{ ... }

 

۞

  “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. 

  { … }  

۝