Section 4
From PenguinWiki
[edit] Presence
"Did you know Fellini," he asked. She couldn't answer. Helena thought that Ka might be referring to one of her clients, and she made a habit of never remembering her client’s names. "Never mind," he said. They were walking through a park that Helena didn't know. Ka had taken her with him in his car, a 1955 Mercedes 300SL Gull wing 3.0 liter straight six, rear wheel drive classic, and they drove out of Hamburg, into the Nordic German countryside. After about forty minutes drive,Ka parked the car next to a deserted farm. They walked for a while, Helena struggling on her high heels, then they crossed a little forest, and then entered a neatly maintained park side. They curved around a little pond, and then they stood in front of a grand country house.
"We're there," Ka said. "Come." They mounted the stairs, Ka pushed the door that was ajar and they entered a spacious hall.
All round the walls, candles flickered in their holders. Between them at intervals were long narrow mirrors, their gilt edges reflecting the darting flickers of yellow. It was, Helena thought as she looked around the vast empty space, to be some kind of prelude to a grand happening.
"Look up," Ka said, and as she did so, Helena became aware of a large screen in the roof space, a screen resembling not only a large painting curving above her, but also a kind of television screen, and as she continued staring up at it, Helena became aware of an intense light circling around where she stood. "Come," Ka said, "let me introduce you to some of my other guests." "I may be cheap, but I am cheerful".
Helena couldn't make out anyone in the room, but sensed that there were more people present. When her eyes got accustomed to the candlelit dark, she saw a man standing in the corner. He wore an immaculate white shirt and was studying a painting on the wall. In his hands he carried a little pile of car magazines. There were other paintings too in the room, picturing ladies in dresses and small dogs. The man turned around observing Helena from top to toe. "Well hello" the man said. "Finally you're here. We've been waiting for ever!" And he smiled.
Helena would soon discover that his name was Dimitry.
[edit] The Madonna Effect
Staring at his creation, Jim could not help but put his head in his hands. He resisted the urge to pull out his hair. In front of him was a huge array of pages. It was brilliance, madness, funny, sad, scary. It was too much. It was not enough.
He knew that his gift was also his curse. Jim had described to himself his own writing style as being like Madonna's acting. The tragedy of Madonna was that many people believed that her first movie was her best. How does one top the best if it is one's first work? He was fascinated to read that Madonna's next movie effort was a movie that was never near any quality; a project in Hong Kong with Sean Penn. She went to that country with a hair stylist and only a few general ideas for a movie and started filming before she really knew what she wanted to play, or so Jim had heard from a friend of a friend.
He looked with exasperation at the pages he had written. Every time he had a new idea, he would write a new chapter and write a section of text, with new and wondrous characters. But then, the lure of another idea, sometimes tangential, sometimes totally disconnected and new, would send him off another track. Jim had even put himself in as multiple characters with similar names. He didn't want to remove any of it. It was all creative, it was all brilliant. yet, he knew his ill-disciplined juxtaposing was like baking a cake with too many ingredients. He had so many ideas that he didn't know which one to follow through to the end. So, here he sat, staring at thirty or so different ideas, all fighting for life. Yet, his interest could not be held on any one for long enough to complete it. He felt cursed and angry.
It was like the opposite of writer's block, but the effect was the same. Too many ideas, so he stalled. If he only could have the writer’s equivalent of a hair stylist with him, someone who would make it all look good, regardless of what the content of the scenes might be.
He heard a knock on the door and was surprised to see that some one was here to visit him this late in the night. Jim opened the door only to find the "Data Walrus" AKA Mick Striker staring back at him with his large green eyes. One could just keep falling in those large walrus like eyes and drift into infinity. During this calm and peaceful moment he was remembered the history of the walrus. He started to ask Mick Striker about Mick's previous life as the Professor in the Intergalactic University on Halla Ballula 6. (How Jim remembered those role-paying games). At that moment, Jim had decided that he was going to write a sci-fi movie.
But, Jim hesitated. Although he liked science fiction, he was trying to get his mind around an uneasy feeling. He just couldn't quite work out what the problem was with it.
He turned around to "Data Walrus" (thinking to himself, "My goodness he has the greenest eyes I have ever seen") and a thought struck him. "I like you a lot, Walry, but, you know what? People think that sci-fi fans are nerds from another planet! They treat sci-fi as if it is like the tabloid journalism of the writing world."
Data Walrus looked back at him blankly, not sure if Jim was insulting him or just making a point. Jim tried to explain further, knocking over chapter 15 in the process and mixing it accidentally with the second half of 16; it still made sense.
"Data Walrus," Jim said excitedly, (he always used his full nick-name when he was really excited), "Don't you see? It is like comedy actors at the Academy awards. They almost never get the award. Sci-fi novels are like that! " Walrus nodded, but only partially understood.
"Take Robin Williams for example. He is a great actor. he should have won an academy award for 'Dead Poets Society,' but he didn't. Do you know why?" Walry shook his head.
"Because it had some comedy in it! Although it was sad and serious for most of the time, it also featured scenes where Robin Williams' comedic brilliance was showcased. And I reckon there is this unspoken theory held by some out there that comedians cannot act, they are just being themselves. So......" Jim continued, not noticing that Walrus was nodding off, "when does Robin Williams win an Oscar? For 'Goodwill Hunting'; one of the first movies where he plays an almost completely serious and dramatic role. See what I mean." Walrus nods, but doesn't quite get it.
"Listen, Data Walrus, I am not keen on writing a Sci-fi novel because it is not going to be taken as seriously as the other genres."
[edit] The End (But not as we know it)
There was nothing more to do, There was everything to do, She had no more use for him, She promised use after use of him, Get out quickly, Stay forever, Eat me tomorrow, Digest me today.
That face…then noticed the gold ring on the old man's dry, wrinkled hand. It had that pattern like it had in his day dreams, in that faraway place where the dragons slept, two serpents coiled around each other…He sucked his thumb, tasted the strychnine.
He got up off the couch, picked up the motel phone, dialed to the outside world, determined to mix his saliva with reality… “Is that Huge James? Sorry, wrong James” and flung the phone into the corner, handle over cord over dialer tumbled over each other and landed like clumsy lovers in the corner of the room. The dial tone grew louder and louder and LOUDER in head and he clamped his hands over his ears as the gateway to the ether through an old green receiver greedily gulped and slurped and sucked the now and tomorrow and hate and light and stench and passion and decay from the room and from and from as a child and Shade as a corpulent husk and all of his lovers and none of his ascendants and swallowed and spat and shat all of it out to Yester morrow …… and GG
Shade picked himself up of the floor, walked into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror
He called himself Shade, after his former self, and when he looked into the mirror his eyes were black and bottomless. In a motel room in the states southern most coast in the north’s hottest town in the cities worst hour, he thought he’d come here to find what he was told he was looking for. But perhaps this was what he was supposed to find - endless waterholes of blackest water. 3 simple stepping-stones led to their edge. Mother- raped bride of Christ, spat him from her womb 33 years ago. Asylum- her new house of god, kept her in meditative bliss till two weeks before. Inmate-high priest of sanity spoke him his plights as he walked out and left behind her finally dead husk-body. With no meaning in any of this, there might be meaning here. Out of the mouths of children and idiots, he took the only word he could as gospel and followed them all to the edge of reason.
He looked into his black pits that reflected no light. Broke the mirror with his fist, picked a shard of glass off the floor and dug it into his eye like a monocle.
[edit] The Truth of the Matter
Federal Agent Claire Smithe woke as another large dossier landed on her desk.
'More!' she muttered. 'There's more every day.'
The phone rang, British Intelligence was on the line.
'What is it now?' she asked.
'Results,' said the male voice, 'do you have any results?'
Agent Smithe carefully composed her response. 'No results are available at this time.' This was precisely what she'd said yesterday and the day before. Besides she had nothing to gain by sharing information with the Brits.
'Now hear this miss,' said the annoyed voice. 'We must have the cryptographic results. We've found...' The voice stopped, he was giving too much away.
Claire pressed the page button on the phone. 'Found what?' she asked as her team rushed into the room. She signalled for Agent MacMillan to take notes.
'OK, I'll tell you what we know,' said the voice, 'but only in exchange for your results.'
'Agreed,' replied Claire, switching the phone to speaker.
'We're convinced the site is being used by subversives. We found two references to OSAMA, both written in capitals.'
'What?' said Claire, wondering why her team had missed something so obvious. 'Are you sure? OSAMA? And in capitals?'
'We're certain,' replied the British agent. 'We also have evidence of infiltration by the Russian mafia. The repeated drug and pornography references are a clear indication.'
Agent MacMillan scribbled hastily, trying to keep up with the rapid flow of information.
'We believe that cod and sturgeon boats are being used to smuggle goods past customs. Carl Griffiths runs the British side of the operation and the king pin in the US is...'
'Big Tony Scolletti,' interjected Agent Smithe, determined to show that the US-side possessed credible information.
'No, he's just a harmless cliché,' replied the British agent. 'Besides Big Tony was living in Australia.'
'Was?' asked a surprised Agent Smithe.
'You people aren't keeping up. Big Tony's been shot. He's out of the picture.'
Claire disliked the Brit's patronizing tone almost as much as she disliked cats. 'So who organizes the US end?' she asked. 'It's not Thompson. We've had him under surveillance ever since his name surfaced. Penguin asked us to watch for interference from other publishers. The "p" threw us off track for a while.'
'The US organizer goes by the name of Mikhael, he's got obvious links with Russia.'
There was a long silence during which Agent MacMillan had time to complete writing and editing his notes.
'Well?' asked the British Agent.
'What?' replied Claire, taking some pleasure in delaying her response.
'Your results?'
Claire opened a folder and scanned the report. 'We've run the plain text through our sophisticated cryptographic analysis machine, SCAM. SCAM reports that the Latin was generated by a computer, no intellect was required to produce it. The French was unintelligible because SCAM hasn't been programmed to interpret French. The US and France are on the same side you understand.'
'Is that all? MI5 will be very disappointed.'
Claire looked earnestly at her team. One by one they nodded, she had to tell the Brits.
'There's one more thing,' she said. 'SCAM tallied the number of occurrences of the word "tango". It could be a coincidence but it exactly equals the number of windows in your Parliament building.'
Claire heard a jumble of voices at the other end of the line. 'Call Blair! Issue an alert! Bloody yanks! Get me a list of DeMontford staff...'
Claire hung up, it was time for coffee and bagels. At the other end of the line, the British Agent forgot about his tea and scones.
And that is the truth of the matter.
[edit] Artie Wins Trivial Pursuit
Artie enjoyed playing trivial pursuit. It kept his mind both sharp, and off of things. He still had no idea of what he was writing. His best friend was not speaking to him because of bad writing by some stranger and he felt lost more than ever before in his life.
It gave him little ideas for fantastic magic realism like this:
Somewhere in Madagascar, a crab knew more about Dwight D. Eisenhower than was necessary for a crab's existence.
His favourite experience playing trivial pursuit had been when there was a question on the largest plant on earth without a woody stem. Artie immediately knew that the answer was bananas! He also knew that bananas were actually classified as herbs - they came from the same family as palms, orchids and lillies.
But these days, Trivial Pursuit was one of his more trivial pursuits.
[edit] Impressions
The wine not only stained his manuscript, its inky darkness was noticeable on Jim's teeth as well. Jim wondered if he might be alcoholic when he started contemplating drinking white wine, not for the taste but because there would not be that familiar red stain on his teeth, impossible to brush away until several hours later, because the sweet liquid seeped into the calcium and made it chalky and resistant.
Jim wondered if he should make it clearer that Artie, his major antagonist, was a big, round, imposing figure, like the antithesis of a whale. Artie was like those shocking seals that would suddenly jump out of the icy water and swallow up an unsuspecting penguin. Whilst Jim supposed he could have made a more orthodox comparison by pitting Artie against some more human a fantasy identity, the whale image compelled him not only for its picture of innocence, its enormous power, pre-thought, primordial and Eden-like.
Jim smiled as he took another sly sip of his telltale addiction.
[edit] Dread
We thought a tsunami had hit the foam-bathing crowd when someone broke into 'La Vie en Rose' in the dreamy holiday bar called Bananarama's. Mikhael turned toward the sound. Everybody here knew Corry, a man of South-African origin. His family had been in the diamond business for generations. In fact, the word among the traders was that Corry was onto something huge, possibly a rare 100 carat stone, called the 'universe'. Word on the street was that the universe was recently pilfered from a green-toothed child in Cape Town but had changed a few hands. Rumors had spread thick and fast, about its black radiance, strange cut and potential for building high power lasers. Corry's men passed a briefcase on to a girl in a shabby dress. She walked away quietly.
He had followed his directions to letter. And even when Sarah had asked him to shoot the man in the red shirt, he complied. "But Where is Sarah?," he thought. She was supposed to be here by now. He had done everything command had told him to do, but now they order this meeting? Was he supposed to follow Corry? To meet him, address him?
Was he good at what he did? Undoubtedly. Mikhael muttered to himself : "Avoir d'autres chats à fouetter." I have other fish to fry. Was Sarah deadly efficient? Yes, when she wanted to be. Mikhael had always trusted Sarah despite what the guys downtown thought. Mikhael decided to find out what had happened, and got up. Just as he was walking through the door he saw a gorgeous girl looking at him. She smiled slowly and begged him with her eyes to come over, which he did.
She placed one hand in his neck and pulled him closer, whispering something in his ear. Intoxicated by her perfume he noticed a necklace dangling between her golden breasts. It was a piece of rice, with the name 'Eva' written on it.
"Yes, I would very much like to join you in death, Eva" he whispered back. "Have you found this piece of rice here? I think it is mine. I missed it".
Maybe Mikhael had already seen that girl. She was sad but clever and concentrated, and nice too. Mikhael did not need another ideal character to introducing in his life. He wanted a real person. He hoped all the other women from his life would vanish. Not because this girl was the only but because he felt better. His mental status was improved. The name on the piece of rice had to be that of the girl but he did not ask her it. She gave him the object and said: "It is good I found it".
[edit] Sarah's Place
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must watch the Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman movie, 'Far Far Away' - we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him. -- Sun Tzu, the Art of War
And then, with a sudden start, she woke up. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut again. Maybe, she thought, it had all been a dream! But what a confusing, jumbled dream... almost as if a mausoleum had been constructed by a million short squat black and white flightless birds. Oh well. She rolled over and went back to sleep. Perhaps to dream some more... what would she dream about this time?
Then she felt a cold shiver descend on her, like a knife through her heart. Looking up in the wide open sky she saw an angel descending slowly towards her. And then, with a sudden start, she woke up. She quickly squeezed her eyes shut again. Maybe, she thought, it had all been a dream! But what a confusing, jumbled dream... almost as if a mausoleum had been constructed by a million short squat black and white flightless birds. Oh well. She rolled over and went back to sleep. Perhaps to dream some more... what would she dream about this time?
The rattle of the door handle pulled her back from the enveloping warmth she was sinking into. A surge of black humor filled her as she debated between telling the caller ; "can't get to the door, all tied up". The opening of the outer door followed by the calling of her name immediately drove out all the endless puns floating around her brain.
"Sarah?"
She tasted the salt on her lips and wet face as she imagined Tanya's teenage son's face when as he came further into the room. She got up, and worried that she would look as bad as she felt. "What are you doing here?"
[edit] Invasion
Artie was asleep, diving the depths of the ocean again, usually so peaceful, so serene. The dream was now nightmarish, confining, frightening: images of violence and fear, had subsided as Artie slept closer to the surface.
Artie was rising to the surface to get some fresh air when...
Searing Pain. Vision blurred. Blood everywhere.
Artie was panic stricken.
NO. No.
A harpoon had inextricably wedged itself in this noble creature. The more he struggled, the more the pain, the stronger the resistance. Artie was helpless.
[edit] Mary
How could one word play so badly upon her. Mary had heard all sorts of words during any given day, and some words were a lot worse than others. This word was so simple, so inconsequential. Uttered by her boss, Minister for the Environment, Fisheries and Customs, Ms Sarah Wagenknecht.
Mary was working late, sorting out some files. Her mind kept going back to the phone call she had accidentally overhead. The Minister, Sarah, had said the rather ordinary word 'unimpeded' but it had echoed in her memory. Obviously that poor whale was harpooned by a crew that acted completely UNIMPEDED!!
"Perhaps I am just annoyed with the Minister" Mary thought.
Mary always had a soft spot for environmental issues. The recent, graphic, news of an illegal whale kill in international waters outside the territorial zone, had deeply upset her.
Mary's hand rested on Minister Sarah's proposed budget for the coming year, for this department, with comparatives from last year. Something caught her eye and it caused her blood to boil.
Sarah's budget clearly had slashed funds in the areas of Environment and in particular border patrols in relation to illegal fishing (and whaling?????).
And what exactly was all this money for "fact finding trips to Riga." Mary could not help but think that the pathetic rundown of resources had left gaps wide enough for an illegal whaling trawler to sail through. This minister, Mary concluded, was up to something.
Mary picked up the phone and dialed the number of an old acquaintance, Lt. Gerarson.
[edit] Text Becomes More
image
[edit] 'Mine Own Kingdom'
Artie was pulled out of beloved dark, open waters, out into a night and above the dotted ships along the surface, then through tendrils of fog and above, continents now, whirring into view, sinking away , storms spinning below like soft snakes , then out of atmosphere, hurtling onward, he stared at stars wheeling past, the Milky Way flowing out beyond him, like a pail of pale puke kicked over by a farmer. A satellite swam into view, arced across the sky, disappeared once more. He wondered what it might be like to live up there on an Orbiting HQ in near-earth orbit, to fall constantly, to know no gravity, to be the king of the tiniest nation.
[edit] Big Tony was a busy man
Big Tony was a busy man; by day there were deals to be done, by night there were scores to settle. He'd done away with Benji and a day later, another challenger, Mikhael, appeared on the scene. 'Where the hell do they all come from?' he thought to himself as he staggered home in the early hours. 'This is goin' to get real messy!'
He woke in the middle of the day and struggled into the kitchen for coffee. His daughter, Amy, sat beside him at the table. She loved her new set of crayons and happily set about creating a masterpiece; a cat, complete with large circular body, smaller circular head, straight-line whiskers and a curly tail.
'Look, daddy!' she said, proudly pointing to the picture.
Tony's mind was, as usual, on other things. He hardly glanced at the page, 'Great work! Let's put it on the fridge.'
'But it's not finished yet!' complained Amy.
Her friend Betty arrived. 'Can I draw too?' she asked and together they added more color. Claire and Dana were passing by and joined in. 'I don't like cats,' declared Claire.
By the time Zoe turned up, a half hour later, all of Amy's friends were busily at work on the picture. Twenty six dueling crayons with no clear direction.
Effie, who never had any ideas, scribbled on the page. Sally just had to make her mark on everything and ensured that her name was visible on every part of the page. She regularly espoused the principals of fairness and artistic freedom but, in truth, was as intolerant as most others. She was determined to make the picture hers. Big Tony once bought her a mirror; so she could have a good, long look at herself.
'Look daddy!' said Amy, 'holding up the finished drawing.' Twenty six sparking pairs of eyes looked to Tony. Effie's eyes wandered, she didn't really care what he thought. Sally's eyes narrowed, she expected approval.
For some reason, the page drew more of Tony's attention this time. He squinted, twisted his head slightly and wondered if, perhaps, the drawing was upside down.
'What is it?' he asked. He was assuming they would all say "I don't know."
The girls smiled and looked at each other. Children ALWAYS knew what their own scrawlings meant! Even if no one else did.
'Can I put it on the fridge now?' asked Amy.
'Nah,' said Tony. 'You should cooperate, you'll never get anywhere scrawling over each other's ideas.'
"But daddy, its beautiful as it is. And anyway, what is 'finished'? Is that when we stop Daddy?"
Tony was struck with amazement. He realized he was imposing his own adult concepts onto the freedom of children. Apparently children only begin to draw inside the lines when their parents tell them they should.
[edit] Morte a Venezia
Strangely, the most memorable scene for Jim in the Thomas Mann novella, Death in Venice, was the opening scene of the lead character walking past a graveyard on a stifling hot day. Jim amused himself that if HE had made a movie version of the novel he would most certainly have inserted this key scene, but as it was the 1971 movie deleted it. But the scene from the novel haunted Jim's memory. In it, an aging author goes for a walk and passes a graveyard. He sees a figure standing staring at him from the monumental masonry workshop at the graveyard. This person, who was it? Why did they keep staring? For Jim, if a modern movie version of it were to be made, (and perhaps it could not be today, as the subject matter is disconcerting to say the least, but nevertheless), Jim would have had the author giving this staring figure the 'finger.' For it occurred to Jim that this person, (whoever it really was), is actually DEATH, and (it seemed to Jim) Death was peering at its next victim. Sure, all the author could do was the modern equivalent of 'poking one's tongue' at this impertinent wraith, but to no avail. Death will NOT be dismissed so easily.
Jim wondered about the many ways in which he, and everyone else for that matter, thumbed their noses at death with equal futility.
Furthermore, Jim was sore about a number of things. He could not shake the fact that the only reason DEATH had not peered in his direction already is the same reason nobody peered in his direction at all. He was invisible. Yes, he knew it sounded self-indulgent and precious, but he really believed it. If ever there was a need for someone to go in and out of a situation unnoticed, he was most certainly your man. He had told this to a friend once, who scoffed with derision. Nevertheless, he had then gone with this same friend to a patisserie and stood in line behind several customers. Each was served in turn. Until, that is, it was Jim's turn. Then, inexplicably, capriciously, (and completely unintentionally, so it seemed) the shop keeper started serving people to the left and right of Jim until his friend was just about to push forward and point out the injustice. Jim took the matter into his own hands when he brought the whole store to a standstill by quietly saying: "excuse me. I think I am next." It was hilarious what happened next. The shop assistant did the equivalent of a 'double-take' and shook his head to the left of Jim and then to the right of Jim and then directly at him and said: "Oh, sorry. I didn't see you!(standing right in front of me and behind the last six people I had served in a row)."
As Jim and his friend walked out of that unfortunate cake shop, his mate said: "You know Jim, I SAW that. You really ARE invisible."
Jim made a mental note to make use of this rare talent at some future time.
But it did gall him. He would come up with some really interesting ideas and mention them in meetings. People would nod and continue talking. Several months later one of his colleagues would say "here is a good idea, I can't remember who said it but....." and then proceed to say Jim's idea, minus the acknowledgment. Jim comforted himself with the knowledge that it was the idea that mattered, not who suggested it.
He wondered if he should apply to the Secret Service. Surely they could use someone who had the rare talent of being almost completely invisible to others.
[edit] Myriad (or the Commie Penguins have a Picnic)
"One hundred and eleven penguins chose, at that very moment, to branch off and create their own sect, preferring a more fundamentalist doctrine to that of the rest. Their charismatic leader adopted a policy of strict avoidance of family members, and his followers accepted it as necessary to avoid corruption by their influence. The sect made a compound formed out of words online and felt something Utopian afoot, or was it just that feeling of trying on some new shoes that kinda fit and kinda don't? The sect changed their names to penguin symbols like prince with the whole symbol thing but they would hate to hear you say that."
Carlo really felt there had been a decline in the standard of journalism at the New York Post. But still Penguins? Perhaps Penguins could be his market for the strychnine. He needed to get some sleep. It would take some time but it was possible. At last a penguin said to another:" Our life is complicated and I have found a solution". "What?" answered the other. "Have you seen Aristophanes 'The Birds'?". Sometimes penguins go to the theater. "Actually no, I haven't". "Well in that play two men, Evelpides and Pithetaerus, become birds and go to live among them. They have founded a town together". "Could we do the opposite, going to live among the men? It's hard, only men can think of such things". Penguins are not at all crazy. In 'The Birds' the last Evelpides cue is: "Pithetaerus, do we go home?".
.
[edit] Acebal
One of them was about to die. It was the only truth they know, apart from their belonging to a murder brotherhood. Different styles, though, toxic needles hidden in a white dress shirt for him, Chad, Tango Poisoner, against a concealed stiletto pretending to hold her hair, arranged in a bun. His counterpart was also known as Mantis. But they had tacitly agreed to follow ritual. And, having met at an apartment just above a milonga in La Boca, Buenos Aires, ceremony could not be other than tango dancing. Both of them were dressed for the occasion: black tie, including a bow tie in this color for him, and a satin cocktail dress with wide lateral openings allowing her to follow the dance steps nimbly. They had used brilliantine to fix their hair, he had grown a thin moustache, she had chosen a blood-red lipstick. Tonight they were milongueros! And this way, two silhouettes contrasting with Río de la Plata sight through the open window, bandoneon notes and a melancholy lyrics as background, Tango and Mantis interlaced hands, looked deeply into each other eyes and awaited most appropriate moment to show their art. While Gardel was singing to a lost romance and Mantis was performing an eight, a car stopped and four men came quickly into the house hall, dark metal revolvers ready. They ran upstairs. Indifferent to everything except for dance magic, Sean and Mantis had performed a volcada. Bringing passion to climax, he saw clearly what to do, and her, almost lying on the floor, abandoned herself to sensation. Fascination was suddenly broke when apartment door was kicked and homicide detectives entered the room. But there was just Mantis, eyes closed, and a peaceful expression in her face. Chad was walking calmly by river shore, throwing away the needle containing still most of the dose, remembering the brief moment that had exchanged pain for dancing magic and passion. Next morning Lieutenant Gerarson came out his flat in Buenos Aires thinking about the murder of the last night. He soon met an old neighbor who panting went downstairs. The coroner had told the murder weapon could have been a needle, or alternatively a stiletto. Stiletto was an usual weapon in Europe in the 16th century, and so dangerous that a law had forbidden it. Last night somebody hadn't respected that law. Back in that age, while in Europe somebody was busy with laws and stilettos, Argentina was unknown and almost uninhabited. Going up the Rio de la Plata Sebastiano Cabot had met some Guaranì Indians with silver jewels. In Latin language silver is argentum and so, after its river, that land was named 'Argentina'. However that silver was from Bolivia. Gerarson got into his car and started up it. He took a tour to Barrio de Boca, with its picturesque very colored houses. Refined killers didn't live there. Then he arrived until at the residential Barrio Norte. The killer could come from the North of the globe and now live there. The killer had put his signature on his murder, after he had danced a tango with his victim. Gerarson drove away in the direction of the centre. He stopped his car there and got out of it. A fellow bothered him: "Rolex, senor? Usted es un hombre de negocio. Dòlar no pesos, por favor". Sure one needed good money. Maybe the killer had been living in town for a little time. Probably he didn't get to do with the command activity in Europe or elsewhere. Argentina was so far from everybody, not precisely in the geographical sense. Here time seemed it had stopped. Gerarson remembered his past tango with an ash-blonde, thin, rude girl. The band had opened 'Caminito'. They danced turning sharply when the rhythm increased and cautiously slowing down when the music called for it. The girl looked at him with her glassy stare. Dancing 'Caminito', the couple already dreams the death. There is no need the true death. Gerarson had never seen again that girl, Carmen. Walking he turned to Avenida de Mayo. Sooner or later he had to leave forever Buenos Aires.
[edit] Dual
"Isn't strychnine a little far fetched?" George said looking over at Jim.
"What do you mean? Back in the sixties......" Walry began
"Oh come off it," Jim objected, "don't start with that again."
"It's just," George continued, "that of the two drugs most likely to induce severe hallucinations as a symptom of their use and one of those horrific drugs that would be instantly recognizable to a wide audience even if they did not know much about it (and I am not expert) meth may be more of a 'fit' for the story. Also meth also can cause severe sleep disorders as a symptom and that is exactly what poor Carlo seems to be going through with all these weird episodes."
"Oh fine. So, use a drug that is causing untold carnage throughout the world and glamorize it," Jim shot back.
"Wait a minute." Walry interjected. "This text also features murder, abduction, assassination and general mayhem, but no one has suggested that this is somehow saying the reader should go off and do the same. It could mean instant death!"
"Yes, and in any case, Carlo is off his face most of the time, he is pathetic, and virtually dragging himself from one disaster to the next. He is destroying his body, having horrific blackouts and sleep problems (too much, then not enough) and that is suppose to be a good thing?" George looked dumbfounded.
"I suppose we could always excise any controversial bits out until we are left with an inoffensive, politically correct work." George growled.
"Listen, if you want to do a book that has Meth in it, then you can always go off and write your own," Jim stated bluntly.
George was normally a fairly even-tempered soul, but his face reddened noticeably. "And how exactly do you define a collaboration if we go racing off to do different books at every point of disagreement? Talk about "team effort as long as you don't touch a word of my stuff."
"Hey," Walry jumped up from his computer. Someone has gone and changed all my references to the 'vascular system' and replaced it with 'Vasco De Gama.’ Bloody bullshit."
“Well, you WILL go online when you are using your composing. What do you expect” George observed.
"I am TRYING to go for something so ludicrous that it makes the point."
Walry had an idea. "Why not a fictional name then, something like Rigazoid or bicalcitrocallidazine. Apparently it is Latin for "double kick with hallucinations in a bad sense"
"You wouldn't see Harry Potter fighting one of the Hogwarts students over their meth addiction, or telling Voldermort to 'Get Fucked!!" Jim answered.
"Perhaps, but I reckon a real seventeen year old would !" said Walry.
"Oh fine !" George gave up. "But now that you have gone and scribbled 'strychnine' back into the text, I think you should know that you missed one in chapter 12."
"Not for long," Walry observed wryly, chewing with his mouth closed.
Jim smiled and kept his head down.
[edit] A Million Regrets
Carlo looked at his hands in horror. With these he had caused so much sorrow.
First guilt overwhelmed him, then a sense of shame, he was rhyming. He hoped no one had noticed. He squirted some more antibacterial gel on his hands and scrubbed.
Bad enough that the penguins were dying, he said, and the whole world sadly sighing.
There it was again. He must have rhymedejitis.
But it was too late, it was all over the news. On the television bolted to the wall in his motel room, pictures were coming in from all over the globe. Penguins dying. In Spain, Brazil, Japan, Antarctica, everywhere. Places he didn't even know had penguin colonies, like Mauritania where apparently 10,000 Emperor Penguins had succumbed. Each had tried the new joy ride of strychnine, as popularized in the online novel, A Million Penguins, each had paid the exceptionally high price of $60.00. Carlo was rich, it had been such an easy sell, he'd simply added a paragraph to the online novel about how you will fly on strychnine, yup on strychnine your wings will work. The orders had rushed in. But god, now the penguin's gibbering drug fueled fun had ended in death!
"Why didn't I tell them to use methamphetamine? Why, oh why, oh why?! Then they wouldn't have to die." Carlo broke into great hysterical sobs, it was a few minutes before he was able to breathe normally.
The reporter on the television swam into focus again "Today a million penguins lie dying around the world, poisoned by Strychnine. According to some sources 200 ostriches on a farm in Cape Town are allegedly suffering from high dosages of strychnine believed to have been acquired at the Simon's Town Penguin Colony. The man responsible for this tragedy is believed to be Joseph Carlos (Carlo) Sandiego von Gordo. His whereabouts are unknown but we believe he is armed and dangerous and currently suffering from rhymedejitis. Some penguin lovers believe he works under the alias of the Bad Bad Bard..."
Carlo switched off the TV. He felt sick. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Worse than the ingrown toenail that had resulted in his paralysis. If only he had only used references to the fictitious drug Bi-calcitro-callid-azine which could, and instead portrayed the horror of drug abuse whilst steadfastly refusing to be seen as glorying in any way the use of illicit drugs. Then they would never have been able to pin this on him.
