{ ... }

 

۞

  The Stranger, although solely autonomous, became notorious quickly. It wasn't about publicity, as Anon. was the incredible artist, the archetypal situationist, celebrating the anonymous dark stranger– the stereotype, the figure, the Queen of Sheba, la Reine – but it was definitely about the stunt. Anon. didn't understand that the french authorities were ready for that kind of expression, especially after the recent racial tension. Yet, Anon. continuèd to create the situation. 

  “What is your purpose here?” askèd the chief of the police. 

  The chief of the police had probably been callèd out on his day off to keep the whole thing in check, not demandingly but with an air of curiosity. “What kind of expression is this?” he furtherèd. “And are we involved?” he wonderèd. 

  Anon. found materials arrangèd in anarchic stock-piles all over the city. Anon. dealt with the themes of nationalism, sexism, and racism, mainly, with installments cropping up around different locations in the city of Paris. The 5th, The 9th, The 16th. Installing one here, miraculously appearing miles-and-miles away, to install another one there. 

  Here, and, there. 

  Here, there, and everywhere. 

  Hic et ubique. 

  Anon. had to be careful not to be noticèd on the lengthy travail from the one location to the other. So Anon. movèd at night, and slept little. Remembering back, one night, the police and Anon. were embroilèd in a chase. The police mustn't have had anything better to do that night because Anon. had noticèd that the police had noticèd and that they were following with intrigue. To see where and what Anon. was going to do next. This was an egregious interplay with the street police, as Anon. knew them that night, and it led to an headquarters underground. Anon. found the way there by materials litterèd on the streets in a ticker-tape fashion. A sole, unlit firework pointèd to a street. When Anon. arrivèd at the end of the street another marker could be seen. A piece of cloth, brightly colourèd, and indicating where Anon. should go next. 

  Anon. movèd from the 9th Arrondissment to the 16th, in stages, where the epic treasure trail met its conclusion. It led to an underground parking lot. As Anon. went in, the signs were stark. In fact, a sticker postèd on a door read: FOLLOW THE CLUES. 

  In the darkest recesses of that basement Anon. found a boiler room. Inside, a warm winter coat lay beside an electric generator, some porn, and a shed-load of bric-a-brac for the means of the expression. Anon. was dumbfoundèd.

  Anon. could hear voices even further into the darkness. Anon. attemptèd to locate where the voices were coming from which led to another door. Once through, a dim light was shining from where the voices were in conversation. Anon. went through. 

  The first thing Anon. saw was a chair with a lamp. It shone on the sole chair, inviting Anon. to sit down. 

  “Please, talk to us. We know about the one with the briefcase. We want to know why you have been following the one with the briefcase, and how it is possible that you know exactly where this one will be in the city from one place to the next,” said one of the voices. 

  This was a bit of a surprise as Anon. could only acknowledge seeing the one with the briefcase the once thus far.  

  “Please, sit,” said another voice.  

  Anon. obligèd and sat in the chair. Three police officers surroundèd Anon. in interrogation fashion. 

  “Are you an intelligence agent?” said one of them.  

  Amidst the darkness, a quorum of them were shroudèd.

  Anon. said nothing in reply. One of the officers reachèd into a dark corner and producèd a typewriter. The officer placèd it on Anon.'s lap. 

  “Disassemble it, now,” demandèd the officer.  

  Without hesitation, Anon. tappèd on the keys. Nothing happenèd, so it must have been that the levers were not responding to the keys. Anon. lookèd at the levers. Drawing one of them back, Anon. saw an intricacy of ribbons of differing colours. Anon. gently withdrew the one prong that was being held gently between the thumb-and-forefinger. It removèd the whole set. Anon. saw two small cannisters, twinnèd, and hidden underneath the keys. Anon. knew exactly what Anon. had to do. 

  Anon. countèd the number of colourèd ribbons. Four in total. Anon. tore one of them. Green. It was so delicate that it rippèd immediately. Something movèd underneath the keys. Anon. heard a ticking sound begin. It soundèd rather slow, as if it movèd per second. Anon. couldn’t see what was causing the motion. Anon. put an entire left hand into the vacuous space where the levers had been removèd. Anon. felt a rubber band circling around two metal discs, then, withdrew the left hand.  

  “You have just over sixty seconds to disarm this bomb,” said another officer.  

  The other officer's face was undiscernable within the darkness. Noumenal abstractness. 

  In the pale light, Anon. could make out a blue ribbon, a red ribbon, a yellow ribbon. 

  “One of the coloured wires stops the timer. If you sever the other two, the timer is overrode and we all die,” said the officer. 

  The yellow ribbon led directly to the centre of one of the metal discs. The biggest one. The red ribbon led directly to the centre of the smaller disc. The blue ribbon ran from somewhere in the middle of the ticking device. Anon. archèd Anon.'s neck right round, gently lifting the typewriter up to listen underneath. There were two ticking sounds in unison yet minisculely out-of-time with each other. The blue ribbon came out into view then back out-of-sight underneath the keys. 

  Anon. grabbèd the lamp intensely and yankèd it round to shine inside the gap. Anon. could just make out that the blue ribbon was joinèd to the other two at an intersecting point. 

  Thirty seconds had passèd and Anon. was getting nervous. A split decision was made. Immediately Anon. made it. Anon. tore the blue ribbon at the nearest point that it was joinèd to one of the cannisters. Nothing happenèd. Or at least, that's what Anon. thought initially, since the ticking kept going. 

  Again, Anon. liftèd the device to listen underneath. The unison ticking had stoppèd, but the timer kept going. Anon. repeatèd the experiment with the blue ribbon attachèd to the other cannister, removing the other connection. 

  Anon. felt a sharp blunt blow to the right temple of Anon.'s head. Anon. droppèd the typewriter on-the-floor. Anon. couldn't tell whether the remaining ticking sound had ceasèd. Anon. turnèd a throbbing head sideways to check. Another blunt and heavy blow came to the other side of Anon.'s head and consciousness was lost. 

  Phenomanonymous in the darkness. 

  Noumenal abstractness.  

  Eous. 

۝

Fabula X.

Fabula X.

۞

  Cancer Yehoudah. Tax them five per cent higher. No VAT at weekends. Ten per cent higher during the four day week. Monday through Thursday, Tiwday through Thor-day. All of them at war against each other every single day. Without a Naviah lover, another Yiddish concocter was struggling for an answer. 

  “A drastic disease requires a drastic cure,” said Mister Gid to his one-and-only daughter, Rebecca. 

  “Oh me, oh me, oh my,” groanèd Rebecca. “Cure me, my father.” 

  Gideon Cohen was all over the show, swaying from to-to-fro, drunk on his own medicine. Rebecca was dying slowly, aging quickly. It painèd Mister Cohen to his ruddy heart that his sole heiress might not have a claim to his malachim throne, his shabbat blessèd home. He struck the basest of metals with the gawel. 

  “Aurum, aum'ha!” he exclaimèd. 

  “Malachah,” coughèd Rebecca. 

  She was dying for another sip of what was killing her father. He wouldn't allow her the privilege. His work took precedent over her. If only he wasn't so selfish they might have understood each other. 

  “I'm just yet to finish the formula, Rebecca.” 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  SRY, not really, it just gets funny. Until it gets extinguishèd. Unless it goes beyond a joke. A skinhead shot-one-off which meant that when The Grand caught fire there wasn't a blower to go on.

  {on the blower} 

  “We've got a fire here. Everyone's been evacuated safely, can you send in the Polish to take care of it?” 

  All of the subbers and news editors were watching all their hard work go up in flames.  

  Up in flames. Down in cinders.  

  The one responsible for the disaster was seeking counsel from his friend. 

  “We could get in trouble, cause it means a lot of things to a lot of different people,” spoke counsel. 

  “I didn't mean to take the mazel, I just wanted to shoot-one-off,” said naivety.  

  “You deserve the gawel for that, fuckup,” replièd responsibility.  

  It was only a small fire, but all the papers around the office set alight quickly. There was nothing to extinguish it since the skin-head that had shot-one-off had disablèd the fire extinguisher in order to pull off the prank of lighting a firework into the distance, the general direction of The Grand newspaper building. 

  A sole figure was glad to see the back of it. Telly was on the balcony across from Tottenham Ton. He saw his future empire going up like a pyre. A tear came to a crier. It was the End of an Ayah. 

  °I'm an executive. I'm leaving° he thought. 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What do you think of the Federation?” 

  “It's only a young nation,” 

  “They're bound-to-be irresponsible,” 

  IT DEMANDS: 

  IMAGINATION. PARTICIPATION. THEY DEMAND.  

  “Who are they?”  

  “The Media.”  

  When the demands of a boy's republic aren't met …  

  The Sociocrative vivre of the oevre of one less than half a dozen were marching on San Franscisco, to smash the fuck out of a Deutsche Welle office and put a NAFTA straight through. A trade embrago straight through a window. 

  “Man, you shoulda seen it blow!”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  They were stoppèd at the door and askèd for credentials. Namely, which party. Also, no drug policy. 

  “Free thinkers don't need to do drugs,” said a hard-case, 

  {on-the-door} 

  Some skin-heads were playing wraps, cards on knuckles. An elderly dowager dusting by on a duster. The crone was keeping-it-dusty, making more mess than she was cleaning up with all her dandruff coming off.  

  “What a flake, that Nan!” said one.  

  {slightly annoyèd}  

  “This is supposed to be a serious meeting. Can someone please, tell her to stop dusting.”  

  “Well, that's employment,” said her skin-head grandson.  

  “Ouch, my knuckles!” said a wrappèd to the wrapper.  

  “I'm voting British National Party. Who are you voting for, skinhead?” 

  “English Defence League. No question.”  

  “Well, we're all white, we should have the jobs, either either, it doesn't matter. Just remember that you're white.”  

  “No probs, we can just smash the shit out of every paki shop on the corner.”  

  Just around the corner another racist movement was happening.  

  {above the shop}  

  The paki shop.  

  “Darkness is all around us,” said Asif to Iziz.  

  “We're living through dark times,” said Iziz to Asif.  

  Above the shop it read COHEN. An Ishmaelite family, a Jewish name. Hereditarily and momentarily, a family. Like cousins, actually.  

  “It'd cost my family a hell of a lot of money,” said the son of the one with the dowry.  

  “Why, are you family?”  

  “Yeah, she's my cousin, actually.”  

  Hunty: the father of the community. He knew everyone and everybody. EDL security. He likèd to go and get into a fight every single Saturday. 

  “Is that his family?”  

  “Yeah, cousin actually.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “Eighteen Fourty Five. A very exciting time to be alive,” said Witham Sispa.  

  “You and you're past, Sispa. Don't be so bold, be as a whisper,” replièd Mister O'Niste.  

  “Bold? Don't act as if you're so old, I'm a roarer!” said Sispa.  

  Witham Sispa had returnèd to the game. The chess board sat atop a marble table that was supportèd by a middle pillar. It lookèd similar to the water font out of which the birds were drinking water. All the chess pieces had been reset. 

  The time was much later, days and days after, and the ceasefire had continuèd as if the war would not prosper.  

  Mister O'Niste had returnèd to meet his old friend.  

  “Ah, the game,” said Mister O'Niste. “For the love of the game!”

  “The amateur? The true lover of the pursuit,” said Witham Sispa.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Newsroom tête-à-tête. A la office partée. No partisans, just lovers. Men-of-letters, women-of-pictures, manufacturing dirty words, even after the shift had been hit. The copyright was off but house-style was evidently still on the agenda. Telly and Sally were all over each other, competitor appreciating competitor. 

  The deadlines were on the way but the headlines were difficult to put away, so each and every co-op member had decidèd to stay. 

  The media was going under. And the State was going over-the-top with hysteria. 

  “It's the way they taught us to do it back in the day,” said Sally.  

  It didn't seem to matter what Sally was trying to say, it was just tête-à-tête at the office partée. All over her, Telly. 

  {further away} 

  “Who's is that on Telly?”  

  “That's Sally, tasty ain't she?”  

  “Yeah, I wonder if she's noticed me?”  

  “You can't get to her, she's with The Grand Editor,”  

  “He's probably not committed to her. You know how these stands are in this line of work. It's all about status. There's no romance. It's just a show.”  

  A show on Telly. 

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “We've just seen our perfect vision,” said Mister William Quincy.  

  Mister William Quincy was admiring Tulpa. Quincy lovèd the dark look of her. Her black tie upon her bright white shirt emphasisèd the chocolate tone of her skin.  

  “'Cause we stayed up all night to achieve it … ” replièd Tulpa.  

  Pillow talk went wanting, however, ascending, after the professional editing of news hacking. Reporting.

  Tulpa caught a sunrise with Quincy after an all-nighter as a subber. She might even get a shot at the Editor. Things were going well for her. She felt a passion move her, and Quincy saw it stir within her. He decidèd to make a pass at her.

  °How could I deny her?° he thought to himself, 

  {moments before}

  {feeling opportunistic}  

  Tulpa never had denièd Quincy. She fancièd him, actually. In fact, she had written about him in her diary.  

  Tulpa had confidèd in him, to her secret centre. Her heart and her tongue had spoken Shadda and her thirst was satisfièd. Quenchèd by the loving feelings, those risings and stirrings, upon two ends when meeting. They held hands and then kissèd. 

  The sun rose, and their moment was set against a golden blushing dawn. Aphrodite cracked the sky. Aphrodite over Blighty. One star in sight. How sightly …

۝

{ ... }

۞

  “Gabber,”

  “Breakcore,”

  “See you later for Rotator,”

  “Rotator, see you later,”

  {squaring-a-circle}

  {on MDMA}

  “Take some water with your beans.”

  {passing some white pills}

  “It's all we've got.”

  “Can I have some of that water, mate?”

  “Nah, it's Rave water, mate,”

  “Mate?”

  “What mate?”

  {passing water}

  Breakcore was a movement that is going to be well good; occurring at shorter-and-shorter intervals along the timewave zero; the last One before the One One.  

  {11:11}  

  “There's no Vordhosbn, either,” said an IDM consumer.  

  “Have you just mashed it,” said a drug abuser.  

  “Mashed,” said a loser.  

  “See you later,” said a good discerner.  

  “I'll meet you there in-a-bit, I'm on Rotator,” said the ranter to the raver.  

  It was a different kind of culture. 

  James Brown is dead. The King of Funk died on-the-one he was supposèd to get off. Michael Jackson is dead. Was he black or white? Was he well read? He could have been red all over. Now he's dead all over. Elvis Presley is dead. Or is he still in bed getting well fed?  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The first thing that can be smelt is shit. The first thing that can be felt is shit. Some of the soldiers were going on leave. 

  “Had had he not had any?” said curiosity.  

  {deleriously cold}  

  Discouragement was moving through the ranks due to the cold. A sharp wind hit the temples of the heads of 'cians. The rationèd supplies of food were running low and so was their morale.  

  A small group of soldiers huddlèd together around a makeshift fire that was kept alight throughout the night. Palliatives, the appeasement. The amelioration. Who shall ameliorate the immiserate? Who shall ameliorate the State? A small bottle of whisky circulated shivering 'cians.  

  “He hadn't had any 'cause he hadn't had any had he?” said poverty.  

  Soldiers were delirious. 'Cians were spurious.  

  °Propaganda is circulating among us°  

  South of the border was Sigla, north of the border, the runner.  

  {behind-the-lines}  

  Behind the lines the secret war was read. Countless numbers, the unrecordèd dead. The death of one is a tragedy, the death of a million is just a statistic. 

  “Blood, sweat and tears,” said a veteran.  

  {through his years}  

  “For years years years we've been dividèd,” he went on.  

  Every boulevard in the city-at-war narrowèd its focus to its vanishing point, punctuatèd at intervals by stalls of brik-a-brak, found objects, chairs and tables, pilèd high to keep the opposition at bay.  

  Fears come in threes.

  Three men crouchèd, pitchèd, behind the barricades in front of the enemy lines. Waiting for another shelling.  

  “Three times in one night,” said the shellshockèd.  

  “Violent night,” said fright.  

  “Solely night,” said one out-of-sight.  

  “All is harm,” said one.  

  {adjusting the sight}  

  “All is fright” said the violent night.  

  {passing water}  

  {offering wine}  

  “Better save some for later,” said scarcity, “we don't know when the next shipment is going to come.”  

  Passing-the-river, a lousy wine consumer. Above him a sniper. Paris has always been a dangerous city, where people don't play safely.  

  “Are you going to tell me about that dream you had recently?” wonderèd one of the sister 'cians …  

  The sister 'cian was smelly and greasy.  

  “It's that General, Maximillian, sister,” said the dreamer. “He walks among us in the city-at-war. He draws his soldiers and mounts his opposition against us, but when we line up to fire, he steps forward and takes our shots but doesn't die. It was formiddable.”  

  Facing in the same direction, in agreement and direct competition. The South behind them, the general, not Maximillian, a lesser one, above them. No equality in an hierarchy.  

  “I'm moving it over, officer,” said a dead-carrier.  

  “Up with death, down with love, put both to one side,” said the gravedigger.  

  {stubbing it out}  

  {another cigarette}  

  “There's a million graves in that ash tray.”  

  So says the soldier to the gravedigger filling up the ditches with dead bodies.  

  “I modelled it on Goya. Free range blood,” said the war artist.

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  The agency, The Ademayiim, had employèd the veteran, a civil war 'cian, code-name Mister Magog, to do whatever he wantèd for the company. This was the title of Ipsissimus. In the business, Ipsissimus meant free-to-roam and disseminate whatever intelligence and disinformation he thought best. The Ademayiim trustèd him entirely with it. Because he did it the best. 

  It was a type of contradiction. Mister Magog was the master of the paradox. So long as The Ademayiim knew where Magog was, what Magog was doing, and receivèd regular observations, they knew they had the edge.  

  °Our enemies are on the inside° thought Sazzaz.  

  “So what's the aim of your organization?” came Magog again.  

  Mister Magog had interrogatèd Sazzaz a moment earlier with the exact same question, the method and same direct line of questioning. 

  “Was that the question?” snortèd Sazzaz. 

  “As if four times wasn't enough for confirmation?” interjectèd Kaiaphas,

  {with pressure}  

  Kaiaphas was trying to pressure an answer, encourage Sazzaz to make his own suffering easier.  

  Asif Akhbar was the dhimmitude meme of The Ademayiim. His code-name: Sazzaz. He may as well have been Ad-Dajjal posing as a djinn. The agency's genie in a bottle. Sazzaz was doing well under the conditions. The agency had administerèd Sazzaz a few electric shocks, exposèd him to light strain torture, stretchèd him a little while, and insertèd small severs along most of the main veins that ran directly back to the heart.  

  Sazzaz stuck to the party line so the agency trustèd him; he got the backing of the company.  

  “Okay, that's enough,” said Mister Magog, “take him out of it now. We can trust him. Code-name Sazzaz, you're going to join Sarai in Paris. A Logris briefcase is there.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  Redheiferlamedvovnik. On the bookshelf. Litterèd with hidden diligence. Kaiaphas was having an occasion. Dilligent and hidden. Kaiaphas was smoking the first cigariyah he had ever had had. He was hidden. Out of sight, out of mind. He couldn't stop cursing the red heifer sefer that was in plain view. It was Psi-Qolog's finishèd manuscript. The Red Book. The prophet containèd within. Redactèd. 

  °I should in theory burn that damn book by that blasted Psi-Qolog° he thought. °But I fear I would only be contributing to the problem° 

  A sole candle was burning on his study table. Kaiaphas took the book from upon the shelf and lay it open at a sole verse. 

  Time for bed. °Zed zed zed° thought Kaiaphas' dreary and sleepy head. 

  There was a tiny bit of saliva obscuring the words. 

  { … }  

۝