Section 7
From PenguinWiki
[edit] Thin Veil
Sitting in seat 99C, aware of his own weight against the upholstered cushions and the dulling effect of the carefully controlled temperature in the cabin, Mikhael felt a sort of enlightened amnesia. This was all there was until he landed. A weak ray of light danced across his tray-table until the thick, gray clouds engulfed the window. The first time Mikhael had met Chad Thompson was on a plane. Funny that, Mikhael thought. Life consisted of pieces that didn't fit. Mikhael admitted to himself that he was disturbed by Chad's new power. Chad was so damn sure of himself these days. Command's memo had said The Brainoid was installed for two reasons. First, so Chad could increase his mental capacities to save Sarah, an agent who barely escaped. After all, the Tango poisoner was after her. Second, to try to get back to the capacities he had lost due to saving one too many undeserving rats. Mikhael knew better than to believe a word command said, he'd been in the game long enough now. It grated him to remember that when he joined the undercord, he'd thought command was the shit now he just knew when to accept their money.
In the hotel room last night, he'd asked Chad directly "Is there something you're not telling me?" Chad had smiled. “I am sure Command has informed you of everything." Mikhael had interrogated dozens, maybe hundreds of suspects in the past. He remembered his drill minder's favorite quote "brute force is best when combined with more subtle methods." "Inu is dead."
Chad had flinched, " I'll be clear, "He said, "I don't fucking care about any of your noble deeds, if it comes down to it I won't hesitate to terminate you."
They both were pawns in someone's hands. But whose? Mikhael was determined to find out. But for now, Chad must think he trusted him. + Mikhael buzzed for the stewardess, he could do with vodka. There was no point in worrying about Chad, he was 30 000 feet in the air and he'd made sure Command paid for him to fly business, he might as well as enjoy it. He flicked open the TV screen in his arm rest. He'd missed the first fifteen minutes of Roboto Cleans This Town Up! Right now Robotowas downstairs in the basement, prying apart the bars of a high window. Slowly it began to creep up the staircase. The first floor was strewn with meaty human detritus, like a grisly Jackson Pollack painting. Roboto cast a sensor probe over the macabre scene and then began cleaning, first by scooping up the largest chunks and pieces and bagging them, then by getting out the soap bucket and water and scrubbing. Mikhael laughed appreciatively and unscrewed his fourth mini-bottle of vodka.
He fell asleep before Roboto put the screws to City Hall, his leg jutting out into the aisle. Below him in the darkness, lay the peaks of Alps. In his dream, Sarah Wagenknecht, stepped out from behind the curtain holding a diamond in her hands. Giggling, she bent over to give Mikhael a sloppy kiss. It seemed to matter little to her that he hadn't washed in days. "Time for a little fun Mikey," she said. "Indeed," he replied. A grin came across her face.
[edit] Straight... or bent?
He was yellow and bent. This was nothing unexpected, if one was a banana, but this was not a fruit. More to the point, he was yellow, because he was scared of getting caught and although he was working for the 'command' he would often do as little as he could so that if the whole operation was blown he would not also be exposed. needless to say, he was bent, bent as they come. He had worked for his employers for fifteen years and had risen up the ranks. He liked the uniform, and he looked good in the reflective sunglasses, but it was the kickbacks that lured him to work for the 'other side'. All he had to do is warn the Minister or one of her agents in 'command' if Lt Gerarson was getting too close to their plans.
[edit] Symposium
Chittering, clanking feet danced a deadly tango towards him.
"Sean, is that you?" he inquired. Chad fumbled for the cotton handkerchief that his mother always insisted he carry with him, the initials "ct" monogrammed into the corner in what Chad always thought was a needlessly fancy font. He wiped the tears and grease from his eyes and blinked again.
- BLINK*
"Hello" Said the stranger, "I am indeed Bill Gates, and its time you learned the truth about your life."
Searing, white-hot pain erupted in Tony's skull. The voice of god opened every door in his house and the mice of his thought scurried under walls.
Gates sounded as though he had used some of his vast wealth to hire a voice actor. Or buy military technology to beam his voice directly into Tony's brain. The face was indeed Bill Gates, but the voice sounded deep and rich like a slightly pitch-shifted James Earl Jones. Tony shifted uncomfortably in his shoes (where were the pennies?).
The truth always made him antsy, even if it vindicated him, and he had a feeling the truth train was due to dock. Truth rarely had any worth in his line of work so to be confronted by it in such a manner made him sweat. "Yeah. Sorry, Bill, love to stay and chat but I gotta go see my mother. She's in a hospital with the heaving cripp, nasty business." Tony made to leave but could not get his legs to cooperate.
Mr Gates only smiled. "Mr Grappa, if I may?" said Bill, waving his hand. "You cannot go anywhere because you are dead" he pointed to the figure sprawled on the ground at Tony’s feet.
The terrible secret of Windows Vista became clear to him in that dreadful moment. Vista was Hell 2.0, a social networked pathway to the infernal realms of Satan. Mr. Gates was using these paths to gain magic powers.
Big Tony, Named by his devoted mother Antonio Fonzarelli Sharkjumpy Grappa, had barely enough time to register this small but important fact before there was a bright flash, and what seemed like a seconds free fall, when he opened his eyes again he was on a beach. Bill was still with him, but this time they where both wearing simple white robes. A penguin waddled up to both of them carrying a tray with drinks, balanced on its head by some unknown mechanism. Bill took a tall cool glass, and Tony recognized the other drink as a Big Tony Grand Slam, a favorite cocktail named in his honor. They both took long sips of their drinks as the sunlight played on the gentle lapping waves and a cool breeze wafted around their bare ankles. Behind them, almost totally submerged in the warm salt water, a robotic space ninja crept along the beach, its grim laser eyes penetrating the murky gloom of the ocean water with ease.
"You probably have a million questions" Said Bill, taking another sip of his iced tea, "So feel free to ask" he gestured for Tony to follow him as he started walking toward a nearby golf cart, its penguin driver waiting patiently behind the wheel. Tony was at a loss for words, for only the second time in his life he could recall, then his memory corrected him, for the first time in his death anyway. Eventually he sputtered, "Yeah, that mp3 player, what the hell where you thinking?" Bill turned slightly and frowned, but kept on walking "That’s kind of different" he said "Most people ask me how they died, then get angry" They arrived at the cart and climbed into the spacious rear seats, the penguin put the nearly silent cart into gear and started slowly down the asphalt path that ran parallel to the beach, in the distance, Tony could make out an amusement park and surmised that was to be their destination.
The journey took all of about 45 minutes, Bill explaining what he was doing to The Afterlife now that he had won the contract to run it. All around he could see hundreds, if not thousands, of people enjoying the new rides, eagerly boarding the massive, whitewashed wooden roller coaster that stretched off into the clear and cloudless horizon. Behind them as they approached their destination, a struggle took place, unnoticed, in the surf. An enormous white-tipped shark was seen by more attentive beach goers to be attempting to swallow some sort of black-clad, shining chrome robot, which was in turn repeatedly bludgeoning it with a pair of bright-red laser-nunchaku.
Tony posed the obvious question, "Bill" he said, never tiring of saying that name, “if this is paradise..." He gestured to the unearthly delights that surrounded him, "what happened to...you know... the Other Place?" Bill looked up from signing a report a penguin had handed to him on a clipboard "Oh that place?" he said casually "Closed it down" "Closed it down?" "Ya" chuckled Bill, "Wasn't appealing to our target demographics" "Huh?" Tony was shocked to say the least. "Marketing did a lot of research about it, tried to reinvent the concept, the woman who spearheaded the initiative did a remarkable job, they called it Hell 2.0, in the end the executive board voted it closed" "Probably did not want to end up there" joked Tony. Again Bill's usually expressionless face creased into a slight frown, he was about to reply when there was a strange chiming sound coming from within his robe, fishing around for the source of the sound Bill revealed a cell phone, he excused himself and wandered off to take the call, Tony only caught the first part of the conversation where Bill cheerfully inquired to the caller about how he was settling into his new job, my goodness isn't this an amazingly awful run-on sentence.
"Sorry about that" Bill apologized, "Just had Lucifer on the phone" "Lucifer? The fallen angel?" Tony vaguely recalled getting a religious education, his school life a sequence of nuns, alternately cranky and pleasant talking about where he would go if he was wicked and sinful, and who would be waiting for him once he got there. "He became nice enough when we told him he was redundant" Said Bill putting away his phone "I pulled a few strings and got him a job at Apple" Bill walked over to a small table under some swaying Cocos palms and offered a seat to Tony, sitting down, Bill smirked "Surprised? Look at the massive turnaround in the companies fortune in the last decade" the smirk became a massive grin "All thanks to your so-called fallen angel" Perambulating penguins promptly arrived with sirloin steak and a platter of chips for Tony and a salad for his host. "You can put them in a salad!"
For the first time since arriving in paradise. Tony wondered what happened to all the people he had met in those last few strange and terrible days.
The seafood extender pizza that night sure was tasty...
[edit] Feast
Helena was grateful to Ka for saving her, but what she had heard from the lips of the mysterious man in that large house was very unsettling.
Ka and this man, van Gorp, had made her a proposition not much better than the imprisoned apartment that Ka had so hypnotically led her away from and to freedom. But, was it really freedom.
Now they had proposed (literally proposed) something that would ensure her a life of prestige and comfort, but it was still a gilded cage as far as she was concerned.
If Helena really felt she had a choice she would have refused them and left to go home where she belonged. But, as she looked over at Ka she realized that there was something quietly threatening about him. He was not a man to be refused.
And so, here Helena stood, dressed in the most magnificent bridal gown. Staring at her slim figure in this clearly expensive silk dress, she wondered about how so many things could have gone wrong, in an endless force of fate.
Helena and Ka were in the vestry of an enormous church. Outside, the church was filled with the most amazing array of dignitaries and celebrities.
“This is not going to work,” Helena objected.
“Trust me,” Ka reassured her (though she remained secretly unconvinced). “Mr Dimitry is a most respected man. He is a very high ranking diplomat. You will be his wife and your every need will be taken care of. He will be able to assure you of personal protection and safety. You won’t even have to spend much time with him, unless you both find that you do grow close as time goes along.”
Helena nodded, more out of a sense of defeat than because of any actual assent. For some reason, she was to be a mysterious, unknown but beautiful woman marrying a respected diplomat.
Little did Helena know that among the guests at this wedding were a few people she would rather be a million miles away from.
Sitting on the side of the church meant to be reserved for the bride’s family, were Sarah Wagenknecht, Tony, Carlo. and all manner of other operatives from ‘command.’ They were hardly ‘family’ to Helena, in fact they had been her abductors and kidnappers responsible for keeping her in her apartment under a form of house arrest.
Sadly, Ka knew them better than he had let her know when he appeared and seemed to save her. He was not actually saving Helena from the ‘command’ but in fact had been taking her to the next job they wanted her to do for them, marrying this dignitary as the perfect pawn for their operations.
To have the wife of a famous diplomat under one’s control, she could take things from country to country under the cover of diplomatic privilege without any obstruction.
However. The ‘command’ was not going to have a smooth operation this time. Inspector Gerarson was looking at the guest list with great concern. He had not ‘twigged’ to the plot in relation to the arranged marriage, but there were certain person or persons in the guest list that he had major concerns about. “There is no way that the Prime Minister can be allowed to attend this function.”
“But,” one of his police officers objected. “Sir, he is on his way here. He has been invited by the Diplomatic service to attend the wedding. it is a major social occasion.”
“No way. get in contact with his minders and turn him back home. This is too much of a security risk. I have reason to believe that a murder is in that crowd,” Gerarson explained.
“Won’t the Prime Minister’s non-show warn the guests that there is something wrong?” The officer inquired.
“Not necessarily. I have arranged to have a message sent to the organizers saying the Prime Minister is coming, but will arrive after the first course is served, just as the main meal. SO until they are placing the baked fish dinners onto people’s tables they won’t think any more of it. That will allow us to monitor the security measures we have had put in place. They don’t know it down there, but the place is wired for sight and sound,” Gerarson put on an alarming grin.
Ka had taken his place in the church. Helena was pacing up and down in the vestry. She was very worried about this. She was beginning to realize that she would still be at the beck and call of others. She opened the vestry door and peered out through a crack. Suddenly the back of a man’s head made her start. And the sight of a big bald head of the man next to him made Helena almost faint. Even from behind, she knew them.
They were Carlo, Big Tony and Mikhael and beside them was Sarah.
“My God,” She whispered bitterly. “I am still in their web”
Helena was not hysterical. She tried to find a door that would lead directly outside, but they were locked. She though of just walking out of the vestry door and turning right and running, but she noticed a big man in a black suit watching her and knew it was a security guard.
A man entered the vestry. He was the priest for the wedding, or so Helena, and the guard who saw him enter, assumed.
“Hello Helena, are we ready?” The priest asked brightly.
“AH,….. well… Father… I……” Helena hesitated.
“My name is Fr Chad, by the way. Now listen. You are nervous…. I shall turn on some music to relax you.” the priest switched on a tape machine and rhythmic music filled the vestry. “I find dance can be so relaxing. Would you mind doing the tango with me, something completely ridiculous, just to relax your anxiety……….”
Sarah Wagenknecht, a highly respected minister dressed in a blue that seemed almost black was wondering what was taking Helena so long. She went to the vestry and was surprised to see a priest's stole lying crumpled outside the door of the vestry.
Sarah looked inside and stifled a scream. There lying on the floor was the body of Helena. Sarah was heartless in her reaction. “They have ruined everything.” She felt for a pulse. There was none. Helena was dead. Sarah took her phone and spoke rapidly. “Our bride is dead. Now what do we do? Really, a second. Can we pass her off as the same lady? Well, now that you mention it, no one has met Helena so why not. What is this new lady’s name?"
The voice on the other end of the phone was a husky alto. “Gina was a lady we abducted much like Helena. She has been a prisoner waiting for our plans and now she can be the backup.”
Inspector Gerarson was listening into the conversation in the Vestry. he was amazed. He had unwittingly overheard about the plan to use diplomats as a cover for illegal movement of goods through different countries. This was a bonus. He was just about to send his men in to find out what the commotion was in the vestry, but he now knew that the Tango poisoner had struck again. He called his men to go in.
When Carlo, Tony and the rest saw the police running towards everyone, they knew the game was up. They ran for their lives, knocking chairs and people over to cause maximum confusion. They began shooting with guns they had smuggled into the church via their own security guards.
In the confusion, Gina, looked down at the stray dog that had run for cover in the vestry, where she cowered, beside the blanket-covered body of Helena. The dog looked terrified. Suddenly, she saw the shape of a man rushing towards her, reflected in Inu's eyes. She leapt aside and he went crashing into the bookcase behind. This 'backup bride' was able to use this momentary delay to break free of her captors and run into the confusion.
She rushed over to the church hall and knocked over the caterer who was carrying trays of fish to the table. He was about to yell at her, not realizing what was happening next door in the church (he assumed it was fireworks) when he exclaimed: Gina, It’s you! I …… I thought you were dead????
“Mark? Gina screamed. "I ….. what are you doing here…. I am saved. “
“Gina, what happened. Where have you been?” Mark said delirious with joy.
“You won’t believe it. I have been held a slave by this disgusting group of low lives. How did you know I was here? “ Gina asked.
“I didn’t,” Mark said. I am the caterer. They loved my fish so much, I was doing the main meals.”
Sarah reached over and kissed him, while in the background, the bodies of Carlo and Tony and Sarah were being carried out of the church. No last rites for them this day.
Mark smiled as he knew that his first love, even over the ‘ones that got away’ was back with him again. “Thank goodness for that kiss. I was fishing for compliments all night.”
Mikhael checked into a Holiday Inn close to the airport. He was expecting to be contacted for his debriefing by command. His room looked over the car park. Grey, wet, depressing. He turned on the television.
- click*
"-The Hunter Bloodworth Show!"
"Howdy, folks! Welcome to the Hunter Bloodworth Show. I'm your host, Hunter Bloodworth. Last week we showed you how to bait and trap a shagamaw, then later in the program we tracked and shot a white-tail jackalope. It was a heck of a good show, and if you missed it, we'll run it again on Thanksgiving Day. So program your VCRs kids so your parents can watch it again at Christmas!
Now, don't you hate it when you've been out in the brush, or the hot desert all day long, trackin' a diller, or a tasty looking doe, and the Law's gotta go and show up and spoil all the fun? Well, in today's episode, we're gunna show y'all how to avoid those pesky game wardens! We're gunna-"
- click*
"-with the severed hand of his estranged wife in a pickle jar-"
- click*
"-which brings the total deaths up to twenty three for the day. For the latest tally, be sure to tune in later tonight at eight for News Hour with Jim Falls. Next on Headcrime News, the latest gory scenes of death, carnage, and destruction from central-"
- click*
"-and it's an air freshener too! Ok, now... just take it out and pop it in your mouth! Stroke it a bit-"
- click*
"-I've just about had it with up to here with you're incessant whining!! Do you have any idea how it is to have to listen to your awful, pathetic grousing, day in and day out. I swear, you can really drive a man crazy! Do you hear? Crazy, I say! Why you little bit-"
- click*
"-nth. Now, over here on this side of the mountain, let's put some happy little trees.... right along here, just... happy little trees... here, perhaps one over here by the river...-"
- click*
"-any large caliber rifle with a scope is good enough for these little critters, but personally I prefer to use the Colt ACR with a Leitz C79 ELCAN scope. Them-"
- click*
"-♫ ♪ Baby you can light my cigar! ♫ ♪-"
- click*
"-stage two of the process involves the use of a high powered Cryomolecular Resonance Harmonizer to stabilize the genetic interface between the mutants and the pure strain stock that we see pictured here. As you can see gentlemen, this is where we must concentrate our resources. If we do not, and we allow the Spectromagnetic Wavelength Discontinuity to get any worse, we will have more to face than the ignoble shame of-"
- click*
"-uck all ran out. Just like that! Can you believe it? I just looked at her and smiled. You know what I'm sayin'? I wasn't gonna start no sh-"
- click*
"-zzle and continuing on into the late evening, possibly developing into a thunderstorm, or a blizzard, or-"
- click*
"-the perfect storm-trooper! Hitler now had the army he needed to begin his bloodthirsty conquest of Europe.-"
- click*
"-deposited neatly on the small of her back-"
- click*
"-to back episodes of The Hunter Bloodworth Show!"
"Thank you, Hoss. And welcome to week two of our continuing struggle to track the elusive northern striped Sasquatch -"
- click*
"-Yeah, I'm a dirty old man. And I'm going to be a dirty old man until I'm a dead old man!"
(laughter)
"Pop, I-"
- click*
[edit] Black Hole
The black hole was massive, millions of miles wide, pulsating slowly, slowly consuming all that surrounded it. Nothing could escape it - not even light.
Its nickname:
'postmodernism'
Shall we for ever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel into another?
Are we for ever to be twisting, and untwisting the same rope? for ever in the same track -- for ever at the same pace?
Shall we be destined to the days of eternity, on holy-days, as well as working-days, to be shewing the relicks of learning, as monks do the relicks of their saints -- without working one -- one single miracle with them?"
The Fragment.
a conversation for me to have with so many men, so many men so many stronger than I am. I am reading and listening and watching and praying for a conversation for me to have with men who will slice into their hearts and let me see the blood is red as I see mine is in coming out.
A conversation, for me to have such blood-knowledge, would require statement, response. I give statement, response. I get statement, response and is it a wonder I think I know them? Is it not a wonder they know me?
Idols of my age, hanging on my wall, sitting in my shelves, living in my brain, you have taught me much, but you have not shown me I can cut my heart for others
And it was left unfinished. The poet, having gotten up to shave the whiskers from his face, left his computer sitting, idle; and his sly cat walked across the keys with the pococurante style of a dissipated Left Bank expatriate and, improbably, reformatted the hard drive.
"A chapter upon whiskers ! alas ! the world will not bear it ---- 'tis a deli- cate world --"
[edit] Dilemma
Mr Dimitry had one final surprise for the unlucky couple. A terrible choice.
Mark awoke, groggy and confused. The last thing he remembered was being reunited with Gina, and kissing here, who he thought was dead to him and to the world.
But... what happened then?
He recalls a crushing pain in the back of his head.
Now a man by the name of Mr Dimitry was standing over him. This frightening figure of a man is staring close to Mark.
"You are a bit of student, I believe, Mark?" Dimitry whispered. "Well here is a little conundrum for you. Since you and your girlfriend have contributed to the downfall of the 'Command' and a plan we have been carefully hatching for the last decade, you will agree, I am sure that this is fitting punishment." Dimitry was not smiling.
"Where is Gina," Mark spat back.
"I have her in here." He pointed to a back box, not much bigger than a coffin. It had a tube going into it from an air pump."
"Is she alright? Is she still alive?? You monster. You fucking horror." Mark was hysterical.
"Well, that is just the problem. I don't know whether she is alive or dead. But, I don't need to explain that to you, my friend. You are the student of physics. You tell ME!!" Now Dimitry smiled, but it was an awful, deathly rise. "I know I can't escape. The authorities are closing in on all of us who are associated with the 'Command.' Apparently a women by the name of Mary, who was secretary to the late Ms Wegenechkt, has been very helpful in tracking down all her associates. I told Sarah not to employ someone so damned efficient. Now it is the death of us all. But you and Gina will suffer anyway." The man had become quite disturbed.
"Just kill us and be done with us. Please don't torture us." Mark cried, shaking with terror.
"If you try to tamper with the box, it will blow up and kill you both. If you don't try to do something, she may die in there. What an extraordinary problem." Dimitry turned and walked away, never looking back. He would soon die in a terrible gunfight with the authorities, but at least he went out fighting, so he thought.
Mark thought for a long time. What should he do? He decided that all was lost unless he presumed Gina was still alive. So presuming that Gina was still alive, and knowing that tampering with the box would alter that state to the negative. He decided there was not much to be done but have faith and hold on. The authorities were closing in. He believed they would be okay. Gina had always hated his studies and his experiments. Mark vowed to himself that if they ever got out of this situation that he would devote all his time to her alone - and to fishing.
[edit] Away...... Drat!
The harsh cold water was running down his face in streams. He was shaking with nerves. The cold shower was supposed to calm him down. But he couldn't escape the growing sense of dread. It was inescapable, he knew that but still remained in denial. SO far he had escaped.
What was he thinking. He stood with his arms stretched out leaning against the wall tiles, letting the water flow over him. He had risked everything, his reputation, his job. And for what, a bit of money.
Still, the others had been caught, but he had slipped through. Maybe they didn't know about him. Maybe he could survive to go on as usual. He would be a good cop from now on, not bent, not doing the bidding of Sarah and the other members of the 'command.' They were all either dead or in jail. All he had done was tip them off in the investigations were getting a little too close.
His police uniform hung neatly ironed next to the shower. He longed to put it back on and walk with pride like he had before. What would his workmates think, if they found out he was a traitor.
But maybe not, maybe he had gotten away from it. He wouldn't be able to face jail. He had always looked down upon those "low-lifes" he had arrested. It gave him great pleasure to slap on the cuffs and march them to the car, and then lock them in the jail, ignoring their yelling and protestation. He took more pleasure than he should in seeing their humiliation. He always justified it because THEY deserved it. But, not him, he would not be treated like them, he would not be treated like a crim. he was a policeman, and not the other side.
Suddenly there was a bashing at the door. His heart leapt into his mouth. No, it couldn't be. No, this is not happening. He was trapped in the bathroom! No, not like this. please.. he just wanted to escape to the safety and dignity of the uniform. He leapt out of the shower and swiftly wrapped a towel around himself. he had to get dressed.
But, too late.
The police were surrounding him. It was his workmates, but this time they had the grim, unforgiving eyes of condemnation. He was exposed, physically and morally.
He tried to grab his trousers but one of them knocked them to the ground.
"come on, please, give me some dignity," he screamed.
But they grabbed him and handcuffed his hands behind his back.
His towel precariously perched on his narrow waist.
"But... but I am a cop, you know me! Give me some dignity, plEEAASSSE!!" He struggled with them. he could not face the fact that he was now one of THE "lowlifes".
"Not any more," one of them yelled back and marched him to the door.
"you.... you can't arrest me like this. There are people out there. NO" he protested as they marched him handcuffed and in a towel to the front door.
"You can walk bare-arsed for all we care. Traitor!" one of his former colleagues snarled back.
How the mighty fall.
Mark was standing at the foot of the apartment steps as the arresting officers stormed in. He remembered the wise-guy cop who had been all smug to him when Lt. Gerarson was asking him about Gina. Now he had Gina back and this bent cop was getting his comeuppance. And what a way to go. No more starched uniform, no more smart-arsed 'sunnys.' Just a scared traitor in a small towel being marched, handcuffed into the street, with pedestrians, ghouls and media for an audience.
As he was frog marched to the patrol car, Mark though he saw one of the other police pull ever so subtly at the towel. It came away and left this poor creature to walk the last few meters naked to the car.
He gave out an agonizing, almost inhuman howl. Like the howl of a whale in distress, not that this guy and his 'command' mates cared for their plight.
It was an awful sight. not at all as amusing as Mark might have imagined. The sheer rudeness of this horrific situation shocked the senses. Mark didn't think it could get much worse, until the ex-cop resisted briefly at the car (crazy! It just prolonged the embarrassment)and got a rude little slap on his behind from one of the others to make him stop. His face went bright crimson with shock and outrage.
The last image Mark had of this disgraced cop was of his bare athletic bottom being shoved into the patrol car. Mark would remember the red face and that white behind for many years to come.
"now, that's rude!" Mark said wiping his brow. "Geese, remind me never to get on the wrong side of you guys!"
Lt Gerarson was unmoved. "Don't worry about it Mark, we like to tailor the punishment to the personality of the criminal. He had it coming BIG TIME. He has helped a lot of people do a lot of harm. This is a small price to pay. And he was always strutting around like a schoolyard bully. But you know the real irony. We really don't think we have enough evidence to convict him. If he's smart and says nothing, he may get away with simply being dismissed from the force as being an unsuitable person. But, you know, the photo of 'him and his bum out', splashed across every front page across the country, should provide him with a lifetime of punishment. I can see the headlines now: 'Cop Caught With Pants Down.' Well at least that's why I called the media to be here when we arrested him," Gerarson laughed. His face softened for the first time.
Mark nodded solemnly.
"Now," Gerarson said changing the subject. "Where can I get some of that special fish you mentioned."
[edit] Paranoia
George's paranoia was only matched by his uncanny knack of being able to empathize with others. (At least he'd always thought so. As a child his mother had always assured him of his sensitivity.) He couldn't work out which was most influencing his present feelings. He sat surveying the novel that he and Jim and Walry, and so many others had worked on together (finally together). True, some had left in disgust, disillusionment, confusion - it turns out it is much harder to truly work as one than one first expected. It is so natural to want to impose one's own order, method and mind-set on the text, thought George. This letting go and working with a text that is not one's own is dizzying. Dizzying! He should write this down, this was good. This should be in the book. George began to rifle through the desk for a quill. George only used a quill. He conceded that it was a little pompous of him, but it was the Romantics that had really formed his aesthetic. He felt it was important to be true to your aesthetic, even if this meant quills and occasionally wearing a cape. It was when he was squirreling through the bottom drawer that he was struck by a terrible sense of foreboding. He sat up on his swivel chair, gripped the edges of the desk. There were others. What if they were simply waiting to the last few hours, minutes, only to replace this text, as convoluted as it may be, with their own sharply honed, but nevertheless controlled and exclusive tome.
_
Perhaps, we have only been humored, and the ultimate winner, as always, will be 'imposed order'. George prayed that this would not be so. He'd found his quill and feverishly he began to write, " The great novelist will always be the one who goes beyond, not for the sake of being different or shocking, but who continues to tread the rocky unsafe path -not the road smashed into the side of the cliff and flattened out by big organized machinery, coated with so many non-slip layers of asphalt! Never the asphalt! Always the rocky path! Because brilliance does survive, some sentences just linger, beauty doesn't fear vulnerability. In fact, all beauty is vulnerable, because beauty like other abstract nouns, does possess neither weapons nor goals.” George felt a surge of energy and power, this was good. This was his new manifesto. He would give his life to beauty. Everything would be different now.
[edit] An hour
Between lectures, Alex would often be bored. Finding ways to entertain himself seemed key to his attendance at the next lecture but often caused some difficulty because while he may have studied physics, it was still awfully boring and to revise the lectures would be akin to taking your 72 year old grandma to a Barry Manilow concert where, because of the weather (or some other incredibly remedial excuse), the only band to arrive on time was the warm up band who faintly resemble something bad you 'might' have heard 5 years ago on a show about failed 50's bands... but you cant quite be sure. So Alex sits at a computer and embraces the student’s best friend and what will for many be a lifelong companion - procrastination.[Unfinished]
[edit] The bonus post postmodern imploding Chapter
The lamps on the gates across the street burned brightly as he considered the panda and what to do - the panda mewled in pain - the high-pitched wail driving him to distraction. A drunk wandered past, stared at the panda, did a double-take, and then continued onwards.
Then, the panda unzipped a previously unnoticed zipper down his stomach - and out stepped... the Tango Poisoner! It had been the perfect disguise! He grabbed the man by the neck, squeezed tightly and began to tango. Ahh, tango - the passionate dance of the dead! [1]
Hours after Tango P, had strangled his last victim, and minutes before the stench of its body would become untenable to anyone, he pulled out a container of Tang mix from his pocket. "You know," he said to no one in particular, "Tang was created by the astronauts."
Another set of keys began clicking his death, click, click, click, delete, delete, delete as pieces of his newborn sky fell away like pieces cut clean and black away. Then the streetlight, then the snow, flake by edited away geometric flake, and soon the panda...pand...pa....
no more.... and the snow was the white space and hum of empty digital page...
[edit] Revelation
Jim leaned back in his chair and surveyed the results.
"What was this all about, George?" he asked scratching his head.
George smiled. "Well, Jim, in the beginning there was only the word, and everything, absolutely everything flows from the power of the word."
"But," Jim objected, "I have read your fucking sections of it and it jumps around all over the place."
George smiled his monk smile. Since he'd started meditating, he become a bit of an arsehole. He sometimes talked in koans and hit you with the walking stick he'd taken to carrying around. He shut his eyes and then said in a soft voice, "I've got it. I can only explain what it means by way of an analogy, because the meaning is in some ways beyond words, primordial. Let me explain by saying this." He paused and made the sign of the lotus with his hands. "Have you ever been driving along at night and suddenly you see at the side of the road a person standing there waiting to cross? You put on the brakes and then as you approach you realize it is not a person at all, but just a tree. But in the light, in the distance, you could swear that this was a living, breathing human being..."
"Yes." said Jim, it was easier just to agree and wait for George to make his point. He'd been different lately. He'd claimed to have had some sort of revelation while working late at night at the office. He had stopped using his quill and started reading Zen poetry. In his spare time he was writing some sort of manifesto. "It will change the world, Jim." He'd said, his eyes blazing. Jim was beginning to wish he'd never got George mixed up in this. He suspected if his mother ever found out, they would both be in a lot of trouble.
"Well," George continued with a wild sweeping gesture, holding up the pages of the manuscript; the manuscript that defied definition and genre. "Behold, this is the tree at the side of the road." The behemoth plopped open, revealing a random page of no significance.
Jim didn't understand. "What?" he said, squinting his eyes as leaned forward, inches away from its surface. You mean this stain here at the bottom of page 142, right below the passage about Sarah Wagenknecht?"
George snatched the manuscript away from Jim, apparently embarrassed. God, Jim thought to himself. George was like a painter that had failed to take a few steps back, to see the whole picture, as it were. A general lack of perspective. The work was like an ugly, petulant child. "George, you need to take a break. Get away for a while." he said.
George felt angry, who was Jim to criticize his sections? Jim wasn't doing much better. George had a strange sense of satisfaction about his finished work, if one could ever call it 'finished.' It may not have made much sense, but he had enjoyed writing it. He hesitated for a moment and wondered if he should go back and add some deep and meaningful subtext that spoke of the nobility of the human condition. The algorithm made all things possible! "The thing is. The thing is, " He said, "that there is a mysterious beauty to a collection of random and only-obtusely connected themes and chapters. For, the great thing about humans is that they are, above all else 'creator of meaning'."
Jim objected: "But it doesn't make any bloody sense. I can't make any bloody meaning out of it at all."
"Well, I suppose I could just take a hammer to all the pieces of text and wildly connect them together and MAKE THEM into a logical flowing piece of crap!" George's face had turned a deep red, (he was having one of THOSE moments again). "After all, that is all Virginia Woolf did with Mrs Dalloway, and she's regarded as the nemesis of Literature."
"Nemesis of literature?!?" Jim spluttered in disbelief. "That doesn't even make sense!"
"What does it mean for something to "make sense" anyway? Maybe it should be our prime mission, to strive to ensure, (above all things), that we can NEVER be accused of "making sense" just so our audience can sleep soundly tonight, cozy and comfy. Unchallenged."
" Yes, yes, avant-garde, Brecht, Beckett, and after all, wasn't modernism about resisting appropriation, defying closure? Is that what you mean by saying Virginia Woolf is the nemesis of literature? The difference is they were actually interesting and well written... George?"
But George wasn't listening, he was talking out loud while he wrote in his secret notebook, “It is as if humans exist to keep finding patterns and meaning in even the most random of sequences, thoughts and scenes. These disparate thoughts that I have penned down randomly, as different ideas came to me; some mysterious, some sad, some hilarious, stand as a fragile testament to the human condition." He paused in thought and then stood up on his swivel chair "After all," he proclaimed in the direction of the drooping geranium in the corner of the office, " is not the world a collection of individuals who engage together in the great dialogue that is human significance and community. And, maybe you were right after all, Jim, maybe the meaning of it all is love. To be an instrument for life rather than destruction. Maybe its about the different ways we try to leave the world a better place than how we found it?"
Jim slumped back into his chair. He would send George on a little holiday. He could understand how this project might have tipped him over the edge. He wasn't feeling quite himself either. He needed to get organized. He pulled out a pen and wrote: .........this is the text.... Möbius back to page one "(Joyce on the red phone)"
[edit] Life Goes on...
Carlo's case had been dismissed. It turned out more than five hundred thousand of the million penguins that had died while tripping on Carlo's wonderdrug had traces of Global Warming in their blood stream.[2] He was a free man. A free man with a curiously guilty conscience. Ok it wasn't all his fault but he had to admit, if only to himself, that he too left the television on standby and took long haul flights. He would change his life. He would use his drug empire for good. He would be like an Angelina Jolie/Richard Branson cross, he would, well he would be a something. He made a note so he wouldn't forget: "Energy is running out and the planet is overheated. A mass of people is setting out for foreign lands. What to do about it?" What he needed was to get the world working as one, pool our resources, a community project, a wiki for climate change. He was excited, he felt pure. Eine dunkle Gestalt!
He went into the hallway and knocked on his neighbor's door. He'd never even spoken to her before but now he was bursting with love, with goodwill. He wanted to know what she thought. He knocked again. +
The door opened, she had a towel on her head and a cigarette drooping from her bottom lip. She looked at him and then leaned forward and looked down the hallway. "Yes?" She said.
Carlo explained everything that had happened so far, whales, Inu, penguins, the strangeness of George and Jim, Chad and Mikhael, the introduction of a banana and how he had suddenly become enlightened.. the answer was group action for climate change. What did she think?
"It is hard to imagine that humanity has remained unchanged such a long time, perhaps it is time we did. Nevertheless everybody experiences events in his intimate life. All over the world, balanced between publicity and privacy, men and women are continuously under our eyes and the same in our minds. As we all know, nothing truly ends. Even after the curtain has fallen and the adventure is over, people continue to live. There are millions of filmstrips at this second playing out in time: one alone is shot from behind your eyes, within several you are in and out with great regularity, in some you are just background. To a million others you and your name have simply never been born into this world. And thus it spins on." She smiled at him, took a little bow and then shut the door.
Carlo was stunned. He just stood in the hallway, his arms by his sides, staring at her shut door. Then he pressed his mouth to the keyhole. "Are you in or are you out?" he asked.
[edit] A Time to think!
A Few days have passed before Jim had the time to look at his manuscript in progress.
"What the hell is going on!" he exclaimed in rage.
His group of employees at the Penguin Wiki Press, the three ladies, the gentleman, and the monkey, were all struck by his loud voice. They thought they were doing great, helping him typing his manuscript.
One of the ladies, Fransesca, not too fat, not too thin, came closer to Jim, "have we made any mistakes in typing, sir?" she asked him in a low shy voice as she moved her thick eye glasses back and forth.
A "No..." answered Jim. "It is not your mistake, and certainly not the mistake of anyone in this room." Jim was relaxed now, speaking in a nice tone this time. "It's my fault!" he confessed.
"Why do you think so, sir?" John, the gentleman responsible of the Press marketing strategies, asked seriously.
"well, I think the manuscript is going too far away from its main original concept I had previously envisioned in my mind. It's becoming a kind of a "tabouli", a mixture of too unnecessary ingredients. If this goes on this way, we'll be finding difficulties in marketing the book. Don't you agree?" Jim answered back and looked at John square in the eyes.
"Well, yes... hmm.. you might be right?"
Lisa, the third lady, who was taking care of the office supplies, issued a bold statement, "Maybe.. we should start all over again. Let's get the right idea penned then!"
O A deep long moment of silence passed...
[edit] Firenze
He sat at a little table under an enormous umbrella. He was perched at the top of the set of steps to the hauntingly beautiful church of San Miniato Al Monte, which was nestled atop the hill on which Piazzale Michelangelo overlooked the beauty of Florence and its Pinkish-ochre domed Cathedral.
George was feeling so much better. After all the strain of the novel, he felt so rested here. It was quiet up here.
He had started a new business, just to give him a break after his emotional collapse. He was now into market research. He had even got previous computer-game addicts to help him with the computer research part of the job - Jeremy, as well as the solitaire-addicted man whom he never did get the name of, and of course Sebastian. Even Alfred and he had made up and were on the same team.
There was only one problem. Although it was peaceful and quiet up here in George's favourite part of Florence, he wondered whether he should have set up his market research booth in the centre of town. He knew it was relaxing here, and he could do his paperwork in peace and tranquility. And he hated the mad crowds and the hustle and bustle and to-ing and fro-ing of the throng. They would go this way and that way and sometimes right over the top of him if he dared to stand still. It was a mass of human pandemonium. George comforted himself that this was the best place to be. But then, he wondered for a moment, might he be getting a better picture of what the crowds were thinking and feeling and saying and wanting, if he had stayed in the main street? Oh well! He could always move down there eventually. For the moment, he was content to look out across the horizon and down upon one of the most beautiful cities in the world; where artisans and princes transformed the world, not only with paint brush, chisel and plaster, but above all with the perfection of beauty.
[edit] The Rise of Ike
Rock Hopper the penguin hopped from rock to rock. In his peripheral he saw a small soggy card with the words trivial pursuit written on it. He went over and was suddenly enlightened by what he read.
According to the card his left flipper was not actually his left flipper! “Left is actually 12 degrees north and right is actually every other direction.”
That night Rock Hopper was sitting on a rock thinking of the information he had just acquired, when suddenly out of the ocean a whale surfaced and out of its blow hole came another card which landed at Rock Hopper’s feet.
Rock Hopper read the card, which as it turns out was holy. “My God! This is a sign from God; I need an eBay account, now!” Thought Rock Hopper.
After having successfully uploaded his prized possession to eBay he went to spread the word of God. According to the new god, who identified himself as Ike Eisenhower, that every 34th day would be Ike Day and in return he promised Rock Hopper that he would be the supreme leader (a.k.a. the grand chocolate taco) of the world and his capital would be greater than the Californians and that of the Aztecs combined. And all Rock Hopper had to do was take over Russia and build an interstate that connected to Alaska. That would show those damn commies.
Rock Hopper contemplated on how he could best carry out the wishes of Ike the holy master of the Eisenhower Doctrine. Suddenly like a train striking an SUV he had the perfect plan.
Now he just needed a gullible whale…
Antonio was sitting in a small, dark room filled with screens and computers. There was an extensive amount of tubes, cords and cables running across the floor and walls, not to mention the ones attached to his head, pumping fluids in and out. He didn't feel them, though.
Antonio suddenly felt what he called a "jolt." He swung his electric chair up to screen #5, one of the screens that were connected to the Arctic system. He only needed to look for ten seconds before he knew what he had to do.
Antonio then began what he referred to as his "ritual." He closed his eyes, and expelled his psychic energy. The fluids in his head tubes were running at full force now. He was searching, searching for...a whale. Antonio had found it.
It began to swim toward Rock Hopper.
[edit] Knole House Enigma
The nameless writer sat reflecting on her journey. Her red tee shirt worse for wear from her trek, not only across the continents, but on a pilgrimage of souls.
She had been here before, she had written in this house before.
The Woolf was at the door again.
She thought to herself, what an amazing thing. A writer all her life, yet for the first time it was this mad project in which she had dared to be herself. Hidden, within the safety of a crowd. But was this reckless? Was this Folly? She had written things closest to her heart - others had too. Sita, has come full circle.
There was a party down the road. She could hear it. Perhaps it was better. Yet, a rare and subtle wine was being served in this place. She raised her glass to absent friends.
Contained in here, in these pages... - Not for her the clicking keys of mere monkeys - Not in these chapters: whiteboard scratchings, but rather.. - ...a path for those who search from an ancient hunger.
She looked long and hard at her image reflected in the mirror. She now carried within her the qualities of those she had met. Acne-scarred still. She was a flawed beauty. She who savoured beauty like a connoisseur lingered over a vintage wine.
A distant voice, the vessel containing the thoughts of so many, placed a thought in her head:
...."You have long sought beauty. You suffer greatly for it. On encountering it, you are pierced through - wounded. What is the meaning of this except it opens you up, it brings your heart to the surface. You, so well defended, what other weapon could penetrate your guard."
She hears it but cannot bring herself to believe this is true. Tears appear on her face. She cannot find words to explain what is happening. They are not tears of sadness. They are like the shower of rain just past, that clarifies the air.
The voice continues: "Continue to love beauty. It need not entrap you. Only, change this one thing. Widen the gate - Let what is beautiful to you be more than it is; deeper than it was. And be free."
I love you.
[edit] Reguritate
The penguin ambled over towards his chick, intent on regurgitating his recently eaten food to feed him. Much like the current state of the internet, he thought, where regurgitated pap passed itself off as having nutritional value. It was an unusual thought for a penguin to have, but he was one of a million penguins...
[edit] Afterword for the 74th Edition
It is not surprising, looking back, as to why this book has become one of the most enduring and widely read and reprinted books ever produced. A canon unto itself, a corner stone of corner stones. Seamless. An eclectic gathering of authors with wildly differing influences and styles all blended together ultimately creating a cohesive, well structured story. Mostly. Well, close enough anyway. Okay, not even close. But it is still fun to read, even after all these many long years since it was written. Why, there's even a religion that uses this book as their holy book, the Penguinites. You've seen them, loitering around the spaceport dressed in black and white, handing out leaflets free panda-suits and candied suppositories, always begging for spare credits or selling beaded nose hats and the like. And they always wear those funny little hats. What is it with those anyway?
We digress. So even after it became a New York Times Best Seller and the authors went on to become fabulously wealthy and famous, and the film and theater versions had garnered all the shiny awards and gone, and all of the various scandals involving the originators of the project had finally been resolved in court, or by firing squad in one case, it still went on to become a best seller again and again with each new printing. A unique gestalt of creativity perfectly blended to produce a truly astounding work of beauty and grace. The nexus of truth and beauty. There have been many imitators and knockoffs since this book was first published on the Internet, then later as a proper book, but this is the first, the original. There will never be another one quite like it. Where would Wiki, Inc. and all of it's subsidiaries be today without it? There wouldn't be a space station, the Wikistar, in orbit around Saturn if it weren't for this book!
We, as citizens of all the worlds and space habitats in the solar system, owe much to the original authors of this book, authors whose names are now inscribed in the very glow in the dark letters on the dark side of Luna, and will be forever held in the highest of esteem and praise. We thank you, all of us. We are all eine dunkle Gestalt!
[edit] Möbius strip
Carlo was breathing heavily as he raced along the mobeius strip. He was late, very late. He was supposed to meet Jim here hours ago but Jim had long since gone. In fact, everyone had gone.
Carlo parked his wheelchair by the bar and shook his head in despair. He would never know what Jim wanted to talk to him about. His life was full of twisted plotlines and half-written sentences and this was... How to make sense of it? Big Tony was gone, Mikhael and Chad too. He thought about it for as long as he could concentrate on one topic and, after ten seconds, gave up: it was all too difficult to comprehend.
Feeling sorry for himself, he stopped running along the mobius strip - he would probably only end up where he began. He caught a glimpse of a book lying on the floor. The cover was obscured - he could just make out a w and an i.. Perhaps he wasn't late after all. Maybe everything was going according to plan.
The book intrigued him; perhaps it was the book, the one everyone was talking about.
He should have been surprised but he wasn't. It was as if everything had been leading up to this moment. 'Someone is in control,' he thought. The penguin deaths, his brother, Inu the wonder dog/cat, the enigmatic number 'nine' and the ever-present zeitgeist. It would all be explained. There would be no resistance to closure. Carlo softened with relief.
John couldn't help but notice Carlo's interest. "Would you like to read it?" he asked. "Where would you like to start?
Carlo smiled in a knowing and unwry manner. "In the middle," he said. "But I don't have time."
Just then, Jim walked excitedly into the room, clutching the three novel contract awarded to him for his anthropomorphic essays. As he came closer, John asked Carlo Impatiently: "How does your book end?"
John stared at him for a long hard moment and replied: "Like this!"
![[1]](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1b/Catrina-sculpture.jpg/180px-Catrina-sculpture.jpg){kind=link}