the department, the 6 on his chest.

“How are you?” stupidly conversational…

“Fine. Decided to change careers recently?” she asks Arnoldianly.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Elisa,” staying his course, ignoring her impertinence, “will you marry me?”

“No. I don’t believe in marriage between the species.”

“There’s nothing else for you to do,” he continues Paulianly.

“I see, you or nothing? You turning me in Vincent?”

“I have to, it’s my job.”

“Funny you didn’t mention anything about politics when we were in bed? Why the sudden morals?”

“You know why.”

“Do I? You’re the mind reader, why don’t you tell me what I know.”

“We have both known about the other this entire time, Elisa. Only I love you, that’s why I did it. You did it for your cause.”

“So, you’re going to turn me in because you’re in love with me, is that it?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Like putting down an injured horse.”

“You need help, Elisa, if not from me, from someone else. The whole thing’s over, I’m sure you heard about the raid.”

She looks at him directly, quizzically:

“Yes. Thanks for the warning.”

“Don’t mention it again, I’ll deny it. It’s all over, we can go back to normal. You can either join us or be hunted like the rest of the rats.”

“I’m joining Vincent, I’ve already decided. Nicholas has run and I didn’t go with him. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“That you don’t give a damn about him.”

“Very profound.”

“I love you Elisa. Let me help you. I can protect you. If you’re going straight, let me help.”

“No thanks, you don’t want to help. You want me to be your good little wife. That’s not what I call help.”

“I can legitimize you,” Willardianly suggestive…

“I don’t want, nor do I need, you to legitimize me. Why it’s okay for you to perjure yourself and defraud but wrong for anyone else is beyond me.”

“I didn’t lie to you to try to catch you.”

“I know that.”

“Don’t you see, Elisa, my motives were based on affection? I could have arrested you at any time, you and Dodger, I could have arrested you immediately.”

“Instead, you choose to spy on me and then, when I initiated a face-to-face relationship, you kept spying on me and kept lying to me. You call yourself my friend, but it was all convenience for you Vincent. As soon as your director found out about it, I was dead. Who has the morals?”

“I wanted to save you — that’s why I continued. Do you really think I’ve done all this for sex? I’ve done all of this for you. Now, you’ve got to make a decision, Elisa, you’ve got to decide if you’re going for rebranding or if you’re coming with me.”

“So, those are my choices? Zombie or wife,” Persephonianly put. “All right, Vincent, if that’s all I’ve got, I’ll marry you. But you should know, I’m doing it for survival.”

“In time, you’ll learn to love me, that’s how it works.”

“You poor man, you have the stomach of a skeleton, so used to waiting for someone to give you your opinion on things.”

“I need to know, Elisa.”

She clutches her purse in both hands, face downcast, remembering Maija Hanley and the others… if this is what he wants…

“Yes, Vincent, I do.”

* * *

With her acceptance, he turned away and walked back towards his command post, whilst she, on the other hand, made her way towards the front of her brother’s home. He knew there was a reason for her arrival, and that it was not just to hide. She was involved somehow… Elisa entered the house without knocking, and had the servants take her belongings to one of the guest rooms, one overlooking the back of the house. No one thought it peculiar — she was a peculiar girl.

The estate had been in the Greene family for four generations, before Graham it belonged to their uncle Claude and he had left it to his favorite nephew. As children, the clan had visited the estate often, every other year, when they weren’t summering in the Hapsburgs; they summered at Cloud Ten Acres, and Elisa knew the house from top to bottom (including the cellar, where Graham had recently installed his famed armory [she never quite understood his fascination with old weaponry, but then, she didn’t really bother to try either] that was often featured on documentaries about the history of war and surveyed by wrinkled old professors at least once a month — like it was an archive. Graham had spent millions at auctions, estate sales, and the like procuring medieval long swords, lances, suits of armor, oriental bows, samurai costumes, rapiers, cross-bows, catapults, norse battleaxes, war hammers, morning stars, clubs, foils, knives of varying lengths, styles, and shapes, pikes, spears, shields, Zulu artifacts, Bohr rifles, Amazon blow-tubes, Herero relics, Lap tools, Reich ammunitions, American gangster rapid fire guns, wild west gattlan-guns & six-shooters, ancient missiles, helmets, flame-throwers, even Leonardo da Vinci’s cannon).

Vincent only had to keep her out of trouble for a few more days — then she was his. He ordered his men to initiate another search of the premises, they were going to strike, that was why she was there, to assist them, to act as decoy (they knew her affect on men), something, he just had to figure out what, and before it happened. He wouldn’t let some mistake take away his prize, not after all that work, not after all of his time and energy spent on her, she was finally his (he was still recovering from her drugging him, but he choose not to entertain it, not when she was willing to agree to his terms). Within a few days, she’d be at his home, living there, every day, every night, he’d teach her to take her meds, to cook for him, to clean the house, to greet him at the door, and within a year or two, she’d be pregnant with his child. He would be an A-lister, slightly impure, but still an A, and his child, his boy or girl would be a Greene, distant, but still aristocracy. All he had to do was keep her safe for a day or two, one last mission…

After dinner, as evening wore on and the sun’s light began to pale the horizon, she retired to her room to wait. She hadn’t seen Captain Vincent since that morning; he’d not bothered her, or said anything else. He had her acceptance, he knew she was up to something — he was just too late. She waited patiently; she knew he’d come, and that she’d witness the accomplishment of it. She wanted to see him, she’d desperately been waiting for the chance to be with him again, to hear his voice, see his eyes, feel his hands, and she’d chosen the best possible place to catch him. She just hoped Vincent wouldn’t think of it, that he hadn’t inspected the house.

Elisa pulled out her book, set it on the window sill and began to mechanically follow the words, although she paid no attention to the subject or the plot, since she made sure she looked up, out the window and down onto the grounds, every few seconds. She listened as the house closed down for the night, heard Graham and Haddie turning out lights, talking in whispers, heard them climb the stairs, the young bride’s giggles, synthetic pleas for Graham to stop what he was doing (probably pinching her as she walked up the steps in front of him), the flirtations, and the muffled groans echoing down the hall after only a half hour.

She saw movement by the tree line, flexed, stared after the shape coming towards her, turned out her light, turned it back on, and off again, but it was just an agent making his rounds. She felt disappointment, but settled back in for the wait.

A few hours later, she saw the agent again, his flashlight darting around the meadow, into the trees, and she laid her head down on her book, tiredly observing his search. He wasn’t too thorough, he’d gone over that area about eight times that day, and was simply completing it yet again out of duty. As his flashlight swept the dark forest, which was so silhouetted against the starry night it looked like a black fire engulfing the cosmos, she saw a glint of inorganic color, for only a second. The agent’s light continued though, unaware, until he was gone. Then, the color moved, quickly, straight, directly towards her. She watched intently, nervously, checked east and west, no one in sight, nothing but the shape moving closer, darting from the hedge to the terrace, from the terrace to a lone tree, from the tree to a bush, from the bush to the shrubbery bordering the garden surrounding the back of the house.

Elisa moved from her look-out immediately and silently bounded down three flights of stairs, onto the main floor, no one awake, everyone asleep, even the two agents positioned by the front door and the two against the back entrance, quickly into the library, tugged the swinging arm of the grandfather clock, closed it after her, and headed down the thin, cement steps to the basement. She’s got to get to him before he gets too close, tries to come in through a window or door and gets caught. She walked briskly through the labyrinth, through the dusty cases of brutality, down a corridor, and to a brick wall. She moved a candelabra and winced as the old hinges creaked, the brick grates against the foundation, and the hidden door opened to the outside — how much fun it was as children, for hide-&-go seek, for cowboys & Indians, for all sorts of other juvenile sport…

She leaned out carefully, surveyed the surrounding area, no sign of him, no agents, lights all still off, a faint figure way out by the pond, probably one of his men, groped along the side of the house, towards the back: “joseph, joseph,” whispering, slightly intoned, but as quiet as can be, “joseph?” around the corner, the garden empty, no sign of him. Elisa turned back, back towards her lair, quietly moving along the house, eyeing the agent in the distance, slowly moving towards the secret brick entry…

* * *

E ’n la sua volontate é nostra pace.

We return you to regularly scheduled programming, already in progress…

“A little while and me ye shall not meet;

And yet a little while”, again she said,

“And ye shall look upon me, sisters sweet.”

Purgatorio, Section 27: The angel descends to greet his poetry Beati mundo corde. She urges the traveler to cross the river of fire (a chimney that provides secret access to the basement) because there is no other way to the bedroom. Joseph, irrational, refuses Elisa’s invitation, fearing he’ll be burned alive. But she encourages him by quickly parting her nightshirt and speaking in the voice of a lyricist. It is night, as the two retire onto the steps.

“I have learned all I can from the fires and the rest stop.”

“I saw you crossing the lawn, I didn’t want you to get caught.”

“He was supposed to say: ‘I crown and miter you over yourself’ but he didn’t.”

“What are you doing here Joseph? I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

“Obviously he feels he has brought me as far as he can as a teacher.”

“I’m so pleased to see you again, I missed you. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“You are picking flowers for garlands. I would prefer to look at your eyes in the mirror.”

“There’s agents everywhere Joseph. They know about the mission.”

“I am almost finished. Just a few more steps through the forest with Statius.”

Purgatorio, section 28: Such a sweet odor, the breeze of her breathe against his skin. He is followed by the spirits of the ancients. He spies her making his bed.

“No sooner had you reached the point where the night’s waves could bathe the grass, than you gave me this gift of lifting your eyes.”

“Are you talking to me Joseph?” Elisa asked as she folded another blanket. “What did you say?”

“How is it that every breeze carries me to you and every stream flows towards you?”

“I guess you just followed the stars and I happened to be in the middle.”

Purgatorio section 29: Elisa leads Joseph through the caverns of the basement with her voice. Joseph keeps pace with her around a sharp bend in the wall.

“Look at this.”

Joseph peers through a pinhole in the rock and sees the woman of the house preparing for bed, humming to herself as she removes a chemise and exposes her breasts, unaware of the visitor. He regrets she has to be his prey.

Seven lighted candlesticks in the distance. The twenty-four elders are crowned in white lilies, moving the candles forward slowly.

“Joseph? You still with me?”

Four creatures with six wings amongst them and forty thousand eyes lead a gryphon pulling a golden chariot amidst the four beasts. Three ladies, red, green and white, dance like harlots while four others (all in purple) conservatively sway their hips. A mercenary and his pharmacist follow the chariot ahead of the moneylenders and the captured god of thunder.

Purgatorio section 30: The long line halts and sings “Veni, sponsa, de Libano”, as a group of fairies (although Joseph is not homophobic) drop the phantom petals of prehistoric flowers over the chariot, singing “Benedictus qui venis.”

A lady wearing only a white veil over her body appears from the darkness of the cavern. Joseph recognizes her finally.

“Joseph, why are you crying? I’m right here.”

“I’m so pleased to see you Elisa. He left me and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”

“Where have you been?”

“You don’t have to tell them about me, do you? You won’t say anything Elisa, please?”

“To who Joseph?”

“It’s against their plan, I know. I loved you, I have learned from the torments and the torture of the lost souls, I swear it. I am not unfaithful.”

Purgatorio section 31: “What are you talking about Joseph? I don’t understand.”

“It’s true, my dear. After you died, I was fucking anything that walked and then, then, she came along, that little lecherous flower. She was always toying with me. It was like she could read my mind. I’m so sorry.” Staring up into Elisa’s eyes, Joseph collapses. He is led to the recently made bed and Elisa removes her dress, but doesn’t lie down. She places his hands on her skin.

Joseph cannot find words to describe his experience thereafter.

Purgatorio section 32: Transfixed by Elisa, Joseph emerges from his trance only by the dancing ladies. As the procession begins to move again, he takes a position at the wheel of the chariot. The marchers circle a tree and, after Elisa places one foot onto the ground, they connect the bed. He sees the bursts of beautiful blossoms springing from the tree. Joseph’s fall disappears within the bed. When he awakens, he finds himself alone with her and her maids. An eagle emerges from the sky and attacks the tree, dropping feathers onto the covers. She scares off a fox that tries to enter then a dragon emerges from the ground and breaks the bed. Feathers cover the remains that sprout seven horned heads. A whore takes a seat upon the bed then a giant joins her. The giant kisses the harlot passionately but then beats her when he sees her attention turn. Angrily, the giant pulls the bed away from the wall.

Purgatorio section 33: “From that most holy wave I now return to you; remade, as new trees are renewed when they bring forth new boughs, I was pure and prepared to climb the stairs.”

Paradiso section 1: Joseph has seen God in all her glory but finds it difficult to articulate his experience as he lies within her (an immediate Reichian convert though). The sun stands at high noon during the vernal equinox when Joseph and Elisa make their ascent from Purgatory to Heaven. Joseph can barely endure the brightness as he turns to face her. As he gazes upon his beloved he becomes “transhumanized” — he loses his physical body. Upon reaching the Sphere of Fire, wonderful white noise and extreme brightness surround the travelers. Elisa explains between moans that his heart moved toward death so quickly because everything has a natural tendency towards destruction.

Paradiso section 2: Joseph and Elisa arrive in the Sphere of the Moon as quickly as an arrow (meaning of course that with proper encouragement, a woman can by-pass several steps).

Paradiso section 3: The cloudy faces of seven spirits appear in the haze and motion, speaking to Joseph. One of the spirits identifies herself as Piccarda Donati and explains that Elisa is assigned to this realm of her heart the spirits, such as inconstant nuns, that broke their vows. However, she continues, all the spirits in, within the bed remain content regardless of their position. Joseph learns that although Elisa’s grace shines on souls in varying degrees, all souls that enter feel perfectly blessed. Another one of her spirits, Constance, confirms the story. As the spirits fade into the haze singing Ave Maria, Joseph sees Elisa again whose face has increased in brightness and beauty.

Paradiso section 4: Puzzled by the visions, Joseph idles but does not broach the subjects with Elisa. Reading his thoughts, Elisa returns to the Empyrean plain. She directs her renewed efforts upon him by turning away.

Paradiso section 5: Her beauty and brightness increase as they ascend because her joy increases.

“Joseph… Jo…seph… a vow… can’t… can’t… be with…drawn… a… a… promise… can… on…ly… be re…placed…

As the two rocket to the next sphere, Elisa’s increased radiance causes the whole sphere to brighten. Joseph’s heart leaps with delight in response to his beloved’s beauty. He finds himself amidst a thousand souls. He begs the spirits to tell him who they are and how they came.

Paradiso section 6: His spirit addresses him in the Sphere of Mercury. A new spirit identifies himself as Romeo.

“It… was… jeal…ousy… the… exile…”

Paradiso section 7: Still in the Sphere of Mercury, Elisa, reading his thoughts, turns her attention to vengeance. She reminds him of her dual nature — human and divine.

Paradiso section 8: Upon seeing her beauty grow again, Joseph realizes that they have ascended to the Sphere of Venus.

Paradiso section 14: “Do… you… think… we… we… can… get back… back… to… our… bodies…?”

The spirits sing a hymn three times. All bodily organs will develop the strength to withstand the extreme brilliance. When body and soul meet again, the spirit will attain infinite and perfect glory. A third crown surrounds the inner two and intensifies the brilliant light surrounding the two. When he raises his eyes again, he realizes that they have entered the Sphere of Mars. He sees two beams of light that intersect to form a cross. Radiant spirits perform an intricate dance while they sing something that Joseph cannot comprehend within the light beams. Overcome, Joseph states that this experience surpasses all of the pleasures he has known.

Paradiso section 15: The music in the Sphere of Mars stops abruptly as the light of a spirit blazes down to approach him.

Paradiso section 16: “…have lost their strength now…”

Paradiso section 23: As the two ascend to the Sphere of the Fixed Stars, Elisa, her face aflame, gazes expectantly toward Heaven. As Joseph’s beloved announces the approach of God… “Ohhhhh… gggaaawwwddd… ohhhHHHH…GGGGAAAAWWwwdddd…”, he notices a great light surrounded by numerous smaller lights in the distance. At first Joseph must lower his eyes from the shocking brilliance but with a smile that sends Joseph into ecstasy.

Paradiso section 24: Elisa begs the gathered spirits to help Joseph. She circles him three times to express her satisfaction and delight in him.

Paradiso section 25: Joseph turns to Elisa but cannot see her.

Paradiso section 27: Still in the Sphere of Fixed Stars, Joseph lies enraptured by the beautiful singing of the blessed.

Paradiso section 28: In her eyes, he sees God in relation to his angels. When he turns from his beloved’s eyes, he faces a tiny pinpoint of great brilliance surrounded by nine concentric circles of light.

Paradiso section 29: Elisa pauses for a moment… “the… in…ten…si…ty… of… love’sss… sweet…ness a… a…ppears… un…eq…uuual…ly….”

Paradiso section 30: He sees angels and saints. Momentarily blinded, he regains his sight to see a river of light flowing past him. Sparks fly out of the river and land on the flowers that line the bed sheets. Elisa prompts him to touch the river. As he touches the light, the river turns into a sea and the sparks of the river transform into the shape of a giant rose. A thousand tiers form the petals of the rose and a great light shines from the center.

Paradiso section 31: “just like a swarm of bees that, at one moment, enters the flowers and, at another, turns back to that labor which yields such sweet savor, descended into that vast flower graced with many petals, then again rose up to the eternal dwelling of its love.”

Paradiso section 32: The arrangement of the tiers of the Rose.

Paradiso section 33: He still feels the emotion of the experience but he cannot recall the details of the encounter. He invokes God to help him recall the scene so that he can tell the world about it. Joseph reveals that he saw within the Eternal Light, three circles of different colors reflecting each other. In one of the circles he saw a human face that puzzled him completely. Finally, a great flash of revelation brought his desires and will into alignment. The revelation was the love “that moves the sun and the other stars”.

* * *

BOOK IX

No more talk of celestial guests dwelling within man, venial discourses of indulgent tragedies, disloyal to the good; revolt, and disobedience to premiere woe, as Hector’s pursuer, or the rage of Turnus for Lavinia un-championed, or the sea’s ire against Cytherea’s child, like so many epics on crusades, of heroes, feasts, beasts, and demons, infused with the new weapon of the savior, this higher argument is brought by Uranian messengers to the ear:

The Hesperian star had sunk and been replaced by the corolla of Apollo as he emerged from his hidden lair. By night he fled, and at midnight returned from compassing her body, watchful for the regents she had forewarned, enlisting her aid, at eight in the morning.

There was the place, the eyeglass into the enchanted boudoir, where the lady of the house prepared, and where they, the two, knelt as at her altar, alternating spies, gawking each at her as she mused over dawn and twilight’s profiles, a patient, absorbed ritual post-purifications, always bare to drip-dry, offering her witnesses absolute survey, until they knew her as only an intimate, and her ceremony always culminating by proxy in one, or both, generally the current monitor, perhaps sighing, fidgeting with the other’s lap…

There was a place, she blew into his ear, where the brook met the garden wall, giving rise to a fountain where the mistress often read. Joseph laid hidden near the pool, she said, considering by which creature he would debut himself to her, as a tactic, the way he’d seen the Kung-fu masters do in grainy movies, a stratagem of offense and defense, to disarm her. His viper was chosen for the fittest vessel.

Always her dry breath, sweet on his cheek, as he looked on, allowing the other, his object, to depart, before he allowed her logos to lantern within, and not for seconds, not a paler vision, his sanctuary, his custodian, veiled in the bones of the manor, leading him through its warren, “I visited quite often, when I was little, I know all the secrets”, but his scrutiny was for creation’s means, its derivative sin, with her, recumbent in her direction, a true muse, whispering the words ballooned above, feverishly colliding as the door closed.

And the turns had light to them, tree branches speckled with raindrops silhouetting a streetlamp, or his shadow dropping down atop her, waiting, in their couch, each night, waking near, first to her hip, up her belly, shifting her interior over his thigh, his chin within her nape, and messy, leaking, tiptoeing to the spy hole for the dawn debut, which inspired the pressure against bare wallboards, her flushed legs, distended soffit, she noted her dirty knees, a uniform of an unclean significant chemise, chapped lips; his sole trench coat, as when she was a girl and there were tales of foul exposure from racy books no one knew she was reading, hiding in the bowels of a carpenter’s mystery, and “Joseph I know there is some reason for this, some purpose you aren’t telling me,” the third day, afterwards, “but, you don’t have to leave here… you don’t ever have to leave here. We could stay…” dimming like the cloister corners, as midday approached, they would find themselves unspoken, unaware, the seed of contact, “can you tell me what will happen?”

Elisa would slink within, through the portal, the distress of the plunge, feeling foreign in what was, besides, the truth, not the grotto, “the word grotesque comes from grotto, a cavern,” he said oily feathers would be all that is left, and she would venture away from the subterranean, to be present, steal food, re-garbed, the cloth felt undeniable, hiding her fingernails with soil and skin rimming them like crescent eclipses, present faintly, the doppelganger of their spy glass shrieking in skin, the outfits she (and he) had witnessed, always made for a comment, she couldn’t help herself, “there’s a faint hint of a need for garters with those…”

“Yes, they’re terribly thigh-high.”

“…perhaps you imagined an errant wind, so you felt it necessitated full-coverage…”

“How did you know?”

Submersed in the thickness of the apart moments, she would tumble back as soon as she could, to him, bearing gifts of delicacies he would nibble unapologetically, reverently, like a brahmin, and collections of books. The dusk would slip up on them, as she read out loud — anything, the same thing, over and over, or alternating, or inventing. She would stop so he would look at her. She would smile, and he would offer something, “there is a characterless exaggeration to such details, as if impugning upon our imaginations, refusing to believe in them, our visions, our mind’s eyes collecting her fragments to construct our own private divine stage…”

“Yes, do you really think so?”

“I have to initiate the fall.”

“I know… I know… tomorrow, if you wait until tomorrow, I’ll help you…”

There was a night of lightning they could only hear, each din seizing between breaths, their candle wavering as if shaking by the roar, in which she completed the third reading of a rather Boschesq collection, “my success will be a failure…”

“What will be? What will be a failure?”

“In the end, I will succeed, with each day I learn more, she has retreated, away from you, and you have come…”

“Yes, I am here, but what does that mean? What do you mean you’ll fail?”

“Hatching like a migraine daughter, a wisdom, a philosophy, the beginning of the end, as they say, following the hooves of satyrs, a tumble, Pan equals All, in the end, at the end, by succeeding, I will bodily fail, if I can achieve it, she, them, all of them, will be freed, and we too, once our end comes, free to clamor over our own private chutes and ladders, but I must succeed first to…”

“We don’t have to… to do anything… we can stay here… as long as we want… everything out there is different now…” speaking out of their portal, “there is no more rebellion Joseph, no more secrets.”

“However, the reason is still at hand… their reason, and our reason… without a provocation, a catalyst, they flounder in a dead afterlife, we will resuscitate peccadilloes and liberate my horny ghost, amend this waking delusion to make room for the antithesis, but only by His false crime, His first stumble… a trip in line dominoes…”

“Whose? Whose crime? What are you planning?”

“I know who, but not how. He is our facilitator, dwelling above our heads, his apple spied upon, as you said, knowing her to attain Him, and then, for Him to fall, through me…”

“Graham? Graham and Haddie? What do you need of them?”

“He must launch me to Nod, He is sin’s sire, only the truly good can do true evil…”

“Through Haddie?”

“It’s His only failing, just as it always has been, long locks cut down or forgiving a little orchard theft, through her is Him.”

“You want to set him up? By using her to get to him? By jealousy? Or some other way?”

“A suspicion that would provoke an assault, a true assault, a battery so severe it would sprout sin.”

“So he would be wrong?”

“If He is wrong, if He does wrong, the equinox begins…”

“There is no more perfection…”

“Without it, the clouds are lost, the entire charade crumbles, the fissure swells, inspiring, as in with spirit, fulfilling our true intent…”

“I can help you. I can get you near Graham, if that is what you need. But, you have to promise me some time. I can’t do it right now. You have to wait…”

She slipped from one to the other inelegantly. The hidden territory where Joseph waited, where they read, eat, drank, watched, was her holiday, while the true house, with its staircases, its rooms, its hallways, its people, the people whom she had agreed to frame, were foreign. Joseph put it this way, in a note he slipped into her pocket:

You probably didn’t know I have a country house… A villa of sorts, which is in Bunbury, just south of Macondo, a little lower than where yours is and west, near where lost thoughts play kickball on Sundays… my head does not go there… I don’t think it feels welcome… there’s a launch pad with a rocket that only lands on asteroids and moons… it refuses other planets… there’s also pots of begonias on the back patio that can be pushed together to make quite a jungle, where a panther lives who likes roses… sometimes I bring him an iris or a lily… he’s a vegetarian leopard, so you don’t have to be afraid of him unless you are making a salad… although he does not like iceberg lettuce (little to no nutritional value)… there’s also a saloon for gunslingers outback with a fine assortment of micro-ales and red wines that is only frequented by cartoon Indians and go-fish gamblers… they are not the rough kind of grifters… how could anyone be too rough with that kind of vocabulary…? the most that ever happens is they get in word-jousts… there was once a duel there, between a cartoon and a lark, but neither could hold a pistol, so it ended in a draw…

Two trees bow together near the badminton court where a hammock lilts in the wind and there’s a library pile of books always sitting in the grass… someone always seems to be drinking lemonade out of a big round pitcher, and there doesn’t seem to be any leash laws, so dogs are always playing scrabble in lawn chairs or packs rummage throughout the area in great croquet bouts… however, no one goes to the pond to swim… there is a mean shark always flashing her fin and circling the row boats… she only allows skinny dippers on full moon nights to swim… it is a rule… there are a bunch of lazy cats with missing toes lounging on newspapers and avoiding obvious signs of field mice… sometimes they stroll down to the vineyard, which borders the deep, dark forest, where at night, strange animals make wild noises from trunks and horns and jaws and snouts… a single apple tree crowns the one hill, which is a bit of a hike, in perfect shaded ease… sometimes you find yourself lying under it, staring at the branches, which beg to be climbed, and watching constellations twinkle on clear nights… I think I like the front porch the most… there’s a few comfortable chairs and my cup is never empty… it is always morning on a soft spring day there, and there’s always something interesting to read… I don’t think I’ve ever been inside the house…

But I think the whole place may be haunted… lately, more and more, there’s been a marmalade and peach girl, who refuses to wear summer dresses or eat bread, carrying an apricot and singing her friend’s jazz tunes, wandering around, demanding the cook build salads with canned tuna and sipping something from a robot sippy cup… she may have moved in, I can’t tell… I would like it if she stayed… she’s an excellent judge of patio games and isn’t afraid of giant reclusive turtles who don’t like to give rides… I can’t seem to catch her… she’s some kind of runner… I just find little things she’s left around… like books or radio shows or earrings or laughter… or catch glimpses of her as she darts off to follow chocolate crumb trails… then, sometimes, she’s right beside me… lying close to me… telling me about equity and ex-boyfriends and canine breeds… then, I just want her to stay…

But Elisa had to go. She had to be seen. She had to attend to her brother and his dear wife. Captain Vincent had his answer. He too was waiting for her. Out there. To begin her end. With him. Only Joseph talked of a change. Perhaps there was something possible, something more than Arthur had imagined. Perhaps it would save her too. Or end her too. But she chose to wait. To not initiate the meeting, where the end waited. She wasn’t sure what would happen, what he intended, but it seemed perfidious, seemed too final, and she had him now, for only a brief while, and she wanted him to remain. As long as the two remained in their hidden shell, as long as she delayed his plot, she could keep him, for herself.

She could keep Vincent away. It appeared — she was aware, that she was on an extended stay with her brother, recovering. She knew, from brief exchanges, that Vincent believed her to be whiling away her hours reading, reflecting, stalling perhaps, but nonetheless, inexorably his. It was just a matter of time. Had he known, which somewhat entertained her, that she spent her days hardly clothed, sexed, eyeing the lady of the house in a perverse routine, playing games in the skinny halls within the partitions, sneaking food and wine, conspiring, he would not be so supercilious. It agreed with her that she would step out on to the front walk and talk with him momentarily in her safe attire and he would grin deliberately, surely, as if already her owner, and the disparity, the division, illuminated her. She had just been sitting on a filthy floor, her bare cheeks tucked within one of his palms, only a shirt, unbuttoned, the way he liked, sticky from sweat, a mess between her legs that now trickled indelicately down her inner thigh, as he talked, as he said meaningless things to assure himself, and she would concur. She did not care. It was all for him, the other him, driving the vehicle of her mind. Vincent was her obligation; Joseph was her mind’s chamber. All that it did, he guided. Then, she could steal back away, to him, where nothing ever seemed the same. Still, the agents remained, watching, patrolling.

“I have an idea,” she said Whartonly as she reemerged, finding him reclining in their bed.

“It must happen soon.”

“I don’t want it to, but I understand why. We can’t keep this up forever.”

“I can keep this up for as long as you oblige,” framing the tent of his cloak.

“You are very considerate in that regard.”

“Regarding it is the least you can do.”

“Doing it was the first part of my plan.”

“That is the only part you should consider playing.”

“I’ll play with all the parts.”

Post-coital, the two entwined. “And what was the second phase?”

“Perhaps you on top?”

“Somewhere near the bottom…”

“I want to invite you to dinner.”

“Then I accept.”

“Don’t you want to know where?”

“More to the point, what you will wear.”

“Anything you want…”

“Very little then…”

“But where… where is the exciting news.”

“I find little new original.”

“Here, at the house. Wouldn’t it be lovely for us to dine with my brother and his wife? I could invite you, as a guest. You would be near him, for the evening, perhaps to figure out how to complete your plans… maybe this time, just to meet him, get to know him and his wife, gather information, and then…”

“I believe all the information I need I have gathered from our hobby… I accept.”

“Then, I will take care of the arrangements.”

“You have always been so talented with new and interesting arrangements.”

* * *

There he was, at the appointed time, at the appointed place (snuck in through the grandfather clock), frocked in borrowed clothing, just so, sipping cucumber water laced with her delicate uppers, standing before a portrait of a sour Greene (long since waltzing with Flower), his hair buttered, perfumed, under the pretense of some designer that needed impressing for a commission for Elisa. He stood as pleasingly as he could, a Waughian vision, sporting a tempered air as Elisa guided Graham and his dutiful, youthful wife into the room.

The introductions were made, and Joseph, going as “Demain”, was shown kindly into an adjoining room where the four took positions on separate couches just as a servant brought in more cucumber water and finger sandwiches.

“So,” Graham sighed by way of an overture.”Elisa tells us you’re a designer.”

“I wasn’t sure how to put this when we first met, but you look very familiar to me Mrs. Graham Greene,” Joseph/Demain intimated.

“Oh, she was all over the press awhile back,” Graham replied indifferently, “during the nuptials.”

“Ah… indeed. You’ve been exposed then…” hesitating interminably “…to the public… at large… in full…”

“It was a bit distressing at times,” she added.

“Yes… dis-dressing… it can be… although if memory serves, a bit is hardly emblematic of your form…”

“She handled it with grace,” Graham interjected. “And you, do you have much experience with it?”

“She does handle with grace… a certain spirited gentleness… I speak from experience…”

“Of course, I’m sure you have had your dalliances with coverage.”

“Hers and my own… playful and flirtatious… although not much coverage… in my experience… it was always scanty… revealing…”

“In what way?”Graham requested kindly.

“Oh, you know… you too have experienced it… intimately as I have…” a strange wave towards her “…the many ways… the many positions… the many roles… the sultry expectations and the bare disclosures…”

“I found it disheartening, how much was inaccurate, misquoted,” she inserted.

“Ah… good choice of words… indeed, it was… the absence of, to remove or to undo… almost to defrock it, revealing it in its bare truth… complete with its perfections… say proportioned 33Cs with an alluring slope to frolicsome crest… even with its blemishes… a discoloration of sorts hovering over significant ribs, say almost the size of a saucer…”

Elisa noted Graham’s forehead contorted slightly, confusedly, realizing suddenly the intent.

“I’m not sure I understand the detail,” Graham probed. Even Haddie carried a look of mystified indulgence.

“For me,” Joseph/Demain continued, “the details are the flavors of memory… those that I savor, and do not… and how could I not savor such memories… their smells, tastes, impressions… of each time… of each one…” and he winked at Haddie, who blushed despite her disorder.

Graham, observing, began, “are we still…?” But, the arrival of an attendant announcing the placing of the first course caused all four to rise and proceed into the dining hall, where Graham, quiet, in reflection, gestured for Joseph/Demain to occupy a seat across from Haddie, with Elisa beside her, so that Graham sat at the head of the table, with his adoring wife to his right, his guest to his left, and his sister a chair away, whilst eleven other chairs remained empty. A lone candelabra was lit, placed in the center, glowing irreverently, and its apricot light sent shadows to indiscriminate places, and when Graham surveyed the situation, he noted, as he was sure others would, how the iridescent illumination caught his wife’s bared shoulders and sternum provocatively, in her ivory gown balanced with rich purple ribbon and a single yellow rose at the drop of her chest (not to mention how it accentuated Elisa’s advanced charms). He was strangely sensitive to this unfortunate composition as the small plates were served, and it did not help that his guest had seemed to notice as well, and was, at the very moment Graham was detailing the substance of the fare, gaping brazenly in her direction.

Oddly, the guest did not eat. He sat back in his chair, as if he had no intention of touching the assiette de fromages or braised collards or naan, or the light soup prepared at the chef’s whim, with his legs crossed, facing towards Graham, dangling his cucumber water between his finger and thumb. Elisa marveled, unsure she wanted to follow him to his ends.

“Won’t you have something Mister…” Haddie started.

“I’ve had everything I want at the table,” he replied, smirking. Graham was noticeably indignant; however, he was used to Elisa’s acquaintances having eccentricities.

“You won’t have anything to eat?” Haddie asked uneasily.

“Oh, I might attempt another taste of the sumptuous bloom…”

Haddie shifted in her seat and turned to her sister-in-law, “how are you enjoying your stay?”

“Quite relaxing,” Elisa replied.

“We were so delighted to hear about the proposal,” turning towards the guest, “Elisa is to be married.”

“Ah… always a safe haven… many have been saved by the institution…” he offered Maughamly, “you will no doubt be a precious conductor for her…” he said to the lady of the house.

“If she asks for my help, I’d be happy to provide it.”

“It would seem… in such circumstances… your advice… to the wayward… would be invaluable…”

“Possibly,” Haddie offered carefully.

“…experience is counsel with wisdom…”

“Well, I’ve just been married myself,” Haddie replied.

“Best wishes indeed…”

“But, she’s intolerably good at it,” Graham added, reaching for her hand.

“She is gifted at a great many things…” followed by the host scowling, “…which is why she can offer… so much to those less… experienced…”

“I’m sorry, did you know my wife before?” Graham asked, palpable in his enmity.

“Not intimately… well, I should rephrase… intimately but not very well…”

“I don’t believe we have ever met.”

“Ah… it doesn’t shock me you wouldn’t remember… that was a chaotic time… for you… for many of your age… so much liberty… some say too much… of course, because I was blessed by the libertine milieu, I do not share that view…”

“I apologize,” Haddie said, “I don’t remember. I think you might have me confused with someone else.”

“It sounds like it,” Graham interposed Thackerayly.

“No, it was you… you went by Springfield at that time…”

“My maiden name,” she acquiesced.

“…a natural moustache rather than pointed goatee… if I remember correctly… which was in favor at the time… you were audacious without being impertinent… always wore your hair in a diadem of garland…”

“But, where?” Haddie aberrantly shrieked, “where did we meet?”

“If memory serves, at the Stay Tasty salon… exactly when we first met… although I did not get your name until dawn…”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Haddie mused.

“But dear… you frequented it… and frequented many attendees…”

“I have no recollection of any such place, or you,” she repeated.

“It doesn’t surprise me… the bacchanalian setting… the libertine zeitgeist… so many liberties… it was a whirlwind of late nights… companions… by the time I entered the fray… you were celebrated…”

“That was not me,” Haddie said with finality.

“…then you disappeared… some said your astute family had had enough and launched a campaign themselves…”

“I have never,” Haddie began.

“You seem to suggest there was some history,” Graham interpolated.

“…a veritable annal…”

“Which was?”

“…for me? …or the various others?”

“I’m confused,” Haddie blanched, “what exactly are you saying?”

“Only my recollection…”

By now, the main course was brought in, and the diners quieted while the staff served the winter squash risotto and duck leg confit with roasted autumn apples and cranberry jus.

“So you once knew Haddie,” Graham continued once all had plates and the servants had retreated.

“No…” she stammered, “he did not. I’ve never been to that salon, there was never any crazy time like that, and my parents… you know,” looking to her husband, “never…” she broke off.

Graham was plainly agitated. Joseph/Demain remained sipping spiked cucumber water, his raised foot bouncing, as if at ease. Elisa watched only.

“Well?” Graham persisted.

“I have no wish to cause mischief… it was an entertaining time… she was an entertaining girl…”

“I never met you,” Haddie insisted.

“I will tell you,” Graham said after some silence, as if his voice was deep within his throat, “I do not take kindly to tests of my wife’s virtue.”

“Oh… this is no test sir… merely testimony… from a former admirer… a former…”

“I’m afraid you are mistaken,” unexpectedly dropping his fist against the table.

“He is… you are,” Haddie affirmed.

“Perhaps he is,” Elisa mediated.

“Ah… I am mistaken… since I am mistaken… I am probably wrong as well that she has a skin discoloration… just below her left breast… slightly larger than a saucer…”

“That is visible when I wear a bathing suit.

“…I am mistaken then that she has slightly larger than one would expect areolas that rest high, causing the gentle slope of her chest to then curve…”

“Again, a bathing suit might…”

“…I’m mistaken of four prominent moles on her back… one on her left shoulder…”

“You can see that one right now.”

“…that her morning routine, as she prepares herself for the day, as well as her evening custom, when she prepares for the bed, includes some half hour of nude adoration before a full-length mirror…”

“That’s not,” Haddie squealed, “lots of women…”

“Sir,” Graham broke in, “I suggest you stop…”

“…I am wrong as well that her two… lilacs, in full bloom… peak out from her feminine tresses… always…”

Graham staggered.

“…and that when one attends to them, causing them to nectar, she makes a distinct, how shall I put it, suckling noise with her mouth…”

Elisa, her eyes on Graham, saw the plunge, his waxen complexion, his shoulders dipping.

“…that she sweats profusely when nearing her personal… exhale…”

“How do you?” Haddie whimpered. “Know these…”

“…that her private flavor is tangy, sharp, not sour, but fragrant… mellifluous initially but giving way to tartness as she releases…”

“Enough,” Graham growled. “I don’t know how… how you came upon this information, but…”

“It’s not true,” Haddie began.

“It is true,” her husband barked.

Elisa could see the rim of Haddie’s eyes ponding with tears, her chin trembling.

“When was this?” Graham demanded, his head hung, looking up to his prey.

“…no reason to bother dear host… really, we’ve all… dabbled… all had our share of liaisons…”

“When?” He shook.

“Let’s calm down,” Elisa counseled.

“I will not,” Graham snarled, briefly turning to his sister. His eyes were distant, burning. Haddie sobbed to herself. “Explain.”

“…it was a winter salon… as was the ritual, she wore strapless crepe gown…”

“How long ago? When?”

“…two, maybe three winters ago…”

“And you?”

“…we found ourselves paired… the second, maybe third round… she had… well, she had already been chosen by two others…”

“None of this is true,” Haddie sniveled.

“…when their time came… she caught my eye… she did not hesitate… when she was chosen… she laughed… no qualms… no hesitation… so when it was my turn… it was her…”

“For what?” Graham spat out.

“…I think it best to leave it at that…”

“No,” he glared. “Finish.”

“…it was to retrieve a cherry… that was my task… chosen by the others… from her… I suppose this intimacy… after… it was easy to… when the time came to… when people were pairing up… we…”

Graham moaned, his head lowered.

“…I lost track of her after our… she went left… a pretty singer… I think she was a singer… she was next for me…”

Haddie shook her head expressively, “This is not true.”

“…but afterwards… I tried to find her… I was told she had left… with someone else… however, when I departed, she was waiting with him for his car… I swapped the one on my arm for her… through a bargain… he would get her first the next time… and took her to my studio…”

“And?” Graham sneered.

“…she stayed… we…”

“You?”

“…fucked some more…” almost apologetically…

“Get out.”

All three recoiled with Graham’s command. Elisa glanced up at Joseph to catch his response. He was smirking slightly. She realized Graham had turned his head to the right, he was staring at Haddie.

“Get out,” he threatened.

“Graham? Please, I…” she began to lean towards him.

“Get out. Don’t come near me. GET OUT.”

“But, I didn’t… I don’t know…”

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT. You have nothing to say to me. Get out. I never want to see you again.”

“I don’t know what’s happening, Graham. I didn’t do anything, I was…”

“GET THE FUCK OUT. GET OUT. NOW.”

“Graham? No.”

“YES, you make me sick. GET OUT.”

“I wasn’t, I didn’t do anything; it wasn’t my fault.”

“Leave now or I’ll have you thrown out.”

“Graham… please…”

“GET OUT, get out NOW.”

“Please…” she begged.

“No, go.”

Haddie dissolved, shivering, sobbing, unable to move.

Elisa went to her, clutching her shoulders, assisting her to her feet, receiving the young woman who crumpled into her chest, imploding.

Elisa led her out of the room, leaving Joseph and Graham. The two sat in silence. After a few moments, Joseph poured himself another glass of cucumber water and ground two tablets into it. Graham didn’t move, his head in the lectern of his palms.

“…oh hum…” Joseph sighed.

The room was still until a wail caused Graham to cringe. They could hear her, out in the main hall, crying. She sounded like a child, unable to hold in her unmanageable misery. Graham’s fingers stroked his forehead roughly, leaving red lines, scratching his skin. She bleated, collapsing in sputtering coughs. They could hear Elisa’s Frostian murmur inveigling her. There was a loud thud, as if something had been dropped. Haddie screamed for Graham, screamed his name twice. They could hear her sobbing, saying no, saying his name, and the sound of bodies, holding her back, pulling her to the door, as she fought, cried, screamed. Graham did not move. His fingers pulled through his hair, over his forehead. The tragic din in the hall rose, Haddie shrieked, bawling, screaming for Graham, before it grew hollow, distant. There was the final noise of the great door closing, and they couldn’t hear her anymore, only the sound of footsteps. Elisa entered the room, appearing drained, disheveled.

“Graham?” She whispered, and in an instant, he was against her, crying, clutching at her.

“Oh god,” he whimpered.

“Oh Graham,” she caressed his back. He shuddered as she held him, unable to keep control.

For several moments, he sobbed. Then, “please ask your guest to leave…” he sniveled. Elisa looked up at Joseph, still reclined in his chair, sipping his drink.

“…well… I deduce that I should be going…” he plopped both legs down and turned, arching his back, he stretched out both arms, and yawned exaggeratively “…okay then there now…” He slowly got to his feet. “…this was… admittedly… an unrivaled evening…” Graham lifted his head and glared. “…I mean that… unrivaled… as I am now… free to pursue the object of my desire as I see fit…”

“What?” Graham demanded. “What are you saying?”

“…you’ve very kindly discarded that which I want to possess…”

“Haddie?”

“…I couldn’t very well ask you to give her up…”

“You can have her,” Graham spat.

“…oh, I look forward to it… I imagine she’s quite something… those…”

“You’ve already…”

“…oh no… not honestly… those were… facets of my tactics… um, a more ethical person might call them… lies…”

And Graham was gone from Elisa’s arms. She saw his great shoulders swallow Joseph, a wet thwap, and her accomplice tumbling over the floor, slumping against the wall. Graham stomped towards him.

“I will kill you.”

Joseph began to pull himself up. Graham hoisted his arm in the air and brought it down on Joseph, who crumbled.

“Joseph,” Elisa screamed.

He leaned against the wall, unmoving, his right eye squeezed shut. Graham spun around and glowered at Elisa, ostensibly involving her. He lifted Joseph to his feet, and threw him roughly. Joseph slid and came to a stop against the doorframe. Graham stomped to him, grabbed his coat collar, and dragged him out of the room.

Elisa scrambled to her feet, catching only the corner of Graham’s elbow pulling Joseph down a flight of stairs. She ran after the two men, jumping down multiple steps. She heard glass breaking as she rounded the corner. Graham was standing before his cache, splinters of glass splashed around him. The artifacts from his collection (the largest in the northern hemisphere) lined the walls in special cases: a renaissance saber, a 13th century samurai sword, a foil from the French Revolution, a mask, a helmet, a jousting stick.

Graham held an ancient candelabrum that had once belonged to Pope Julius the 14th. He had smashed one of the cases, the one with the double-edged long sword (reputedly that of William of Orange) and pulled it out of its sheath.

“Stand up,” Graham said softly, holding the sword towards the unarmed, seated man.

“Please, allow me to defend myself. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“You get one choice,” he replied, stepping back.

And Joseph got to his feet and walked towards the armory, carefully perused the collection and like a dodgy fiancé picking out a fine ring, pointed his finger in a raptor arch to a Sengoku period katana that had been owned by the infamous Kensei Miyamoto Mushashi. Graham obliged him and smashed through the case with one great swing of his double-handed sword. Joseph carefully removed the sword from the glass, tested its weight and slid it out of its scabbard.

“Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong, but pardon it, as you are a gentleman. As we all know and it must have gotten back to you, how I am punished with a sore distraction. You have no such excuse, save your own desire. You are angry, but I know your shame. My madness is my enemy. Yours is a sister’s raided grace.”

“I should have known you were involved,” turning to Elisa, who receded against a wall as the two faced each other.

Graham lunged forward, but the angel moved to the side. He swung a dangerous blow towards Joseph’s head, but it is blocked, and the two clashed.

“This likes me well.”

Having taken fencing lessons as a boy, Graham began to take the offensive, lunging forward with great strides as Joseph retreated, climbing up the steps to stay away from the blade, swinging furiously to block Graham’s trained blows. He stumbled over a step and scrambled backwards just as the master of the house’s sword collided with the granite floor. Elisa, in disbelief, followed the two onto the first floor.

“A hit, a very palpable hit,” Joseph remarked, clutching his arm and then returning to the play.

The two locked blades and Joseph made three swift shots at Graham’s chest, all of which he avoided, the last touching his skin, but not leaving a mark. Graham returned with a volley of blows that sent Joseph backwards. Like a masked marauder in children’s films, Joseph began to leap over furniture, on top of counters, as he blocked Graham’s blows, avoiding them, swinging, thrusting forward, and then darting over a love seat. Graham continued his aggression, his hand on his hip, his sword forward, as Joseph begins his pirate technique of pure intimidation. He spun in circles, colliding with Graham’s blade, nowhere near his mark, but causing his adversary to retreat. The two duelists scrambled into the living room, the den of the metal clanging through the house, the sound of agents coming nearer, their flashlights already appearing through windows.

“A touch, a touch, I do admit it.”

Graham struck another hit on Joseph’s side, causing a pond of blood to appear on his shirt. Joseph beat back though and clipped Graham’s left ear, enraging the trained swordsmen. He began his own knightly technique against Joseph’s less heavy sword, knocking it down every time his adversary lifted it. At this point, the angel chose to flee and leapt head first out of the glass doors, landing in the patio. Graham was right behind him and tried to strike him down as he rolled away from the glass. Joseph parried, blocked several thrusts and scrambled to his feet.

The agents, Captain Vincent included, circled the warriors, calling for them to throw down their arms. Neither responded and Elisa joined the crowd out on the terrace. Joseph and Graham stepped back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand, both attempting dangerous strikes, almost losing their arms, being stabbed slightly, breathing heavily.

Again, Joseph clipped Graham, this time on his forearm and he surged forward to strike back, swinging his great battle sword like a berserk Norsemen after the cherry of an Englishwoman. But Joseph’s able to stay out of his way, dodging, blocking, until the two are caught with their arms locked. Graham is the first to try for release and kicked Joseph in the stomach, but he returned with a blow across Graham’s jaw and took advantage of his stunned enemy and threw him over his shoulder. The broad sword twisted against the ground and Graham almost lost it as he hit the marble floor. Joseph attempted to gut him, but Graham moved and kicked his sword away. Joseph stumbled after it and Graham leapt to his feet and hit him in the back with a deep stab.

He had struck Joseph most appropriately in the artery; it was a vain blow. He fell over, clutching the wound. Joseph tried to defend himself, but Graham had the advantage and plunged his sword into Joseph’s belly. He collapsed around the injury, defeated.

“O villainy. You’ve succeeded; it was an arresting display. Let the door be locked.”

“JOSEPH,” Elisa ran to his side as Graham hovered over him, his blade smeared with a ruby tinge, dripping onto the marble floor. The agents remained in their circle, unmoving. Graham stared down at this adversary, a small pool of blood forming under his body, slowly growing. No one had seen a murder before; there had not been a violent death in over a century. “Joseph, no, no, no… we haven’t had enough time, you can’t leave me, not now, please josEPH, PLEASE.”

“Utopia make thee free of it. I follow thee. I am dead, Elisa. Wretched King, adieu. You that are the audience of these actions, who see my words as symbols, who envision my life’s art, I wish I had the time, I would tell you who is dead. This is the end.”

“No, I won’t believe it. I won’t let you go, I’ll kill myself.”

“If you are my lovely, give me up. If you ever loved me, as you said you did, leave me here. I have done what I intended, he is a murderer, we have resuscitated vice. If he can fall, so goes harmony.”

“Do something, somebody DO SOMETHING,” Elisa cupped Joseph, crying to the audience.

“To be struck down… pierced by his sword… from his hand… that I had dreamed for… a mockery of fortune… a foiled event…”

Graham stepped backwards, “oh no, no,” his watery eyes remaining on the fallen. His hand relaxed; the great sword toppled to the ground, as he continued stepping back, away from his victim. Joseph reached his hand out towards him.

“You don’t weep so bitterly for my life, nor for your spouse… you strike at me not for her, but because you hide a wretched organ within your ribs, because you have not matured beyond your sister…”

Elisa managed to cradle Joseph’s limp body onto her lap and took a look at his wound. Graham backed away, towards the house; the agents had not taken a step, but stood in a half circle around the marble porch. “Oh Joseph…”

“Look you,” he gazed up into her eyes, “it was my life… to be the provocateur of his fall.” His head leaned back, and he gazed up into the sky. “That night, when we first spoke — do you remember? That was the evening of my life, I, the fool, knew more than any, absurd as I am, I became reasonable, possible… you see, I could not forget, we were but two… the folly was praiseworthy, it bore me on its back, I rode forward, let the windmills be armies and dragons and fortresses, herein lies the proper truth… time will mark it so…”

Elisa lifted her head, recalled the agents, her fiancé amongst them, Graham still retreating, the swords lying still: “DO something,” she pleaded directly to Vincent.

“Ask for no one’s help, my dear. Do not leave me now, I will be a grave man soon…”

She returned to him, cupping his cheek with one hand. “I don’t think I can do this… not without knowing you’re alive. Don’t die Joseph, I’m begging you, don’t leave me.”

“This, I’m afraid, is a time for fables and fairy tales, when princesses live happily ever after with true princes, when a child’s toy becomes legend… is this not what they were for? One story unfolding, as we are caught within its words, it will all have to come to an end…”

“I’ve had no time with you… I made compromises, I’ve saved myself, but I…”

“…have given me peace, I was inspired, felt enough to chance my quest, I have been graced with ever knowing you…” his face illuminated by moonlight as a cloud passed. “I see my other lady-love has come to say goodbye…”

“Joseph, I’ve only felt love once, I remember it… I don’t want to lose it.”

“You will only lose it if you decide to give it away. I soon will lose it, not for lack of want, but because the fool smiles in fate’s dooryard…”

“I will not give it… I will not give it away, I swear,” her words tangled.

“Here lies Mister Joseph ‘Morning Star’ Moore Mephisto, who lost his head as he fell from heaven, was expelled for the murder of his brother, exiled to the attic, raised on words, who could have been a poet, a painter, a philosopher, a soldier, an emperor’s jester, but reared his own demise on rituals, before he fled the garden, fell up, and spoke to cats… Who was nothing, yet was a silly something to one… I beg your pardon, I cannot stay, I have an appointment with my fellow ghosts… let the ferryman come (I’ve met him before)… move aside now, move aside for the stairs within that moonbeam… I would only ask, my dear, while you say those marital words… that you would mean one or two for me…”

“I won’t mean any of them,” she swore; stroking his hair, as he began to shiver slightly, closing his eyes, waking suddenly.

“I’ll give him my blessing,” he rose slowly. “I give you my blessing to marry her, you there, who watch me die quietly like good chaps, I give the one amongst you who protects her my blessing, the blessing of a dying angel — perhaps fallen, but not without charity.”

“I will miss you Joseph…”

“It comes as my life ends, my ears are still awake… I have waited so long for those words to be whispered… this is true folly… since death comes — and don’t think I know, he and I are old friends, I will take his hand willingly… these words were spoken to me at last… all was not in vain… even the clown can be a hero… if not for just one… and heroes have stories…”

“Joseph, I have to keep pressure,” he tried to move her hand away, “just a little longer.”

“When I close my eyes, they’ll be waiting for me… I can see them in their chairs, they’ll welcome me back… they often wondered why I didn’t stay… and she’ll be there too, my little Flower… all alone… he’s spoken so well of things… he’s seen the moon’s pocked face… he’s placed us out of the center… he’s understood chaos… they’ll be talking… I will be able to listen to them talking… they are thousands, old enemies and friends and time’s forgiven, now forgotten… surrender? No, treachery, I am treachery’s ambassador… she’ll be there, ready to stay? Yes, I fell finally… I’ve made it to their house… through the woods… over the hill… into the gate… this way please… forgive me… I am coming home for the first time… I don’t know where I shall stay… the threshold’s blue… I am being carried away… I leave you now… adieu, my princess, adieu…” his eyes closed.

“Joseph? JosEPH? JOSEPH? Don’t go.”

“My last words shall be: I love you.”

Joseph died (Wynne-Edwardsianly). Exeunt (marching, bearing off the dead bodies; a peal of ordinance is shot off). He, on the shoulders of four captains, like a soldier.

Elisa wept over his body as Captain Vincent stood behind her. Graham Greene was led away by the agents.

Joseph watched as he spirals into the air, her pained eyes, her tears rolling down her cheeks, her fiancé trying to console her. He clutched Flower’s arms as they ascended.

“Did I do it?”

“Yes, you finally did it.”

“It’s over then?”

“Yes.”

His transgression will be known, the guardian angels forsake Paradise, sin and death descend from the gates of hell and enter the city. They pave a broad highway and bridge over harmony, according to Joseph’s original path. The first prayer is said as Graham climbs into the car. The prayers are presented; they must no longer abide in perfection.

They looking back, all the eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate

With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

Proverbial curtain.

About the Author

Christopher WunderLee is a writer from Seattle, Washington. The Loony: a novella of epic proportions was published in 2005, Visiting Hours, a collection of short stories, in 2007, and Kalopsia, a collection of his poetry, in 2003.

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Christopher WunderLee
Moore's Mythopoeia

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About the Author