{ ... }

۞

  “We've just seen our perfect vision,” said Simeon.  

  “Cause we stayed up all night to achieve it,” replièd Michal.  

  When they began to conceive the sun was setting.  They knew they had conceivèd when the sun began to rise.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

As night fell, we rose.  We the Rose were seatèd.  Greetèd, Presidentially.  Salutatory, the initiate, initially.  Hauntèd, apprehendèd.  Apprehendèd by the spectre of the voter.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What's with the water?” asks Llugnurgus, the Irish Catholic priest.

  “It keeps you sober,” says his mistress, Tulpa.  

  “I asked for whisky,” he says to Tulpa {gently} °So, she's on-to-me° thinks Llugnurgus, °it'll have-to-be a fingernail's worth o' whisky in a coffee for when she's not watching me° {secretly}  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  “What does a peripheral totality in time and space do?” wonderèd Sally.  

  Every one else was messing about sociocratically.

  { … }  

  “The outskirts of a city form a periphery of urbanity; time zones may vary,” replièd Quincy.  He went on: “The peripheral totality maintains locality without itself, spatially, striated or smooth within, and governs time by a network of staircases, corridors, traffic lights and all manner of synchronizing elements.”  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  When one decides that one should rule, all become one, individually.  Equality Decidèd Locally.  EDL.  

  The English Defence League were a diverse group who indictèd their detractors for making stereotypical claims.  

  Inside the Mechanics Institute …  

  “Those who execute power are not those who administer it, and vica-versa,” said the orator, another QC, queen's council, Qavanagh turned guvnor.  

۝

{ ... }

 

۞

  {hands up in consternation}  

  Mister O'Niste could be seen running for his life, bounding out of the Corset shoppe on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, with a naked mannequin underneath his arm.  Three animatèd dolls came chasing him out of the front door of the shoppe; all three of them were wearing corsets and corsages.  The three women threw their hands up in consternation.  

  « Enculé … » shoutèd one of the dolls.  

  Enculé.  Encourage.  

  It was an aggravatèd situation, creatèd by an agitational situational situationista.  Mister O'Niste.  Mister O'Niste had been persuadèd by his coagitator Witham Sispa to drive his perpetuating fear further.  As Mister O'Niste evadèd the onlooker, the sole remaining shopkeeper who had given up the chase, he turnèd a corner only to be greeted by Witham Sispa.  

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Sispa.  “I knew you'd do it.”  

۝

The Beginning of Fabula XI.

 

Fabula XI.

۞

  “A quality and equality,” said Mister William Quincy {reading newsroom Anontology}.  “Great combination!  Yahtzee … { … } anyone?” Quincy quippèd.  

  Quippèd Quincy referring to the combination of words editèd through the application of Anontology.  Mister William Quincy worked the paper, down from the Opera.  WC-something, QC-happening.  Two-too-many a comma, got on with everyone, except one.  The Grand Editor; his opposition leader in the media of the media.  

  “Hand me a lead utensil, you know, a pencil, une stylo!” exclaimèd Quincy, “I need to scratch out your 'I''s.”  

  The opposition and their leader callèd The Grand Editor The Grand Editor 'cause he earnèd so much more than the runner of the newspaper down from the Opera.  

  Quincy initially workèd as a runner, not a shotcaller.  Always with the Coffee, anyone?  Always no one.  He was exploitèd but he wantèd a shot at The Grand.  It came all too quickly.  The shot.  

  {pint}  

  {shot}  

  {riot}  

  Quincy took a shot at him, The Grand Editor, as a runner and as an opiner in a column as an editor.  He was out on his arse a day later.  He didn't seem to care.  It was the devil's arse-paper, that rag.  A UK tabloid with a fetish for a straw-man non-existant yet fillèd by the next available pervert with a psychological disease for fame at any cost.  

  “I'm not just anyone!” screamèd the Grand Editor, through a telephone receiver: “I'm a highly paid editor.  Two-too-many an idea, Qavanagh.”  

  “Alright, Guvnor,” replièd Qavanagh.  

  “A satisfactory answer,” said The Grand Editor.  “Now get to work on that piece of shit that you call a paper.”  

  °I think I held-my-own° thought Mister William Quincy.  °Although, I'm not too fond of the telephone°  

۝