{ ... }

 

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  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. 

۝