the extinction chronicles

100121 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 1 part i

She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in a dim dawn light determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior - Punta del Este;” Sleep was fitful and fruitful with vivid images of baby Jesus along with answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next ‘fucking day in paradise,’ - still she pondered.

Angela arrived 10 minutes late and could feel the whine of stranded rich people curdling her supervisor’s good will. Sysa Phis growled lowly and pointedly - “get the fuck out there” · Angela processed tasks well; Sysa knew this from the request of the uber-Vips for Angela’s table; Sysa also understood Angela was acutely aware of her place in the food chain as she nodded quietly to Sysa’s fake-as-fuck friendly greeting. Angela gathered her iPad and towel in her apron and marched into the marble floor of good food at Excelsior, Punta del Este, Uruguay.

The afternoon sun was setting and the tables were filling with the charmed evacuees from a collapsed world economy, after the 2nd wave of death eviscerated northern economies, these movers and shakers of another age hoped to imprint their former significance onto a new landscape. Few of the pilgrims Angela served understood much about the culture in which they’d landed. Armed with gobs of bullion and a surfeit of noblesse oblige that had served them well in “Das Kapital” capitols of New York, Brussels and London for the past 200 years, but now required a nuanced cultural sensitivity absent from their patrician resumes.

“Can I help you?” Angela mimed to the garish redhead at her first table unsure which language to use. The brightly painted woman didn’t look up while she ordered catfish, potatoes and salsa in flawless Spanish for herself and her very pretty male companion who was leering from under his eyelashes at Angela while fingering the redhead’s diamond bracelet. “Thank god it’ll be a short shift,” Angela thought “The train should get to Montevideo by 20:00; I’ll be at the ‘Crocodile’ by quarter past, if I’m lucky.” Though the “Punte Este” bistro was steady money, work at the ‘Crocodile Cafe’ was far more entertaining; lucrative, and Guildern the owner was enchanted by her.

The ambulance was pulling away as she arrived at the ‘Croc’ about 10:20; the crowd at the doorway did not include the owner Guildern Suer, which struck Angela odd while Mordecaise Lizt was pacing slowly in a tight circle, still clutching his goblet of Tinto Rojo. He was able to focus his hoary blue eyes deeply on her when she joined his slow circular pacing; he stopped in front of her, stooped over and quietly muttered, “Guildern was stabbed in the arm evicting that puta Cocaine addict - Tito. Angela tottered for a moment onto Mordecaise’ elbow, murmuring vacantly, “is it busy tonight?”

“Not very; glad you’re here, Guildern was worried you missed the train; I had to force him into the ambulance - he lost a lot of blood - he’ll be okay.” Angela focused her distress and moved through the crowd toward the door like a battalion commander leading ADHD soldiers toward a flickering light. She commenced taking orders in the rapidly filling Bistro - mayhem seems to draw clients like flies; Angela noted, meaning to say nothing of this to Guildern, certain he’d known it before he ever gave the landmark cafe its name. Located deep within moss covered archways overgrown by ancient wisteria and its cloying scent of dulcet decay. The restaurant opened to an aged stone archway and massive oak doors resembling the landing for a dank terminus in a subterranean grotto like the customs office of its former life.

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Guildern sat up quickly - his sight dimmed and he sat back against the cool pillow. He glanced for his phone hoping it was in his “bug bag” on the nightstand. He’d managed to knock Tito unconscious with a beer bottle; standing over the body until the policía confirmed Tito was breathing, then Guildern allowed someone close enough to staunch the blood from his elbow pooling on the ground at his assailant’s shoulder. They used Guildern’s belt for a tourniquet, so his pants rode down his legs on his ride from the “Croc” to the emergency room.

It wasn’t until well passed 3 in the morning before he stepped out of the taxi into the darkened doorway of the cafe. Its door was propped open: there was a faint light on the damp paving stone - its peculiar moss green color contrasting with the vermillion of fresh spilt blood. Angela looked up as he stepped inside; the after-hours crowd ignored them, instead peering into their drinks like a tired herd in semi-stupor. Guildern and Angela settled on stools in the tiny alcove ending the long bar. Their shared fatigue somehow fortified each other; a “WTF just happened” unspoken sentence hanging between them. His hand rested comfortably in the valley of her crotch while she tenderly examined the dressings covering thirty bandaged stitches of his gash.

By 4:30 AM, trade allowed the cafe to close and darken; the two weary friends carried each other’s hand up the staircase to the loft and beckoning berth. Hours later the clattering of fish carts on cobblestones signaled early evening trade and prospects of further local economic recovery. The frontiers had reopened 6 months earlier after 3 years of lockdown. Like the necessary bomb shelters of WWII, people adapted to intervals of interruption, gradually succumbing to an inevitable dysthymia; adapting as best possible to circumstances punctuated by emotional conflagration and the score of scars injured parties carry in their wakes.

Guildern woke to Angela pulling his flaccid member into her mouth with a gentleness he’d forgotten existed in the world. Still woozy from depleted fluids, his gradual arousal resulted in a more sacred and spiritual release than he could remember ever having. Angela swallowed all his cum and dozed with his flaccid member in her mouth. The sun poured through the windows as he stroked her hair and reflected on their past 6 years together. Her petite physique and auburn tresses belied a physical power that still surprised when she hoisted cases of wine onto the top stacks, or shifted crates across uneven floors. So when she began to stir, he quietly crawled between her legs and applied her good instruction as best he’d learned in search of a peak they could both gaze from in their private hearts.

Mordecaise was in the process of stocking the bar for the early afternoon trade when the two climbed back down the stairs they’d climbed the night before. “S’up” Mordecaise grunted in his best imitation of “hood-speak,” just as Pasqual burst through the door slamming it shut before a loud crash echoed, following him into the cafe.

“Fucking Tito is out there with crowbar, swears he’s gonna kill you Guildern - high as a fucking kite.” Guildern didn’t know if he was gonna laugh or cry, so he returned to counting the receipts from the night before. “Man did you hear me?” Angela was on the phone.

Repeating out load the call, “Policia say we’ve exceeded our ration for the month; fix it yourselves ’til next month.” The pounding at the door ceased followed by an ominous silence; Guildern continued counting receipts.

Pssqual rose from his seat lifting the lariat from the wall used for rope tricks during winter festivals to attract clients, exiting the side door. 5 minutes later a loud mewling rose from the courtyard like that of a stuck pig; so loud that Mordecaise stuck his head out to see what was what. What he saw was Pasqual standing over a trussed Tito with a foot balanced awkwardly on a squirming Tito hogtied caterpillar-like trying to slough skin off for a new life. Mordecaise refilled his goblet of Tinto Rojo and stepped outside to consult with Pasqual.

Mordecaise set his goblet down on a low table near where Pasqual had sat to admire his gagged handiwork. Mordecaise lowered his voice and peered into Pasqual’s eyes, then began to dictate. Pasqual had his phone ready for notes. “There is a decedent, Domhall Schmuck from Oaxaca who died last Wednesday and arrived here minus documentation; the estate is sizable with no family claiming. I want you to check with your friend Gonzo Benino in Oaxaca for blood relatives, then contact Leslea Corkturn in Salt Lake. He lived in the States for 20 years before 2021 so there may be “blood” - low profile character; when you can, I want anything you can turn up about his business interests; please do this before the Public Administrator files; there may not be a will, so you can expect a lot of interest soon; make sure Gonzo and Leslei understand that.” While he rose, he turned back to Paqual, “there’s a Renoir shipping from NYC to Punta del Este next month, I want it insured for $3.5 million USD, same for the bonded carrier.”

Pasqual watched the gangly hirsute man receding back through the too small doorway and thought to himself, “life’s a real hoot.”

jts 10/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

170121 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 2

Not given to revery, Pasqual wasn’t sure how to process his feelings of that moment. He’d been raised on the “Tejas” border in Brownsville, TX and only through fluke accidents ended up married to Angela Vigoda, a Jewish American Princess (JAP) from North Hollywood, CA - his now ex-wife and concubine to Guildern Seur, owner of the “Crocodile Cafe” and best friend to his current employer Mordecaise Liszt. Pasqual and Angela had barely escaped the 1st Killing Wave at the end of 2021 - “the year that still was, 9 years and a 2nd pandemic later. Pasqual’s mother a full-blooded Chiricahua Apache, direct descendent to Cochise; his father a Rastafarian PhD candidate. His parents met in Nogales, Arizona where his father was doing a dissertation on the relationship of indigenous music to the reggae music of Jamaica.

Angela materialized at his elbow and whatever revery he’d had, vanished like coastal vapor from a rugged shoreline. “Well done vaquero.” Angela sounded quietly to him glancing toward the whimper of the trussed and gagged Tito. “Guildern is much appreciative of your help.” Pasqual, didn’t turn or look, but nodded to the gelded threat. Their dead son Jesus floated over every exchange they’d had since his death during the 1st killing wave. They’d tried to preserve their marriage, but the strain from death and migration proved insurmountable. One night during an unnecessary quarrel over an imaginary suitor, Angela stabbed the mezcal soaked Pasqual through to his liver - after which it was “heal or die,” for Pasqual; “leave him or whither” for Angela.

“Yeah, that brought up a lot of shit I didn’t see coming,” looking deeply into Angela’s emerald green eyes for maybe the first time since that fateful evening she’d stabbed him some 7 years earlier. She didn’t turn away seeing the deep remorse in Pasqual’s expression.

“Lad.” Guildern’s gentle voice burst through the fog of their shared memory; as he draped Tito’s quiescent form with a tarp amidst the slow saunter of a curious evening crowd, nodding first to Pasqual, then to the tailgate of a Toyota pickup in the haze of a sunset courtyard. “Give us a hand, will ya’ friend?” Pasqual shifted the load away from Guildern’s wounded arm as they hefted the semi-inert form onto the tailgate and into the bed as Mordecaise waved and shifted into gear; very slowly moving down the alleyway. Guildern took Pasqual’s hand, murmuring into his ear, “thank you friend.”

Angela had vanished inside as the two stood side by side watching the courtyard darken against the tide of that night’s trade - thirsty, fresh, and fairly oblivious to the drama of the past 18 hours.

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Mordecaise navigated toward the wharfs North of Old Town careful to not disturb his cargo or draw attention to his mug full of red wine. The warehouse door was ajar and two figures dropped the tailgate, ferrying the draped man inside the cavernous building before Mordecaise had turned off the ignition.

“Da’ fuck are you doing?” Tito hissed as Mordecaise ripped Duct Tape from Tito’s haggard angry face. “You fucking kidnapped me ya’ dumb ox,” Tito snarled, too whacked to understand his predicament. “I got friends, d’ay gonna fuck you up;” he spit; trying to piece together the ‘how and wherefore’ of his circumstance. The ache in his head from the night before beat itself into the rhythm of a steady tic in his right eye that winked with each empty threat.

Mordecaise seated Tito on a stool dead center within the large space; there was a metal pole rising from the seat to the height of Tito’s windpipe. In order for him to sit, he had to splay his legs; leaning forward made breathing difficult; his restrained arms were draped over the pole keeping him face front and limiting peripheral vision. What light he could see came through a small circular window high up and behind him; it lit the wall in front of him like an amorphous orb crawling up the wall, dimming and fading with the setting sun - a bizarre sunrise from an alternate universe . . . Tito was “jonesing;” fix, or fear; he couldn’t tell anymore.

“¿Comfy amigo?” Mordecaise voice was flat, icy, and close behind him. Tito began to shiver.

Murmuring to himself, “Gonna fuck you up, pinche buey; you fucked’ wit’ da’ wrong vato,” thrusting his chest out and gasping from the pressure at his windpipe; a talon like grip grasped his head tilting it up and pulling it forward.

“Stay like that to keep breathing,” Mordecaise calmly suggested; pressing his knee into Tito’s thorax. Wheezing assent, Tito’s frame became still against the pole. Tito knew the smell of welding and understood it was a welder’s helmet being pressed onto his skull. With a hiss, gas from an opened valve startled him further. . . Tito frantically searched his mind for the odor he was breathing; he knew it, but couldn’t remember, like so many parts of his life . . The knee pressed again, into the small of his back forcing him to gulp deeply for air, and laugh out loud - fucking - Nitrous Oxide. “¿What are you laughing at Tito?” The orb of light had vanished into the ceiling, replaced by a strobing red beacon pulsing with increasing intensity - brighter and brighter, until it was painfully brilliant.

Tears were streaming down Tito’s face from laughing so hard, and still that icy voice at his shoulder pressed for an answer, “Tito, you stabbed my friend - I’m not laughing, why are you?” Though blunted from substance abuse since childhood, and a veterano of gun battles and dodgy drug deals with vicious criminals, Tito had never been so confused, or frightened - he began to pee which electrified the pole sending a charge to his damp crotch. Now he was weeping, laughing and peeing. From a distance, it might seem as though Tito was a cheerful welder laughing through another happy day’s labor.

“Tito; what is so damn funny? You stabbed my friend; I’m not laughing.”

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“Angela, table 3 is on their 4th round of “White Russians.” Angela glanced to the 5 seated at table 3; they were beginning to spill from their chairs; spill their drinks, and based on volume - spill from the deepest recesses of their souls. “Shall I cut them off, or can you ween them slowly?” Guildern said looking at Angela; he relied on her keen customer service skills a lot.

It was close to the witching hour when clients shed more than their inhibitions - a fine line between commerce and mayhem, Guildern’s bandaged arm being testimony. “Let’s see if they can be encouraged back to the hotel by tales of lurking late-night bad guys in old town.” Angela kissed Guildern’s cheek, caressed his wounded arm and wandered off balancing her heavy tray high over the crowd, but still able to whisper something in passing to table 3 that dampened their picnic like a summer storm.

Mordecaise was entering through a side door as table 3 called for the check. With his red wine, he waded through the crowd to Pasqual who’d been quietly on the phone the entire night. “Where’d ya’ go boss,” searching the bemused face of his mentor; Pasqual’s question further brightened the twinkle in his friend’s eyes.

“Business Lad, always business.” Mordecaise checked over Pasqual’s copious notes, deciphering some notations from Pasqual’s unique script. “How far did you get with Domhall Schmuck?” Mordecaise respected Pasqual’s research skills and relentless curiosity, but wasn’t prepared for this report.

“It’s fucking strange, and just gets stranger and stranger.” Peering through his notes, Pasqual bent back his hunched shoulders taking a deep breath and exhaling a single thread of facts.

“The Schmucks were 3 brothers, until a little over a year ago, when the youngest brother Demsford died; six months later to the day, the middle brother Reynaldo died, then the eldest, Domhall six months later, almost to the day. They’d been orphans since 1976, when their parent’s private plane crashed in transit between NYC and their home in Philadelphia. They were raised by the family attorney and guardian, Lammele Dama Esq.: Domhall was 16, Reynaldo 14 and Demsford 12. Each inherited 1/3 of their parents $3.3 million estate (today’s value $18.9 million) on their 21st birthdays; Demsford died in a motorcycle accident while in retreat near Thich Nhat Hanh’s Plum Village in France; he was interred in the city he was living, Aix-en-Provence. Reynaldo died at Thich Nhat Hanh’s Root Pagoda, Từ Hiếu in Hue, Vietnam, and Domhall in Oaxaca; Mexico, as you know the death certificate was filed here in Montevideo without any record of how the corpse appeared in the morgue.“ Pasqual took in a breath, like a young student who’d just recited his first book report while Mordecaise marveled how he’d found such a gifted investigator without even looking - fucking synchronicity he thought to himself beaming with affection for Pasqual. “Like i said, boss - this is the strangest thing i’ve seen yet,” oblivious to the admiration in his mentor’s cobalt blue eyes.

jts 17/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

210121 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 3

Mordecaise savored this information like a tender morsel just off the grill while smiling past Pasqual’s curious expression. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the swelling cacophony of the “Croc.” It was that cheerful hour before the “sauce” corroded natural kindness and turned quaffing patrons into quarrelsome buffoons. Pasqual sensed Mordecaise’ heightened interest, though he seemed not have heard a word; the only indication - a quiet murmur in Pasqual’s direction while peering into his Tinto Rojo. Pasqual’s phone began to belt out The Pretenders “Working on a Chain Gang” and vibrate toward an ashtray full with marijuana butts from the afternoon’s hunt. “Hello, Leslei - thank you. Yeah it’s weird enough; can you talk? are you secure?” knowing this precaution barely slowed the state’s surveillance apparatus but served to dust the trail of amateur interlopers.

“I’m as quiet as a mouse in a maze; never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; all monies funneling to the next of kin - then to the eldest, Domhall who near as i can tell is intestate,‘no known heirs’. Their estimated combined assets are over $27.3 million; there is blood in the water. What have you learned?”

Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked waiting for an answer.

Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died at Plum Village - Meyrac, France; the body interred in Aix en Provence. My French helps, but for inquiries about Reynaldo’s death at the Từ Hiếu root pagoda in Hue, and why the body was interred in Hoi An, we’ll need an operative in country or a local fluent in English; I’ll let you know when I know.”

“See if the local police can help, they may have translators. For now, focus on France and text me when you hear anything. Gotta go” Pasqual hung up and looked toward Mordecaise who’d been listening and jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslei got as far as she could; the bad news is the Schmucks are considered foreign decedents, so the estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have gone to Reynaldo, and then both to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”

Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to the shifting gears of Mordecaise’ eidetic memory.

“Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone ring tone “Beethoven’s 9th” signaled an incoming call.

Mordecaise unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against the rising tide of clients toward an evening peak at the “Croc’s,” telephone nestled in the crook of his neck while his jutting elbow pierced air over the crowd’s oblivious brainpans. Angela remembered the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior - she was headed for the stage; the two were dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros with knee high crocodile boots. They elbowed their way to the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had delicately left. Angela turned to Guildern’s voice; “Rasta band called in ‘sick - These two are ‘Roja y Rojito’ and their ensamble, please help them set up, they’re what we got for the night.” Guildern was pacing toward the alcove with a handful of receipts before Angela could reply, while watching the restive crowd eyeing the red-haired lady and her crocodile-skinned poodle perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.

The red-haired dame nodded toward Angela without recognition, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously trailed the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired of the red-haired dame while shifting stools and tables to fit their petit ensemble and light instrumentation. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if that’s all there is. He’ll be having water”, nodding to her pet and his tattooed smirk. Like information sharing of an old growth forest, news from the harrowing night before filtered through the bar making it twitch like a shiver of sharks with the scent of blood waiting for . ..

What happened next jostled what was left of Angela’s conceit about knowing the world, for within six chords, the painted red haired woman Angela had scorned the night before as gouache at the Excelsior, broke into a gripping rendition of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela stood rooted by the sound of a room full with people moved by song; before her breath returned to normal her small ensemble broke into a cover of Lila Downs, and Paul Cohen’s “La Cumbia del Mole.” It filled every empty space of that transfigured room and thrummed with syncopation from the congas of her minor squeeze in their matching attire. Guildern was as struck dumb as any stone in the ancient walls of that cavern; and then returned to counting receipts.

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As any elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslei Coerktern had been cutoff and mansplained often, so she was unfazed by Pasqual’s boorish behavior, and instead followed the money: 3 dead brothers worth millions; curiously timed death of principals; estates lacking heirs; and Pasqual dodging questions. She signed into her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, then texted Pasqual advising him of same requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when past jtlg.” She commenced packing, adding notes to her phone then bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel deleting previous threads - a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.

Leslei had lived often out of a single carry-on valise and so kept one packed with a separate traveling wardrobe. She was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. She had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s. Part of her research for Demsford Schmuck revealed a long term lease for a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry - as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the youngest of the Schmuck brothers, she hoped.

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“Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, having hung up from his first call and trying to recall the incoming number from the 1,000s in his memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “Le défunt Demsford Schmuck a succombé à des blessures dans un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à des enquêtes approfondies. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 6,3 millions USD” Though they’d never met, Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?”

Not wishing to alert this able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants? Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signalant les exigences des entreprises, Mordecaise - a répondu avec dynamisme, à la réponse de Pierre «Bon, Bon - mais. .. ” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke.

Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked at Pasqual, “Can Leslei travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual nodded yes but more thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo knowing that the city he died in was the same place Tio Jose died in the ’68 Tet offensive during the American war in Vietnam. There were many male figures missing from Pasqual’s life besides his murdered father; “Boss, we also need boots on the ground in Vietnam, but you knew that,” they looked at each as though seeing the same adventure.

jts 21/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

260121 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 4

Angela woke up to horse cart clatter below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled his smell close to her. Stepping quietly into the room and seeing her awake he cooed “Good morning little darlin’ wiping down his sturdy frame; the dressing was removed and Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night. She asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. Stretching her lithe figure into the new day for his benefit, she told him “the First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap your arm up here.” He sauntered naked out the doorway down the stairs. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” he chirped from below,”or would you like some more sleep?”

“Coffee is a good idea,” she called from the door pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 something and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she’d never been tempted by the habits of bistros, preferring the endorphin fix from a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guildern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of barefoot running, one of many things they’d learned through love. When the key scraped the big door, Guildern trotted back up the stairs.

“Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise piped merrily, “entertaining naked men in the empty bistro I see. Au’yuh be a bawdy bunch - douting me love-addled mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” pecking her forehead tenderly. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her; she could tell from the writing it was Pasqual’s.

Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand -

The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept

your telepathic offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight

to Da Nang tomorrow evening late. Pasqual

Angela wasn’t prepared, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving bye over her shoulder just as a clothed Guildern reached the table. The men watched the door close, then looked at each other in a way only old men can.

Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday brunch, and the two retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise asked, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking and waited while Mordecaise stared into his goblet of Tinto Rojo. “I’ve never seen anything like it before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; huge estate - no one claiming, no one talking; feels hinky.” Guildern watched his friend fold and refold Pasqual’s note.

The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta buey, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando tengo un puto cuchillo,” fairly spitting this into his trembling face. Knowing only that the Cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog, a rabid, but very gifted dog.

“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out at the closest table while moving heavy objects to other tables Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a helpful glass of water, lifting it to her fearsome, but calming face, Guildern was focused: except for an interrupted conversation, Angela’s curious goodbye; why Pasqual was on his way to Vietnam; and who’d be entertaining tonight? . ..

The painted lady relaxed visibly and pointed to the red-faced recently released man-child: “fucking puta hit on some chula after pleading for a ‘raise.’ What would you do? besides cutting off his pinche verga? Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and had been greatly impressed by their encore performance the night before; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am + the same room in the back for lodging.” She was placid in her reply; standing up.

“Oui, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion, She led him toward their new digs at the back of the “Croc.” Guildern, stood and bowed, pinching his fingers together in the universal “filthy lucre” gesture followed by the two fingered peace sign, meaning x 2; the painted lady nodded, with her truculent, however compliant poodle in tow.

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Leslei was in her seat on the runway when Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up” announced a call from Pasqual, the text read: “will apprise G&M of ur dest; deprtng now for VN: kpn tch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had been during the 1st killing wave, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained of the former “charm of distance”.

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Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding passes and his passport when the ring tone for “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” announce Angela at the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s emerald green eyes staring at the camera in the entryway on his phone.

She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her front, though she’d never hear it from him. He pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?

They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his decision, but curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s nimble intellect. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul.

“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into his new home. She knew, nothing she could say would change his “pighead”, so she spoke from the heart.

“I want you to be safe,” she went out the door that hadn’t shut, then pulled it toward her like a lover and blew Pasqual a kiss, gazing at him through a prism of time.

When he saw Angela at the door, Pasqual had frozen like a burglar when a light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the ‘to do’ list:

1) cat food

2) fish to manager - pay 3 month’s rent

3) electricity - 3 months

4) vaccination record

5) scooter lock

6) birth certificate

He knew if he didn’t sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea, laid himself onto his pallet and breathed his way into a deep sleep.

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When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full Sunday night, and Angela did not have a minute until the end of ‘Roja & Rojito’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him the more for it. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and learned to open himself more to her abrupt ways.

“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the ocean is a healer.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He touched her shoulder and pointed a finger to the ceiling, signaling - one moment · Mordecaise glanced up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with a satchel, pausing next to Angela’s seat and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.

During the train ride, Angela listened intently to Guildern’s story which explained Pasqual’s journey, but did little to soothe her anxiety. At Punta del Este, they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded naked into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.

Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuck-all that could be done, but remain alert and open; hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century.

jts 26/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

290121 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 5

Leslei was landing in Paris waiting for her flight to Marseilles when Pasqual boarded his flight for Vietnam. She was curiously refreshed though she’d had 3 glasses of wine and had been flying against the Earth’s rotation; but not too giddy to miss the three “suits” trying hard not to know each other - more questions for Mordecaise. Until their international channel could be synced, it was unlikely she’d be receiving much information from Pasqual until the “muddy water” of transit cleared. So she savored the patois of France, and acclimated slowly to the oenophile culture she remembered fondly from years as an art student, sipping a Merlot for company while waiting to board.

Her acute vision was an invaluable asset for her work as an operative in the nebulous and increasingly lucrative field of estate recovery; from her perch at the airport bar, she was able to discern the 3 suits picking through the news stand glancing toward the bar and her rather than the boarding gate. She’d forgotten the fun of field work - the cat and mouse exchange of who’s doing who, and the role of the unexpected. He wore well traveled muslim pants, an overloud Hawaiian print shirt, sandals and dark glasses inside the terminal - reading a book rather than scrolling on a telephone, taking no notice of his surroundings. Leslei was not thrilled to learn it was she whom he was taking notice; even behind dark glasses she felt his scrutiny.

If not her hackles, certainly the fur on her forearms rose when he sat down in the aisle seat to her window seat. Nor was his obvious, nearly rude attention discouraged by her pointedly aloof replies. All that happened since “Mr. Shades” arrived, was losing track of the 3 suits. After an hour and a half flight her hackles did finally rise when upon exiting her cab and heading for the lobby of the airport hotel, he fell in step, oblivious to her disdain for his company. He seemed cheerful and courteous to the clerk inquiring about the food at the hotel restaurant; turning to Leslie he asked “would you care to join me for a bite to eat?”

In a voice that would pause a train, Leslie smiled and replied, “I’d rather have a boil lanced.”

Alone in her room with the travel and turmoil of the past 20 hours catching up, she puzzled over her strong antagonism toward the stranger. She knew nothing about him except his forthright visual curiosity, and after a very few minutes of increasing emotional confusion, she lay back into the pillows and was in a deep sleep before the lights shut themselves off, not waking until the automatic drapes began to open with the morning sun. By the time she’d showered and was waiting for the shuttle to the car rental, she’d nearly forgotten her peculiar experience from the night before.

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Pasqual had forgotten the mind numbing boredom of airport terminals, but 6 hours into his 10 hour layover in Seoul South Korea, it was no longer a memory, the boredom drove ceaseless steps back and forth across the length of the international terminal. 11:00 AM in Da Nang seemed an eternity away to him - Hoi An, even longer - the last address for Reynaldo Schmuck was Hoi An, though he died at the Từ Hiếu pagoda in Hue.

Pasqual’s tote began to resonate with the melody of “Mephisto’s Waltz from his phone, surprising him that it wasn’t in airport mode. “Hello,” he answered not looking at the number.

“Buenos Dias young traveler.” Mordecaise had a unique phone voice like that of a trusted news announcer. “We had no time before your flight; we need to get on the same page” Pasqual had retrieved his sketch pad where he’d started notes for the journey, Mordecaise continued his soliloquy “Interesting information about the Schmuck Estate from the executor, Lammele Dama; it became public upon the death of Domhall Schmuck, the eldest and apparent end of blood line.”

Mordecaise had worked long enough with Pasqual to interrupt when necessary, and enjoy the niceties when possible. “I want you to take precautions during this trip, hyper-vigilance if you will; not just with the case data, but weird shit in your travels. How are you, where are you, what do you need from me?” Pasqual appreciated his employer’s concern, more so when it was least expected.

“Good - five more hours in Seoul; Da Nang by 11 am tomorrow; can’t say about Hoi An or Hue” checking his list, before answering further - “a contact within the civil-authority, politburo, and National Bank would help for emergencies · more simple the better, like you say. What about the Renoir, are you tracking with DHL?”

“The painting is traveling slowly and surely; I have calls in for contacts in VN for you, waiting on replies. There is an open traveler’s insurance account with ‘Sojourner Fidelity’ under your name, and the Embassy in Hanoi has your estimated itinerary filed; contact the undersecretary Phuc Yeu for anything: we were in school together at Berkeley; make no cracks about her name - it won’t play well. I’m serious about Hyper-Vigilance, the importance of this file has increased by an order of magnitude is all I can say until we are on a more secure channel, got a call, gotta go.”

Pasqual stood staring past his phone into the cavernous terminal with 4 hours and 50 minutes left before take off. Leslei’s txt msg only read “Watch your back,” alone again, searching for any face searching for his; he texted back “U2”.

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The “Croc” was always too empty for Guildern when Angela was in Punta del Este; he was relieved when Mordecaise sat down. “Have you spoken with Pasqual about what you shared with me? Will ya’ have some asado with your wine?” Guildern asked scrutinizing his friend’s expression.

“Yes, and thank you; that would be excellent. No, he’s not got the full story. He needs to get his ‘sea legs,’ travel is a job in itself.”

Guildern placed the order and returned with a 3/4 pitcher of Tinto Rojo - the good stuff. “He will be in greater danger the longer he doesn’t know it’s billions not millions you’re messing with.” A flash of fury lit Mordecaise eyes, if you knew what you were looking at, then it was gone. “Even as a trained accountant, I cannot conceive the amounts represented by the strange codicil of the Schmuck estate; now that it’s public record, there is blood in the water.” Mordecaise nodded with a “d’ya think?” expression.

Mordecaise gazed kindly toward his friend and replied, “Alerting the lad before we know more would only blunt his exceptional instincts, and possibly telegraph what we know; now it’s just routine. Let it be that for as long as possible.”

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When Leslei arrived in Aix, she drove straight to Demsford’s cottage near Bibemus Quarry. She learned from the landlady that the stone enclosure had been converted from a stable, by she and her husband before he died a year before Demsford took out a twenty year lease. Madame Ouvrière’s ruddy face held a faraway look as she recounted the kindness of a stranger. Leslei also learned that Demsford had not actually died in Aix-en-Provence, but at the Plum Village monastery of the late Thich Nhat Hanh. Demsford’s body had been shipped to Aix by the executor of his estate, Lammele Dama as a courtesy to the Buddhist community. His body was eventually cremated and scattered over Mont Sainte-Victoire.

On a whim Leslei inquired whether the cottage was available; the landlady chirped happily, “Oui!” pulling Leslei along a shaded path to a massive stone archway, large enough to contain framed french doors and two panes of stained glass faithfully depicting two of Paul Cezanne’s paintings, one of the Bibemus Quarry and one of Mount Sainte Victoire.

Leslei had just put away her purse after counting out 3 month’s rent, when a sherwood green Aston Martin ground to a halt splaying gravel and spitting out an ascot-throated cartoon character, monocle and all. “I say, I’m here for the advertised ‘Rustic Cottage’,” pulling his Gucci suitcase from the trunk, placing it into the confused arms of Madame Ouvrière who spoke no word of English.

“Sir,” Leslei advised gently, “that property is no longer available;” holding the keys up to his furrowed gaze for inspection.

“I beg to differ, young Miss,” no longer looking at Leslei, but speaking directly to Madame Ouvière having no idea still that she understood nothing of English. “You see, I just concluded a call with my solicitor in London to secure this property for a month commencing today,” addressing the mystified Madame Ouvière, who was shaking her head while clutching his suitcase to her chest as though it was a towel she’d grabbed coming out of the shower. His aristocratic aplomb was beginning to flake and his privilege turned to bluster. Facing Leslei while extending a belligerent palm up limp wrist, pinky pointing into her face as though he’d expected the house keys to fall into his hand.

“Yes of course, I see how you might imagine that to be true, but if you don’t get your hand out of my face, you’ll be retrieving a bloody stump · is that clear enough?” She said this quietly with tangible menace; the flustered gentry pulled his pinkish paw close for inspection, maybe looking for a wound, but certainly feeling the pain of humiliation. “Perhaps if you contact your solicitor, he or she might be able to find you another accommodation¿ Had you been a tad less pretentious, you could have enlisted Ms Ouvière’s help for local knowledge.” Leslei said this glancing at the stranger’s suitcase toppled in the grass where Madame had dropped it as though plague infested when the stranger stuck his hand in Leslei’s face.

“That is your reply?” Having recovered his dignity, poise then followed like a spoiled child. “Clearly you have no idea who I am, or the enemy you have just made. I am The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Archdai Tryump at your service. You will be hearing from my solicitor.” Pulling up his suitcase like a boss, tossing it into his vintage vehicle with complete disdain for the quality or value of either, he gunned his engine and was gone from the clearing like a painful hangnail.

She heard “Get Up Stand Up” by Bob Marlely playing on her phone and knew that Pasqual had left a text message.

jts 29/01/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

030221 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 6

It was late Thursday; Guildern grinned to himself anticipating Angela’s return, he was not prepared when 3 members of the Cuban Rasta band “Venceramos Brigade” reappeared spilling through the doorway climbing on stage and looking around for an audience. “Jefe, ese - que pasa, ¿donde estan las ovejas?” Jaime Quixote hollered to Guildern, though Jaime was not the front man, he coordinated schedules and logistics, so Guildern was not backward in his reply.

“Da’ fuck are you doing? ¿Donde has estado ESE?” Guildern asked, climbing up onto the dais and into Jaime’s face - being an efficient manager and unassuming personality; Guildern’s taut workingman’s physique was not what Jaime expected to be dealing with when he entered the bistro and he backpedaled quickly to a stool looking up from under downcast eyes.

“Si, maestro. Discúlpeme Señor - la cárcel de Buenos Aires: el Che golpeó a un policía el miércoles por la noche por una multa de estacionamiento, Solo nos liberaron porque se inspector se entero de que éramos headliners en el Crocodile Café de Montevideo. Tu eres famoso, solo lo liberarán cuando confirmes y compones 2 noches por cuatro personas - Por cierto, debe saber que el Che estaba tan agradecido que le dio un gran beso húmedo en los labios del inspector).

(Yes master - in jail in Buenos Aires - Che slugged a cop Wednesday night over a parking ticket. They only released us because the inspector learned that we were headlining the Crocodile Cafe in Montevideo. You are famous - they will only release him when you confirm and comp 2 nights for four people. BTW you should know Che was so grateful that he planted a big wet kiss on the inspector’s lips.)

Pasqual had been gone since Saturday; Angela since Sunday; and Mordecaise since Monday - Guildern had never felt so lonely laughing so hard.

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Mordecaise was landing in Mexico City when Pasqual landed in Da Nang: Mexico was the last entry on Domhall’s passport and Buena Vista Oaxaca C/O Carina Abeja was his last known address. It did not explain how Domhall Schmuck’s corpse arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay minus documentation or how Carina Abeja came to be executor of the estate. Gonzo Veneno was at the departure gate for Oaxaca when Mordecaise finished with customs. “Don Liszt, it is good to see you again - ¿cinco anos, no?” Mordecaise nodded, glancing toward the departures screen.

“At least - far too long. Thank you for meeting me and arranging my flight. What have you discovered about this mysterious Sra. Abeja?” The visibly fatigued man folded his lanky frame into one of the too small seats of every airport lounge in the world, guiding his friend by an elbow to an adjacent seat.

“Mysterious: but practical and consistent; she has been widowed 3 times in 12 years; each time to a wealthy older foreigner in poor health without a hint of scandal: each spouse died of natural causes, with no heirs claiming. Domhall was the only intestate decedent.” Mordecaise showed no surprise, listening impassively. “When Domhall disappeared she immediately notified the authorities and was by all accounts distraught. I’ve made no effort to contact her at her artist commune in the hills outside of Oaxaca.” Gonzo finished his report waiting while his friend digested this information.

Eventually Mordecaise took out his notepad, making notes and thumbing through pages placing marks at previous references. He looked up at Gonzo with some surprise at the presence of an old friend. “Gonzo, that is excellent work. What is your sense about how Domhall Schmuck ended up dead in another country with no record of travel? Does Ms Abeja figure in the mystery according to any local authorities you’ve spoken with?” Gonzo did not answer, but made clear that he’d thought much about the puzzle. Mordecaise asked, “Have you had any communication with Lammele Dama? the executor of the parent’s estate” leaving out that he had.

“There is a sealed codicil is all I’ve learned; Sr. Dama has not responded to numerous inquiries,” again waiting for his friend’s reply which never came; instead Mordecaise rose when boarding was announced, embraced Gonzo and kissed his patient friend on both cheeks never looking back as he trudged toward an antsy boarding crowd, taking no notice of the 3 ‘suits’ in line watching him trudge from over their shoulders while Gonzo snapped telephone photos that only Mordecaise would see.

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13:30 Pasqual pulled up in a cab to “Duyên Dáng Homestay on Cua Dai in Hoi An, about the time Sysa Phish was hissing “stupid cunt” imprecations to an indifferent Angela late on what would be her last Thursday night shift at the Excelsior in Punta del Este. The rancor of her manager had become scar tissue rather than foundations for professional development; Angela knew the job was over; the perturbation was not worth the compensation: Angela calculated her exit thankful for Guildern’s open invitation for a home at the “Croc;” With more than her typical attention to detail she eyed the Digital-something CEO and his consort squatting at table 2 for the past 3 1/2 hours, on their 4th magnum of Dom Perignon, with no more than hors d'oeuvres on their tab to show for it . ..

.. . “Mijchaa” he slurred to her hip when she passed their table, “deze oystures, son muyie mahlo - nongonna payie fur dem. Poot da’ bille on hour rooom; n’ send dos mas botillias champagnee n’ bettur oystures, too room 666. Mebee stupido tu gunna ghet a beeg bonus fur bean soo dumm n’ Purty.

“I’ll be happy to arrange that for you, and if you want to go now, it will be there when you get to your room. Please sign this for your receipt, handing them a blank sheet. Thank you very much for your patience with our poor service.” She waited until they had stumbled toward the lobby, nodding luxuriantly in their direction. After she’d cleared out her locker, and filled in their order on the blank sheet, she stopped to confer with Sysa Phish; “the guests at table 2 are waiting for 3 liters of ‘Gusano Rojo Mezcal’ and a kilo of Escargot to be sent to their room and added to their bill. Angela handed the signed order to Sra. Phis, saying sweetly, “Thank you again, Sysa for giving me Friday night off - it means the world to me.”

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Pasqual had not had a drink since Angela stabbed him in the liver 7 years earlier, nor did he understand exactly why he’d ordered Bourbon neat when the flight attendant was providing refreshments somewhere over the Pacific on his flight to Viet Nam. But when he had arrived in Hoi An after a 36 hour journey with two 6 hour layovers and the glass of warm water when he arrived, the beer and a glass of ice the kindly proprietress offered him seemed heaven sent. The innkeeper was a chipper lass full of winning ways and an inscrutable grin beneath her twinkling almond eyes framed perfectly by her heart shaped face. Pasqual was seated at a low bamboo table with a taciturn, but not unpleasant man that turned out to be the elder brother and a leading figure in the community. Bowls of noodles and spring rolls appeared at the low table and Pasqual’s glass was never empty for the next 4 hours while she pumped him enthusiastically about his life and reasons for being in Hoi An.

As a latino raised in Brownsville Texas, Pasqual was accustomed to being interrogated, but never so kindly; he felt no threat from the proprietress, Nữ Thần Ngon’s questions, rather flattered by the attention of an attractive Vietnamese woman. The brother’s prior silent attention was piqued when Pasqual mentioned Hue; he then queried Pasqual further after it was understood that Pasqual’s journey included archival research concerning two decedents - Pasqual’s uncle, “Missing in Action” since the Tet Offensive of 1968, and the death of an expat, Reynaldo Schmuck who expired near the Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Hue, a little over 6 months earlier, though the death certificate was issued in Da Nang and he a resident of Hoi An. An hour later feeling more like an alien transported into another realm than a seasoned operative on a mission in a foreign land. He regrettably excused himself and sought the sanctuary of his nearby room, being asleep within minutes of his head falling onto a crisp cotton pillowcase.

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Mordecaise rose from his 1st class seat the moment the aircraft door opened and the passengers began the slow shuffle to exit. He did not check any luggage and had passed through the exits of the terminal in search of a Taxi, when two refrigerator sized hombres materialized on each side of him flashing official badges with a bearing that Mordecaise recognized as authentic functionary. The long executive model police vehicle at the curb waiting with open doors confirmed his guess. He entered the vehicle minus his two escorts who closed the door behind him. He found himself facing a portly fellow who spoke English with a slight German accent, Sr. Liszt, so good to finally meet you. We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival with questions regarding the disappearance of one Domhall Schmuck. Please accept our hospitality during this investigation pertaining to our National Security.” The rotund face contained pinkish hued jowls and pursed lips giving him the appearance of a hamster chewing when he spoke. When the man finished his opening gambit, he sat back in the ancient leather seat looking for all the world like a senior citizen resigned to waiting for a bus.

“Am I in custody?” Mordecaise asked gazing tiredly in the direction of his captor.

“Si señor, but we prefer to think of it as hospitality,” the fat man responded gazing out the car’s darkened windows.

“If I’m in custody, what is the charge; if i may ask?”

“Manipulation of the Sovereign Currency of Mexico.” The portly man said simply without a trace of guile, watching Mordecaise’ face intently while he said it.

“Am I allowed a phone call” replied Mordecaise, raising his empty palm, more as command than than polite request.

“Cierto.” Mordecaise’ phone materialized in his hand, as a return gambit, he placed the phone in his jacket pocket, where it stayed for the time being.

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Guildern was ecstatic when he learned of Angela’s decision to remain permanently in Montevideo. His joy seemed to resonate from the stone walls the Thursday night she surprised him with her early entrance. “Che and the Venceremos Brigade” had won the toss and played the first of alternating weekends that Guildern had mandated the night before, after the two bands tried to settle their conflict using egos and butter knives. Guildern brandished his machete from behind the counter and ended preliminary discussions.

“Querida,” Angela peered into Guildern’s darkened eyes when the “Brigade’s” tempo had slowed and the two had taken to what dance floor a repurposed room like the Croc could provide. The band could have been playing “La Cucaracha ” for all the two of them cared, as Guildern tenderly turned the “her” of his world around the dance floor. Ever the perceptive professional, the front man Che Quimera conjured Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” from the band when Angela’s luminous eyes moistened during the slow rhythmic dance. Alas the universe wasn’t buying sentiment that night, and just for emphasis, Guildern’s phone began chiming Franz Liszt’s “Mephisto” - Guildern had no choice but to break the spell and connect with the traveling Mordecaise.

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“Amigo, this had better be good,” he answered in a not unfriendly way.

“I’m in jail in Oaxaca, Carina Abeja is not picking up: It’s a bogus charge of mistaken identity based on a photo from from an airport rent-a-cop with too much responsibility and a passion for detective magazines.”

Guildern didn’t know what to say. “You’re kidding, right?” He was used to peculiar events following his friend like hungry puppies, but this was new. “Have you told the authorities that you had been a judge for the Miss Universe Contest?”

“What’re you a fucking comedian! I’m in jail, without sleep, 10s of 1,000s of kilometers from home, and you want to crack wise? Da’ fuck is the matter with you?” His friend’s complete lack of humor should have alerted Guildern who was just realizing he’d better calm his friend before someone got hurt.

“I know an Abogada in Oaxaca, Sra Luz de Ley - she will be there within the hour, will you be okay that long?” Guildern knew his friend would be okay when he replied in rapier fashion . ..

“Unless a rabid chupacabra gets me first,” he’d hung up before Guildern chuckled to himself.

jts 03/02/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

060221 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 7

When Pasqual woke, it took some minutes to orient that he was on another continent; the smell of black coffee mixed with the scent of petrichor from gentle rain outside his window. His bag had remained packed; his body reeked of travel odor and anxiety. The temperature was oppressive and location of the fan stand made sense once the blades began to purr - a shower and clean clothes anchored his appetite and encouraged his curiosity about sounds outside his door.

A powerfully petite woman greeted him amicably at the utility closet outside his door. “Chào buổi sáng” she chirped, meaning nothing at all to Pasqual but possibly hello.

Guided by instinct and smell, he pinched his fingers together miming gulps while pointing in the direction of the strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee; the pretty woman returned to her work pointing down the covered hallway with a knowing smile.

He entered the compact dining room, taking a seat closest to the door he’d entered - two young couples were engaged in serious destination research and took no notice of the bedraggled caffeine junky jonesing for a fix.

No longer the enchanting local ingenue from the night before, Thần the homestay owner placed a piping hot glass of Ca Phe down with a menu and a distant smile in a warm kind of way before turning back to her staff and guests. Thần’s brother, Luong Ngon stuck his head through the door and handed a folded paper to Thần, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. Pasqual ordered eggs and waited; halfway through the finest cup of coffee Pasqual could remember, Thần returned with his eggs and handed the folded paper to Pasqual explaining it was a contact who might be able to help with both of his inquiries.

Somehow the breakfast was more invigorating than the coffee elixir, yet Pasqual’s decision to return to his room resulted in another 8 hours of sleep, out of which he woke trembling from dreams he could feel as though still asleep, but of which he could recall nothing while sweating like a pig in the darkening room. Ravenously hungry Pasqual ventured out the door of his new home in search of food. The kitchen was dark and the dining room locked. He took his keys to the gate and passed out into the streets of a foreign nation. Stopping at the first restaurant he found with a sign he could decipher “Cafe Banh Mi Diámetro”, Pasqual stepped inside, took a seat and asked the waitress for a beer and a menu; then addressing her apparent confusion by miming the opening of a book; she returned a minute later with a menu. He chose “The Hoi An Buffalo Burger” with a boilermaker, though he had to explain the concoction, again pointing to the menu.

Finishing his meal Mordecaise’ “Mephisto” began chiming on his phone. “Hello, Boss,” was as far as Pasqual got, and then sat back in stunned silence taking notes quickly, punctuated with periodic “Holy shit’s”. When it was his turn, he asked “give me priorities, from hot to cold. I’ve only just come out from under the jet lag hood and won’t be renting wheels, until i know whether to hire a translator with a car or wing it on the local mopeds.” Though absorbed by long distance strategizing, when two out-of-uniform suits entered the bistro, Pasqual decided to have some fun. He advised Mordecaise that he’d call back, then called the pretty waitress over. He displayed the google translation where he had written “Please bring me my bill and include the tab for the gentlemen in the corner, explain to them that dinner was courtesy of a compatriot.” Leaving thrice the amount of his bill on the table, Pasqual quickly rose and climbed into the cab that had just arrived at the curb.

He gave the driver the address that Luong Ngon had given Thần that morning, then sat low enough in his seat to observe the two sleuths to see if they had followed him or just fit the profile of professional goonsin the happenstance of a small town overrun with wealthy foreigners. The address on the note directed the cab out an artery East through rice fields toward what he thought was the beach; the taxi veered off just past a dog leg in the road leading into a small hamlet with older housing stock; the cab stopped in front of a weathered habitation deceptively tall with a traditional tile roof - a single lantern lit the covered porch. Getting out Pasqual paid the fare and turned around to ask the driver to wait, but he had pulled away.

Pasqual’s knock on a solid finely-crafted door opened to a birdlike man seemingly too slight to the task - “Xinh Chao Anh Pasqual,” · closing the massive door with but a breath. I am Trâu Bet, Ong Luong said that you would be calling with questions regarding an ancestor of yours, and information about a foreign resident of Hoi An who died in Hue 6 months ago. I hope you are rested from your travels and find some comfort in the cool of the night. Our climate can be disorienting.” The gentle motions of the man seem to guide Pasqual into a large room laden with powerful “color field” paintings that defied description as landscape, skyscape, or seascape or - unrelenting visual magnets - Trâu Bet waiting patiently while Pasqual feasted on the banquet of color.

When he finally sat down, a glass of fragrant tea appeared at the low table next to his chair. Trâu continued to study his guest; Pasqual had never worked as a artist model, but found the gaze of this artist disconcerting. Eventually he remembered the purpose of his visit and glad that language was not a barrier as he tried to explain the reasons he was searching for information about someone presumed dead for over 60 years. Trâu Bet listened with the same intensity that he had looked at Pasqual. When Pasqual finished his story, Trâu Bet wrote in a small sketch pad, then handed Pasqual a note with a name and address explaining, “Ong Pasqual the way you have described your uncle and his relationship to your family, it is easy to understand your reasons for wanting closure, I will look into the matter. As it happens, I knew Reynaldo Schmuck, and may have been the last person in Hoi An to speak with him; I drove him to the bus station when he went on retreat at Từ Hiếu Pagoda; this is the name and address of a homestay in Hue which has close contacts within the Pagoda, if anyone can help you gain information about Reynaldo’s death it will be the people at the Purple Haze Homestay. I have called you a cab that is waiting outside. It was a pleasure to meet you, thank you for coming; I hope you will come again.”

There was nothing left to say, and Pasqual followed Trâu Bet back to the entryway where, again the massive door seemed to open by fingertip and breath to the waiting taxi.

A little over 24 hours in Vietnam and Pasqual felt comfortable with what he’d accomplished but unprepared for what he found in the lit kitchen upon his return to the homestay - Thần was beside herself in a fit of pique; her stolid wise-eyed mother stood on while the enchanting hostess from the night before railed tearful imprecations. Pasqual was at a loss, feeling very much the intruder within a cauldron of profound emotion - in an act of solidarity; he stepped to the mother’s shoulder; as she glanced up from her deep contemplation, Pasqual thumped his chest with a closed fist over his heart standing as close as he could for as long as possible; before retreating; he paused at the seat of Thần’s beatific face and looked as deeply as he dared into the unmasked pain of her expression; all he could conjure was a slow shallow bow, Thai Style, hopefully honoring the depth of her sacred emotion; he left quietly to a nearly sleepless night alone in a foreign land.

The Pretenders “Working on a Chain Gang” chimed at 6:30 that next morning, “Bonjour mon ami,” Leslei was full of bon vivant, “What?” without the slightest curiosity is the best the groggy Pasqual could muster, muttering to his co-operative “Thanks for reaching out, it’d be better to talk later - are you safe, are you okay?” . .. ···

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jts 09/02/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

160221 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 8

Angela bit Guildern’s ear lobe then rose and was out the door for an early morning late run. She relished her new life minus Punta del Este and the Excelsior Bar & Grill, while Guildern could not get enough of her. Guildern’s phone began belting out Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up”; the tight-knit affiliation of renegades working out of the Croc used ring tone handles, so 50 meters from the Croc carrying Guildern’s borrowed phone, Angela knew that Pasqual was calling Guildern, which at this hour meant he could not reach Mordecaise directly and needed Guildern. Angela turned back and sprinted to the Croc, phone to her ear asking “Pasqual, are you okay?

“Yes - you? It’s been a busy 48 hours, and I’ve not been able to reach Mordecaise; there is nothing wrong here, just checking channels. How is Guildern’s arm, do you know anything of Mordecaise? Angela opted to say nothing about her move to Montevideo, instead offering Pasqual to help anyway she could, before she handed Guildern’s phone back to him; she looked deep into Guildern’s eyes then said by way of goodbye to Pasqual, “I’ll let him tell you about his arm, Please take good care of yourself;” handing the phone to Guildern, the two shared an unambiguous lover’s glance, before she pranced a boxer’s two-step back out the door to her interrupted run.

It took another 5 minutes for Guildern and Pasqual to update each other; Pasqual rang off unsure if he’d gained intelligence or muddied the waters.

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Angela returned from her run to find Guildern at the front door intently watching as Roja swung Argentine Bolas over her head like any red-headed gorgon might if she wanted to helicopter back into the heavens using an earthly contraption of Renaissance design; her apparent target was a cowering Rojito behind stacks of wine casks near the stairway to the apartment.

Having none of this shit in her new home, Angela took a broom near the door and calmly began sweeping her way toward the occupied Amazonian; when in a blur, Angela pirouetted low Capoeira style plunging the broom handle neatly upward into the whirling trine, twining it instantly into a maypole of uniquely Uruguayan design. Guildern embraced the startled virago like a Panda might palm a spitting kitten.

“I often wondered what you did for entertainment when I was gone, ‘Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.’ - Oscar Wilde,” was all Angela muttered.

Eying the becalmed Roja, Angela asked her as gently as she knew how, “Girl what in the fuck is wrong with you? You think ‘cause you sing like an Angel, you can act the fool too? If it was me, I’d fire your ass, but it ain’t my place, and Guildern won’t obey me like Rojito do you. Keep that in mind if you ever get bullshit with me.” Angela was not looking for an answer, and left the three of them to sort out what they could before opening; she still had sand between her toes from running on the beach and no idea what Pasqual had said about Vietnam

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The abogada Guildern sent - Luz de Ley arrived early at the elbow of one of the monolithic escorts who had met Mordecaise at the airport. “Señor Liszt, I’ve spoken with the Commandante, and if you will surrender your passport during the investigation; sign for a 100,000 MXN bond, you are free to go.” Sra. Ley was a native beauty of indeterminate age with a regal bearing; and waited patiently for Mordecaise to respond.

“I’d like to make a phone call before I decide; it may be more practical for me to accept the government’s hospitality a little longer before I commit that sort of Bond. Do you know any of the reasoning for making such an outrageous accusation?.” Sra, Ley was looking at her phone when he asked his question.

“Apparently it was an irregularity with your baggage claim, and customs declaration - your suitcase contained $25,000 USD which you did not declare.”

“I did not declare it because I have no checked luggage; nor anything but Uruguayan Pesos, a little over 500 UYU.” Sra Ley seemed surprised, if there were words to describe her expression. Mordecaise remembered that Gonzo Veneno had texted him something about tails at Aeropuerto CDMX; “Sra Ley, could you give me a few minutes to check about my connection in Mexico DF. With her affirmative nod, Mordecaise texted Gonzo as briefly as he could to explain his situation and find out if there were any photos that would explain the “frame” he was facing. Minutes later Mordecaise was reading a txt from Gonzo:

“Man am glad to hear frm u - fnd atchd phtos of sme gys boostng rcpt @ counter w/ur signtur + affidvt frm clrk statng sme · hve arprt police rpt if necess. fotos enclsd” Mordecaise brought this back to the counselor looking hopeful, providing context where helpful.

Sra. Ley was nodding into her phone when she took Mordecaise by his elbow guiding him through a labyrinth of hallways until he recognized the door of the Comandante from that morning, the door to his office read - “Comandante Fernando Gonzalez”. The door was answered by one half of the matching bookends from the aeropuerto. He and Sra. Ley were ushered back into the portly Comandante’s diminutive office. “Sra. Ley has informed me you have documentation that will help clarify this unfortunate introduction to our tranquil community; may I see the exculpatory evidence?” holding out his pinkish paw.

Mordecaise’ mind raced trying to fathom what could be compromised by this exchange, and because nothing had been said about his primary reason for being in Oaxaca, he determined it best to be as cooperative as possible, bringing the phone to Señor Gonzalez, opened to the appropriate screens. After a few moments of scrutiny the Commandante’s pursed lips turned to a warmish smile - “Clearly this might have become a great miscarriage of justice. If you will give me just a few more minutes of your time so that I may confer with my compadres at Aeropuerto MEX, I am certain all of this can be easily resolved. May I ask if you recognize either of the two gentlemen in these photos?” Mordecaise shrugged his shoulders and the Commandante needed no interpretation, but one half of the massive ever present escorts leaned down whispering in Señor Martinez’ ear - who nodded as the immovable mass glided out the room.

After a few tense minutes of murmured telephone exchanges, Mordecaise and Sra. Ley were dismissed with a flick of the Comandante’s wrist after he had bowed ceremoniously and proffered Mordecaise his passport with what could be construed as an apology in an alternative universe. On their way out of the Police headquarters Mordecaise recognized one of the two from the photos being escorted in; the man he saw was visibly shaken, bruised and being led in the same doorway they’d just exited. Turning to his abogada, “One of them must’ve followed me from Mexico DF; I’d like to learn what the Commandante finds out in their “discussions.”

“I’ll see what I can do” is all the preoccupied abogada would commit to. “Where are you staying?” she asked, “Guildern mentioned that you had a contact here in the valley.”

“Let me see if my contact can be reached.” He took out his phone and was checking for messages when Carina Abejas strode up to him from out of the mist of pedestrians one might find in front of any municipal building in any city of the world; she reached up behind his startled neck to pull his bearded face down to where she nuzzled her mouth into his long beard and pulled his tongue into her mouth like an unreluctant morsel of exotic pasta at the end of a fine meal.

Sra. Ley was still on her phone, but not oblivious to the carnal display of her client a near stranger and this perfect stranger, nor that her focus was split in half. The powerfully compact newcomer handled her equally surprised client like any vaquera with livestock; when she surreptitiously withdrew a strong hand from under her poncho and mingled her supple fingers into the tangle of their facial embrace, then touched his lips as though quenching a candle or cautioning silence, all the while looking directly into Sra. Leys’ captivated glance. Reflecting on this event later, the counselor was never sure if the gesture was an invitation, or territorial declaration.

Mordecaise gathered his dignity and bowed deeply to his advocate; thanking her profusely and backing up in tow by his newly intimate friend, miming the universal “I’ll call you” split fingers to his cheek for the benefit of the otherwise composed professional at the door to the police station; then climbed into Carina’s ancient vehicle of doubtful mechanical integrity with an obviously confused Satyr’s leer wrapped around his bearded grin.

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Leslei had climbed out of the porcelain bathtub ready to take on the world when “Get up Standup” began playing on her phone; standing naked as she was born, she answered as such, “I’m dripping wet from a long soak; I’m happy - keep it that way,” she smiled into the phone while searching for a towel.

“Well good on ya’, what do you know, or have you just been lounging since you arrived.” Pasqual had not forgotten the weekend they’d met at a Rasta Rave in the Mojave Desert at the height of the 1st wave of Covid deaths. Social distancing and practical precautions manifested in that enlightened gathering by way of front to back sex, creative prophylactic masks and much focus on herbal research for heightened immunity through diet and prayer. He and Angela had agreed to a relationship time-out the weekend he met Leslei and had spent 48 hours making love to rock and roll music amid the rocks of the Mojave Desert - so near, yet so far.

“Ya’ may want to take notes: Demsford Schmuck took a 20 year lease on the cottage where I am now staying - a fluke; he was making regular pilgrimages to Plum Village about 600 km North by Northwest from Aix; it’s not clear whether his interest was sectarian or aesthetic. There is a large body of his work specific to Aix, as well as sketchbooks full of drawings annotated “Plum Village,” he was no dilettante. I spoke on the phone with the sitting Bhikkhu of Plum Village, Thich Loc Hanh trying to determine whether to go now or later. Demsford was comatose from a motorcycle accident when he was shipped back to Aix; he subsequently died from an intracerebral hemorrhage. I am waiting on permission from his estate to access the autopsy that was conducted in Aix. By all accounts, there were no suspicious circumstances; it’s access to his medical history that’s a little tangled, especially with Reynaldo’s death in Vietnam 6 months later; perhaps you can help with that?” Pasqual was accustomed to Leslei’s attention to detail but struggling with the disorientation of travel and the density of her report.

Like a tennis game between old friends Pasqual leaped in when the ball landed in his court,“It’s not clear what has happened to Mordecaise - he was jailed on arrival in Oaxaca; i just got a text from him that he’s free and all’s well. We’re going to need a way to handshake info - I will not use ‘clouds’, they’re not secure, and this is no longer a routine estate; it’s beginning to look like a snowball gaining mass rolling through an avalanche - social media & email are a poor way to organize; any one of us could be neutralized in an instant. The two goons that waylaid Mordecaise could’ve been agents for corporate empire, or flunkies for La Policia · My sense is that the ‘Al Qaeda’ model would be a more robust rubric, any thoughts?”

Leslei had been thinking along nearly the same lines; the best, she asserted, was ‘hiding in plain sight; the last place they’d look might just be Face Race. Pasqual nodded to himself and suggested to Leslei, “coded transmissions on the fr newsfeed, is good, let’s normalize channels. You contact Angela and work out the details; we should include random key changes, keeping the whole thing as simple as possible. Good work friend - mindfulness may be our only friend · yes?” more by way of closing; they hung up on each other

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Mordecaise was buck naked in front of a fire pit outside the temescal where they’d spent the afternoon discussing the death of Domhall Schmuck. After Carina explained her behavior at their introduction in front of the police headquarters, - he was deeply impressed and much calmed by her rational quick wittedness; what better cover than two long lost lovers unexpectedly reunited, however her explanation of Domhall’s last days beleaguered even the hyper-vigilant mind of Herr Liszt; his reacquaintance with the gentle magic of mezcal smoothed the tangles of the day and left him feeling curious and alert.

The lattice of shade from the setting sun through the Guaje grove of Carina’s Artist Colony created a dappled fabric of light and dark that helped Mordecaise frame connections about the disparate parts of this far flung puzzle which began as a phone call less than 2 weeks earlier. His regard for the Schmuck family had transfigured from the venal odor of commerce that normally explained his sideline estate investigations into a deeper tragedy about 3 dead orphans in a tragic world defined by the dead and dying of the past decade - he felt deep gratitude to be alive and standing where he was.

jts 16/02/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

240221 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 9

Pasqual lay sweating in his otherwise comfortable room at the homestay sorting through the parts of the case; skirting happy stories of his Tio Ernesto before the estrangement with brother Jose, Pasqual’s adoptive father over a lousy 6 acre parcel of dirt. It was difficult to reconcile the happy faces of locals he had met thus far in Vietnam with anyone willing to end the life of his gentle uncle. He understood violence having grown up in a border town during political changes that unleashed murder and mayhem under the color of authority - a term he learned volunteering in legal clinic for displaced families during the fascist administration of 2016-2020. He also understood that there was nothing to be gained by gnawing on his memories, late at night in a foreign country, while trying to winnow wheat from chaff on a complex and important case. He began breathing methodically, repeating mantras he and Angela had learned at a retreat for grieving parents in Uruguay during the 2nd wave of Covid deaths.

Hoping for a late afternoon nap, he chose instead to answer the knock at his door. It was Nữ Thần Ngon holding a small teapot of fragrant tea; Pasqual attempted to conceal his happiness at seeing her, for she confused him. “I thought this might be helpful. The weather can interfere with sleep if you’re not used to it.” She was dressed comfortably with concessions to the oppressive humidity that gathered steam around the setting sun like a train leaving a station loaded with boxcars of heat. He tried not to take notice of her easy beauty having traveled enough to know the reputation of white men in exotic lands. Her studied manners suggested she was more curious about his swarthy appearance than threatened. He asked if she would like to come in, but after leaving the teapot at the low table she returned to the doorway and perched with a frank evaluation of him and his obvious fatigue. “How are you sleeping in the heat?” asking like she might be asking about a price in a store rather than referring to a force of nature that felt like a grip around one’s throat.

“I’ve tried to cool using just the fan, but had to turn on the A/C to sleep. I read that heat can interfere with REM sleep; I apologize if the A/C gooses your bottom line.” She chuckled with amusement.

“What does that mean ‘goose the bottom line?” she asked. It was Pasqual’s turn to chuckle realizing what an accomplishment it was for her to master a foreign language so seamlessly without access to many cultural idioms, yet understanding the biological relationship of heat to sleep.

Gazing at her poise in the doorway, Pasqual tried to explain, “Think of ‘goosing the bottom line’ like the slap of a grandmother on the butt of a small child who wandered too far off the curb of a busy street;” Pasqual enjoyed watching this woman think while having no idea what she thought; much different than the hardened women of the West though there was something very wary in her manner, much like the women of the West. Pasqual had almost forgotten the comfort that could be found in the company of a beautiful woman’s attention.

Their transient moment of intimacy was broken by footfalls in the narrow hallway of the homestay. It was one of the diners from the night before at the “Cafe Banh Mi Diametro;” the continuing coincidence heightened Pasqual’s concern about being trailed, given the nature of his visit. Rather than engage this un-welcomed stranger, Pasqual excused himself with a slight bow while nodding to Thần, he remarked, “Can we continue this another time?” He closed the door to the other conversation he’d rather not join. Behind the closed door Pasqual determined it would be a good time to explore more of Hoi An and so gathered his shoulder pack for a bicycle ride. He exited and excused himself past the close quarter discussion to the two; peeled a bicycle from the lineup and while appearing to scroll through his telephone, snapped a photo of the interloper for future reference.

Hoi An was a wonderful place to bicycle - flat with slow moving scooters transporting necessities which encouraged responsible driving habits; reflexive courtesy aided a flow of traffic similar to the tidal flows of estuaries lapping the long shoreline of the ancient city. There was a comfortable truce between foreigners and locals not much different than grazing herds on any savanna in the world where resources fluctuated between feast or famine. The Covid pandemic had been repeatedly curtailed in Vietnam, though the population was only marginally vaccinated. The rapid mutations of the 2nd Wave taxed the limits of science for most developing economies, and Vietnam was no different. Containment was possible by brute force quarantines and an educated population that easily cooperated in projects of mutual self interest.

The foreign population was to discover was a mixed bag; Pasqual was long past the presumption that travel translated into tolerance and warm-heartedness; his short time in Vietnam confirmed his working hypothesis. Almost from the boarding gate of his flight, through to Da Nang, Pasqual’s “Neoliberal/Covert-fascist” radar was on high alert. He found himself surrounded by unctuous, well-dressed travelers - refugees from late stage capitalism escaping the failed business models of their birth nations, taking every last shekel of extracted profit, while they searched the world over for “opportunities” to mine depressed countries and train the little brown brother’s in the virtues of anarchistic capitalism, just as they themselves had been indoctrinated and practiced well into planetary receivership.

In and amongst the amoral mercantile predators was the flotsam and jetsam of a broken civilization - earnest entrepreneurs; honest workers; and loving souls searching for a path out from the rapacious paradigm of “infinite growth in a finite world” that was causing untenable environmental havoc in an unstable political climate, within an increasingly unstable ecology.

Pasqual was able to bicycle off some anxiety, the rest evaporated by breathing in the ceaseless beauty of a land long loved and tended by tireless bodies. He wandered alleys and cement trails in the direction of where he thought Trâu Bet’s studio might be, not wanting to call. Pasqual was curious about an unannounced welcome. After kilometers in the general direction of Trâu’s studio, the map on Pasqual’s phone began to intersect with landmarks he thought he remembered. He pulled up in front of the memorable entryway and massive door from his first visit; he secured his mount and knocked. Again, as though he’d been expected the door breathed open to reveal the calm intensity of Trâu Bet’s placid gaze and a clear invitation to enter.

The light of day added a much different perspective to the artist’s work, but Pasqual was also felt that many of the pieces were entirely different than what he viewed only a few nights earlier.

Trâu waited while Pasqual finished his inspection and had sat down in the chair where it was indicated he should sit - the same low table and fragrant cup of tea. “What have you discovered about your uncle since we last spoke?” Trâu asked as though it was the same conversation after a short pause.

“Perhaps I am being impatient,” Pasqual said quietly. “I know that you said you would contact me when you had any information; as you know my uncle Jose Ortega was listed MIA during the Tet Offensive; I have other matters which require me to journey to Hue which may coincide, and I was hoping there might be research I could do if you had learned anything useful from your sources.” Pasqual paused, not wanting to press. “I have learned from a distant aunt that Jose - a devoutly religious man - was deeply conflicted about his service to the military and was in the process of filing for Conscientious Objector when assigned to Hue where had visited the Root Pagoda at Từ Hiếu a number of times prior to the offensive. He was there when listed “Missing in Action.”

Pasqual had read much from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at Mordecaise insistence, and the quote by Sherlock Holmes to Dr. Watson - “How many times have I said to you that when you when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable, must be the truth?” remained tattooed to the inside of Pasqual’s skull.

“I have the transcribed contents of a letter from the same aunt which states Tio Jose was AWOL when the offensive began which means he would have been a non-combatant and may have been under the protection of the Pagoda. There were no further communications from him after that, but interviews with members of his platoon confirmed that he was AWOL at the time of the offensive”

Trâu Bet was gazing into the wall of paintings, and commented “Your uncle was a very morally courageous individual to have taken such a stand. You must be very proud of him.”

Pasqual had never quite seen it in that light, but the words Trâu Bet spoke touched a chord in his heart which felt like the instant which if it could be remembered when a wound ceases to throb.

Trâu Bet rose signaling the interview was over and stated that he would relay this information to his friends at the Purple Haze homestay as well as the Pagoda at Từ Hiếu. When he took Pasqual’s hand there was a warmth in his touch that was not there before.

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Leslei found her decision to stay at the cottage meshed with the investigation; Madame Ouvière, when prompted politely, produced a cache of postal letters to Demsford from before and after his death; neither commented to the other about the legality of such an exchange, each woman seeming to grasp the sincerity of the other. From the letters, Leslie discovered that Demsford, Reynaldo, and Domhall were all in close contact with each other and in close spiritual agreement about the times they were living; apparently leading Reynaldo to pick Hoi An as a home because of its close proximity to Hue; Thich Nhat Hanh’s Từ Hiếu Root Pagoda and Jose’s disappearance.

As promised, Archdai Tryump; The Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon did return: 1st through his solicitor; then municipal functionaries; and lastly through commercial threats from the websites which used ‘canned’ legalize about resorting to the “unnecessary recourse of financial sanctions,” which Leslei, on a deeply considered whim, stymied all further controversy with a single signature transferring the remaining 8 years of Demsford’s original lease to her.

The assault on her domestic tranquility rankled Leslei’s keen sense of fair play, though inexplicably depressed amidst the conifers within an arcadian idyll and in view of Cezanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire, she combined her ennui with her ability to induce an existential trance state and focused on a hard-target computer search of Archdai Tryump and all associated capital assets. ‘The Corporate Putsch’ had been very successful after Y2k, in part due to primitive “Data Warehousing” technology that transferred “handshakes” mindlessly from server to server; but hubris knows no bounds, especially, the techno variety, and so an AI induced “byte drift” began an inexorable sifting through antiquated algorithms like a digital Sahara might cross potholed interstates of a different age; ultimately; she wasn’t even sure if the subject of her original search, Archdai Tryump, could even be aware of how close his ‘old money’ ties brought him to within such close proximity of the greatest accumulation of virtual wealth the world had ever known.

Empires’ “conceit about inevitable invulnerability” allowed this accretion to gradually cascade rivulets of previously sacrosanct private capital using technological gravity to archive these lost bytes into the “public domain;” incidental trickles of 3rd, 4th, 5th . .. place decimal points of monetary value eventually accumulated into a vast ocean of cash value. The infinite growth paradigm conceived of, but did not anticipate the unforeseen intersection of the programmably diabolical ability of Artificial Intelligence to obfuscate and confuse. So when its only command was to hide assets, AI did this masterfully · hence “The Nut,” the only name given to an obscure file @.314.org in the public domain, which ironically remained within the “Public Domain.” Over time, the value of hard currency for this file exceeded many times the combined assets of the 100 richest individuals on the planet - 100s of quadrillions of dollars, virtually indistinguishable from digital “white noise.”

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Leslei called Guildern to confirm if what she was seeing was ‘straight up’; and if so - relay what she had discovered to Mordecaise and Pasqual.

Guildern’s reply was prompt; “Just from looking at the .pdf file, we’d be wise to cease telephonic transmission about it and try a pure telepathic channel for security’s sake. You know I heard that is what killed Elon Musk - while fucking around with Kurzewel’s upload horse-shit, someone ran 220v straight in - that’s gotta hurt.” Guildern’s checkered background included stints at the Cipher campus, before Babylon accomplished its hostile takeover at the peak of the death swarm from Covid-19; b.1.7.13 of 2027, but Guildern’s wry humor was lost on Leslei who was just looking for guidance on how to proceed. Hearing silence on a long distance transmission Guildern ventured, “Let me see if I can contact those parties and get clarification on your order; will that help?”

“Sir, thank you very much - it is just the sort of help I need. Thank you very much for your kind assistance,” and Leslei hung up, comfortable knowing the most got said with the least.

Almost as though their conversation had been participated; she hung up to a knock which opened to the tattooed leer of the Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon; Archdai Tryump himself holding high a bottle of Champagne Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 - as an amateur sommelier she recognized the smell of leverage with each bubble she might coax from such a lush disposable. “Good of you to knock; your solicitor’s last message suggested my belongings would be on the doorstep when I returned. What do you want?” This was not spoken as an invitation, but from the business side of a closed existential portcullis.

Gifted with apparently eternal conceit, Monsieur Tryump replied, “two glasses if you have them;” Leslei’s ambiguous body language fanned his flame and he jutted his Gucci slipper into the doorframe with such docile supplication, she condescended to his entree - who didn’t want to savor a bottle of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 with royalty? miming the Hawaiian Shaka and peace sign to the eyes swiveling her wrist for “look there” she thumbed over her shoulder, dismissing her new factotum and his precious liquid booty - for those few precious moments upon his arrival, she was pure mongoose; he a deaf, dumb and blind Cobra.

Leaning into this comedic opera while waiting for his return from the kitchen, Leslei settled into the sofa reaching behind her shoulder into the bookcase and pulling down a rolled cigarette from amongst the 1st editions. She laid the joint in plain view on the coffee table and unbuttoned her chemise to its optimum décolleté. Like any good help, the Duke returned promptly and quietly with a bucket of ice, the bottle, two whiskey tumblers, and a dish towel. The Earl of Avignon mimed a magician pulling up his sleeves and rotating his palms in the gesture of all disingenuous magus; he carefully wrapped the dish towel around the bottle’s neck spiraling it deep into the ice, and in an act of unctuous aplomb, the Duke lifted the joint up to his lighter and lit it as masterfully as any opium den-master, inhaled deeply a number of times, blowing the smoke back out through his nostrils prior to each inhalation.

If Leslei had a heart, she might have cautioned the peer that what he was ravenously inhaling was an admixture of: opium, hasish, churras, polyploid cannabis and trace amounts of DMT, but her kind compassion suggested it best to share this after the fact. Leaning over the nearly comatose might-have-been lothario, she nestled her cheek to his chest to hear respiration; rising slightly and lifting one of his eyelids she evaluated pupil dilation; then holding her fingers to his wrist, her precisely calibrated breath determined that he was in fact deeply stoned, but quite alive.

Liberating his smart phone from its diamond encrusted sling, Leslei jacked his device to her PC and using a DOS “backdoor” that every digital device possessed but few knew existed, she mirrored his entire library to her hard drive by the time his eyelids began to flutter. What Archdai Tryump perceived as he regained semi-consciousness, was a beautiful woman he had arrived to conquer, sitting demurely beside him - she disheveled with a concerned expression - he exposed with his semi-erect phallus in her gently stroking palm.

jts 23/02/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

030321 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 10,

part ii

Lammele Dama kept offices in Kathmandu, Nepal; Paris, France and Archer City, Texas. Though not equidistant, each had a northern latitude valence - at 81, Lammele was at peace with his world of minor importance. He had taken the long view when young, content with intermittent amusement that had only grown in complexity, consistency and polish. The practice of Law, however seedy and much-maligned of late, had retained more than a veneer of righteousness for him from its origins - it was this grain that Lammele hewed to for the entire arc of his professional career. Mr. Dama thrived on the chatter of his diffuse sources, where he was settled in his seat of passing time perusing the news with calm curiosity - searching for nexus from many loci. When the aged telephone ring of his working relic beckoned, Lammele put down his 2nd double-Whiskey Sour and 1st Cohiba Short to answer, “Yes?” leaning into the phone as though he could hear better that way.

The crackled transmission meant his modem had been activated and a download had commenced. The trappings of antiquated technology, as Lammele practiced them would be the equivalent of fastening a Dodge Dart frame to a Lamborghini chassis - a sleeper. The quiet gong chimed, and Lammele went to his console to check the file - the demand for an encryption code was always fun, though he hated tracking passwords. The subject line simply read “Archdai Tryump - phone dump · 20042027.” Lammele was more than familiar with this nefarious character, and had no qualms about accessing his phone files - tit for tat. His cellular phone chimed, the most secure channel of his far flung interests with no more than a half dozen people having access to the constantly shifting number. “Hello,” he waited.

“Hello Mr. Dama, my name is Leslei Coerktern; I’m an operative with Guildern Seur who gave me this number as well as your landline. I transmitted the file you received minutes ago. Guildern asked me to call you directly to provide context.”

“Yes Leslei, I know of you; thank you for following up. What should I know about these files, including the circumstances as to how they came into your possession; please be as honest and complete as possible.” Lammele flicked a switch on his console encrypting everything that followed:

Lammele Dama was a very young man in 1969 as the liberation of women was gaining traction, so he marveled at the bold ingenuity of Ms. Coerktern, not just for securing important intelligence, but also the subtlety with which she covered her tracks - from personal experience with his lordship’s amoral sexual history · Leslei’s story fostered an avuncular concern, and collegial respect. “Darlin’ child, you hoodwinked a lecherous fox, but you may have incurred the wrath of a sociopath from the peerage - always a delicate prospect. ..” Lammele Dama was too old to insist on being understood and waited patiently while Leslei processed his observations. He continued, “. .. If I may suggest, it might be safest for you to wait on his lordship to make the next move. He has no whether you are anything more than a sophisticate sampling all that a receding pandemic in Aix has to offer. It may have been Machiavelli who first said, ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ I don’t know; however the concept may be useful to you just now.” Lammele knew that by advocating this course, he was jeopardizing a young woman’s safety, and told her, “it could also be deadly.”

Leslei had had trysts of the May/December kind, and preferred the young rutting stag to any long-on-the-tooth stallion she’d ever known, but her multifaceted libido enjoyed all aspects of sex and Lammele Dama intrigued her. Something said he knew much about the erotic arts, especially the more creative kind. Her superheated libido was not an uncommon reaction to the massive death that had been spasmodically winnowing humanity across the surface of the planet since early 2020. “Mr. Lama, you are very kind and wise. I have only a cursory understanding of the file that I sent you. It is deleted, but from a forensic standpoint, what I saw suggests the lordship and myself are nosing along the same path. Assuming that there is a covert cache many times the size of today’s world economy and your deceased clients - the Schmuck brothers were somehow at the center. What would you ask of me, in addition to leading his lordship by the dick?”

Their telephonic link broke, and each stared into the handset; the same as had countless humans since the telecommunication multinational’s opted to leave dropped calls, dropped due to the impact of random death vs the cost of reconnecting inexplicably dropped calls. This brand new relationship between Leslei and Lammele was less than !/2 hour old, yet defined more by tenderness and concern than the enormity of what they had discussed · what a weird world the planet had become.

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Mordecaise considered himself a student of the fuck, but after 3 days in the company of Carina Abejas on the slopes of Monte Alban he began to see how little he knew about the carnal arts. He was semi-sober, sapped and mindful - direct results of sexual saturation. Comandante’s ayudantez had taken posts on both sides of the ridge line in and out of Buena Vista, seemingly content to just menace. The signal strength in the Spanish enclave prevented anything but local cellular contact, so the internet was only sporadically available. To Mordecaise’ thinking, there was no point in speaking into the tapped telephonic “microphone” for the authorities’ benefit; so he sweated in the compound’s temescal; studied the miracles of mezcal, and rode the hungry Sra. like a youngster, instead of a duffer pushing 60. Life was good, and Mordecaise decided to have some fun.

At sunup, Mordecaise stepped out the smaller iron door within the iron gate and began a leisurely saunter toward the local bodega he visited for egg burritos most days. His lumbering constant tail to the West made little effort to conceal his surveillance, and waited for Mordecaise to finish his breakfast to take his own, but Mordecaise did not return to the compound of the rising sun, instead continuing westward along the dusty ridge line. Waiting for the other tailing companero to text his movements; Mordecaise could feel the slowing at his back of one operative for the handoff to the other. He halted and ducked into some bushes next to a gate and pulled out a mountain bike and peddled directly at the westward bound agent before his partner understood the quarry had reversed course, and was on a bicycle heading eastward into the rising sun; the two had no choice but to give chase in their late nightclub attire. The morning sun was rapidly heating the dusty road as they trudged East back to the gate. It was closed and there was only an eastern haze of unsettled dust suggesting that their prey was headed East, so they continued eastward mindful mostly of the Comandante’s wrath were they to lose their quarry.

Half hour later the two resigned the loss and stood like two nicely dressed hulks waiting for a bus on a dusty ridge line off the western slope of Monte Alban Mexico. Mordecaise relished seeing the expression on their faces when he passed them westward bound in a tricycle motor taxi traveling at a good clip toward Oaxaca, but was happier still, 2 hours later when he returned back up the hill from whence they all came, offering the weary agents de El Comandante ice cold Agua de Coco to ease their suffering. Nor could Mordecaise resist handing the two, along with the refreshment - a bill for “personal trainer services” in the amount of $500 MXN · and a blank line for Comandante Gonzalez’s authorizing signature. As Mordecaise approached the gated artist enclave, it was impossible in the shimmering heat of the noonday sun to know whether it was the feathers of a coyote’s tail splaying through the small iron door frame or if it was closing on the hem of a native skirt kicking dust up behind its heel.

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Angela rose to a sun of portent - unable to distinguish sadness from joy · she slipped her sandals on for a walk to a sandy stretch of the bay for her morning run. Guildern’s thigh was slumped over the long pillow; spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth onto the sheet from his focused sleep. The rising sun burst onto the ocean almost as she took her first stride onto the low tide shoreline for a loving run. It was no longer necessary to hear the syncopation that digital devices provided and within a few paces and as many breaths, Angela was in the “zone,” the only distraction being broken glass or hypodermics mindlessly discarded. Barefoot running had its risks, little different than taking a metro cab just before midnight on a Saturday night anywhere on the planet; quarantine; a much diminished population skewed the odds in logorithmic fashion blunting reaction formation; hysterical substance induced escapade and/or nihilistic resignation.

She rounded the last mounded curve before the tide turned, then began to run back against the rising tide when she saw a leathered shoulder flit into the pine trunk maliciously unafraid. She stopped, gazing slowly around the grove in front of her; pulled on her water bottle and joined her lithe frame back to a running cadence.

Instantly, “fight or flight” informed her pace and she flew past the startled figure of Tito holding a knife, and directly into a semi-circular corral of equally malicious expressions whose obvious intent was to stop her. A corral of Lilliputians - its gate closing off Angela’s exit until she was stalled in a steeply inclined sand drift encircled by frozen vile leering grins.

Barefoot with running clothes, possessing nothing more than the dopamine of a half hour’s run, Angela calmed her breathing and assessed her assailants and the terrain they’d chosen for their mission of mayhem - clarity can be a good friend in the most unexpected moments. The narrow sandpit was littered with bat-size branches and solid fist-size knobs of karst. Angela was blessed with a multiethnic upbringing which included adults teaching stick-ball to clusters of poor children in the dense confused demographics where she was a child; ipso facto, as though transported into the agile fearless girl-child she’d been in the mean streets of Tarzana, North of the Ventura Blvd of her youth - Angela, eyes to her feet, spied a suitable faggot, hefted it around the rotation of her wrists and turning to Tito tossed the knob of karst she’d invisibly palmed lightly into the air and THWACKED the projectile into the solar plexus of the thug at Tito’s right; pivoting 180 degrees and leaning back on her heel she launched the second knob into the groin of the fool at her back.

After a low sweeping pirouette, she rose to display 3 more stones to Tito and his gang in her upraised palm; then thwacked a 3rd projectile hitting dead-center the heart of the man standing to Tito’s left. Holding two more stones high in her hand, Angela rotated the bat-faggot into an upright position at the base of her spine and waited.

In the next instant, there was a spinning whoosh - a fat rat fell from the overhead branches with a thud to the ground between Angela and Tito, followed by the gentle patter of an aged barefoot Indian woman and her loaded sling; Looking neither left, right or backward; she bent over lifting her prey by its tail and ambled from the dappled grove and its stunned visitors.

A quorum of eco-tourists arrived next in an electric cart at an adjacent lot to the sand spit while its loudspeaker explained the local flora and fauna to Peruvian tourists - a lecture Angela joined quietly at a back seat, minus her club, clutching the last knob from her pickup game of “stickball does thug” as it was wheeled back onto the trails of coastal Uruguay.

Angela arrived late back to the “Croc” and immediately folded herself into Guildern’s open concern; slowly recounting her misadventure as openly as she could & felt her mind embrace and divest the evil she’d just evaded; powerful against its residue - a practice she and Pasqual had learned from Perma Cauldron to purge toxic events by embracing them fully while fresh in the psyche. Before she could finish, Guildern had grabbed three clips, shoving one in the breech and a round in the chamber of his vintage Colt 1911 from under the bar. Angela knew from a young age the arc of violence and understood both his fury and its futility. She determined the only path out would be to rein reason back into their lives - “breathe some more, I am unharmed and wish with all my heart for you to remain the same · do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Guildern stood rooted in murderous reproach toward an assault on his aging power to protect; resisting as much as she was imploring - breathing, music and a setting sun altered the course of the day · the resolve of the Crone in Angela murmured peaceful incantations, while the “Venceramos Brigade” bolstered the vibe without fully understanding how important it was. “One Love, No Woman No Cry, Rise Up” wafted through the small Cantina and a calm was pulled through the throat of mayhem fueled by a planetary hunger for peace.

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At Guildern’s behest, Angela arranged a conference call between Mordecaise, Pasqual, Leslei and Lammele Dama on a platform which rendered the entire conversation invulnerable to surveillance and gone when disconnected, but which engendered much clarity about challenging developments that had grown increasingly dangerous to all concerned.

“Thank you for joining me here; we need to hold hands if we are to steer this beast to port.” Lammele greeted each and asked that the discussion be frank and open with speculation from all - however farfetched:

Mordecaise leaned into the phone and queried “what the fuck is going on” not really expecting an answer. He knew of the assault on Angela from a text message, as had everyone on line, and they about the continuing challenges from official sources surrounding the disappearance of Domhall Schmuck’s corpse. “Carina Abejas, as near as I can figure, loved Domhall as well as she had each of her previous 5 husbands, and made no claim upon his intestate estate. I am currently liaising with the local constabulary about the two operatives who framed me for smuggling money, but the Comandante is extremely tight about what he has learned. There is nothing gained pressing jurisdiction and everything to be gained from patience. Sra Abejas, is hooked up with police headquarters; amiga de Guildern Abogada Sra Luz de Ley tiene es mejor usada tracking Domhall’s “paperless” corpse to Montevideo than ruffling plumas of the Oaxacan Policia.

“A good time to be careful boss,” Pasqual ventured into the call. “I may have been trailed from my departure all the way to Hoi An; whoever they are seem to favor pairs and are not restrained about their profile, and the local population isn’t particularly supportive of strangers in their midst. Reynaldo had a low profile but was known, and was in frequent transit between his home and Hue; i’m communicating with the the root pagoda of Từ Hiếu and the Bhikkhu, Thich Tok Longh. I had an uncle, Jose Ortega, who had also been in contact with the Từ Hiếu pagoda about registering as a conscientious objector, non combatant just prior to the offensive. I don’t know if this synchronicity will inform our interest about Reynaldo Schmuck’s close relationship to the pagoda. I will be traveling shortly to Hue to look further. PLEASE, We need to learn if Angela and Guildern figure in this case, there may be danger of our making.”

Leslei took her cue and described the ongoing curiosity about Demsford Schmuck’s habitation in Aix-en-Provence and the fervent interest a peer of the realm, Archdai Tryump, has in a property Demsford had leased for 20 years, now in Leslei’s name; a candid accounting of how they came to possess a “mirror HD” from the peer’s smart phone. She surmised that during his visit he had seemed too familiar with the layout of the residence for never having gained entrance. Leslei recounted the “tails” during her journey to France, who were now in very low profile. Lammele interrupted asking if there was any indication that the peer was aware his phone had been compromised; Leslei returned a fact; “He is apparently secure enough to request more rendezvous; an understandable expectation given the apparently happy ending to our last encounter.”

The call fell quiet as the three men “Groked” the degree to which she’d extended herself in service of their common objective.

Lammele asked for questions for any other; then advised close cooperation as much as possible within a necessary communication blackout, and to wait for instructions from Guildern or Angela about when to confer next.

“We have apparently been presented an abandoned nest egg of unimaginable scope; so well obscured from view by unscrupulous cowardice and greed that when those cognizant of its existence perished from Covid complications; nothing was left of the vast conspiracy to hoard wealth on a scale never before conceived, but remains an obscure thread somehow discovered happenstance by the Schmuck brothers. If their deaths can be attributed to that discovery, none of us are long for the world; however, if as I suspect, our investigations are the only light yet shed on this cabal, then we are in a unique position to finance the perpetuation of our species - nothing short of that will gain my allegiance, or engage my assistance ·

“Take some time to evaluate the impact to your lives about what I have said. Nothing will move forward until we six are in complete agreement.”

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Reiman Curzewel drove his vintage M998 Humvee up the ramp out of his bunker in a former underground wine cellar outside of Healdsburg, CA. He’d bought the high mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicle while Chief Scientist at Googol Inc., and had it outfitted as an escape pod for events such as the 1st death wave from Covid-19 and its subsequent variants, which by 2023 had killed over one million Americans and rent the warp and woof of a collapsing empire without the singularity that the “prescient” Wunderkind futurist decried was eminent for about 20 years. Never mind that his rapacious greed and algorithms resulted in “downgrading” of the natural inclination for curiosity our species has used from its roots to seek stasis, and harmony. Instead the people species was overwhelmed by the technical virtuosity of a gaggle of “eggheads,” who were encouraged, enabled and commanded to “move fast and break things,” yet under the fungible mission statement to “Do no evil,” these same idealists, when proffered easy money, reasonably became ideologues who “do know evil.”

Reiman was anything but a monster: educated, sensitive and ‘tuned in,’ circumstances simply swamped the homilies he’d been raised with and overturned the culture to which he’d been born to believe; nor could, or would he ever acknowledge its Faustian bargain; yet there he was driving South on the 101 in a military grade vehicle capable of surviving a nuclear blast while maintaining uplink capacity to any satellite-to-T1 connectivity surviving best-guess holocaust conditions. This mission was purely venal; his wife and family died between the Covid outbreak and the 2nd death wave, it’s curve just now flattening after 2 years of lockdown - he was alive while similar enclaves within +/- 18 miles of him had sustained 81% fatalities. He wasn’t running for his life, but searching for the Holy Grail, the “nut” of Digital Capitalism - a mythological glitch from Y2k that was reputed to harbor a file containing access to many times the value of the world’s ‘economy’ in a single http:// location hiding in plain sight.

It was perfectly natural for him to call Zchnarkzy Marskburgh knowing that neither of them knew more than the other, but he was hoping between them, they might raise a clue.

“Hello Zchnark, am on the 101 headed North - any clues yet ? ” · Reiman had sold 3 businesses by the time Zchnarksky Marksburgh had dropped out of university with $3.5 billion USD in his pocket from the IPO of “Face Race,” an application for promoting “professional notoriety” when internet traffic was doubling every 6 months; each had a wary respect for the other with little interest about anything concerning the other except any advantage that could be taken.

Listening in on this conversation, Faik Besos knew what “clues” Reiman was pumping Zchnarksky for. The three had risen up through the bursting bubbles of the hypertext cauldron long before Apple fought Xerox for the right to own the “feel” of a computer screen.

Faik Besos had been brokering “Toxic Mortgages” out of his Long Island basement when he got saddled with an upside down ‘merican institution. In a cash-lean startup fit of pique, he decided to leverage his newly acquired long-on-the-tooth world famous brandname “Publisher’s Clearing House” into the rapidly expanding World Wide Web by drop shipping revistas sensuales de segunda mano to branches of PCH in the 12 largest Mexican Cities in the Western Hemisphere, Los Angeles, CA being the 2nd largest - his gamble yielded him $35 billion for his publishing monolith “Babylon” within 6 years.

What rankled the still waters of these three was that someone had beaten them at their own game and allegedly accumulated many times their combined wealth located in an apocryphal digital file that their own COOs could not prove nor disprove existed.

2jts1 03/03/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

100321 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 11

Pasqual missed his mother; for too many of the years they both lived. Her native catechism as full blooded Chiricahua proved to be outside Pasqual’s path which veered early into a bifurcated cultural identity. His father was rastafarian working on his PhD thesis about the effects of cultural dislocation on the music of indigenous people; she, a direct descendent of Cochise living in Nogales when she met “Rastaman” and fell into a star-crossed romance with no easy exit · Pasqual was the highest-best outcome of their tragic love.

Pasqual’s father was murdered outside of a Nogales bar 3 days after the birth of his son; the assailant vanished; but his father’s body was conferred to the Great Spirit by sacred shamans from Pasqual’s tribe. Jose Ortega, his mother’s brother was MIA during the Tet Offensive in ’68, his half-brother Ernesto, the youngest brother of the Ortega Clan, was the only father Pasqual had ever known and strongest link to both sides of his heritage; Ernesto was with Pasqual’s father, the night he was murdered in 1980. The stories these two created while Pasqual grew up about their confused origins, part fact, part fiction were not enough for the restless Pasqual to remain in Nogales.

Just after Pasqual’s 9th Birthday, his mother married an executive from an international aluminum mining concern. Her new husband was an Apache elder with good intentions, but narrow vision. He was a good husband to Pasqual’s ma and fair father to him, but Pasqual’s blood could not be calmed by the socialization his “parents” accepted in exchange for inclusion. At 14, Pasqual took off and hitchhiked North after reading Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road”. A middle school teacher had challenged the young Pasqual that it would be too much for him to understand at his young age. After a short rodeo stint as “clown/bronco buster,” Pasqual stopped at Archer City, TX and spent the next 2 years working in Larry McMurty’s “Booked Up,” reading all the kindly bookseller/author recommended and whatever else Pasqual’s native curiosity could find, once the floors were swept.

Larry enjoyed the reclusive man-child who’d found his way to his store; the two spent hours exploring language, culture and generational scenarios spelled out in books written, and unwritten. Eventually Pasqual decided California was best suited for the vision quest he promised his Ma he’d take before he ever left Nogales; he bought a brand new 1984 Harley-Davidson Shovel-head on which to conquer the “Dream Machine” of Hollywood, CA. The day he arrived, he found his way to Mel’s Diner and synchronistically fell hopelessly hard for an Angela Vigoda when she’d waited on his table at Mel’s busy Diner. Within 3 hours, the two were in the rictus of sexual ecstasy, a union they would explore alone/together for the next 36 years until the 2020 fall of civilization, which saw a world struggle sideways through a “Portal” for which many hoped and believed would become a new humanity; while others clung reflexively devoted to traditional versions of “enlightenment”.

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Angela Vigoda had been a “Valley Girl,” twenty years too late, She chased movie star dreams as a teenager. Both parents were deeply immersed in the “industry” and encouraged her dreams, however much vicariously satisfying their own fraught yearnings. By the time Angela was ingenue material, what was left of cinematography had been entirely subsumed by the computer generated graphics, to the degree that by the time the two met, it was not always clear whether the image on screen was a breathing, sentient being or the confabulation of some executive and a gifted animator. There was just enough room in the inchoate dreams of the two to fit one another into the empty places of the other. Pasqual took occasional gigs as a stunt double, but Angela had grander plans for them and took up real estate sales, where she discovered a gift for working with people - they moved to Simi Valley and she gave birth to baby Jesus.

During their 15 years in Simi Valley the internet went through vast changes and witnessed the transformation from “Information Superhighway” to the prototype for “Turnkey Tyranny.” The hand over fist profits from the Dot Com Empire had never been seen before, with overnight billionaires selling off startups to ever larger conglomerates who made the “restraint of trade” business model of the Robber Barrons seem like egregious philanthropy. As a result greater amounts of capital amassed in fewer hands than anytime in the planet’s long history of greed; the world wobbled toward ecological catastrophe more quickly than at anytime since the beginning of the industrial revolution. Mankind had been robbed of its sensory capacity to experience the world viscerally and increasingly relied on the “bytes” used as click bait generating virtual income out of the glut of products techno/capitalism produced, which social engineers flogged as essential accessories for the “Good Life”.

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Zchnarkzy Marskburgh was trailing Reiman by drone as he drove South on the 101 toward the Face Race Campus; when he called Marksburgh Reiman said he was driving North. “What’s North of your place?,” Zchnarkzy asked, “except vacant vineyards and ‘Vaccine Free Zones’? Why don’t you come down to the ‘Face Race’ campus? The plant’s servers are still at 68.75% capacity, and I can divert 90% of that from subscribers to do any modeling we want to localize this ‘mythological digital cache’ we’re not hunting.”

“I have an appointment with Faik Besos at the new Babylon campus at Ghirardelli Square in ‘Frisco at 6:30 pm tonight. He approached me along the same lines you’re thinking.” Reiman broke the connection to let that sink in and called his goon squad staging outside the ‘Face Race’ campus for the kidnapping of Zchnarkzy Marskburgh; shifting the balance of power between the principals of the unholy triumvirate. “Old age and treachery will win over youth and ambition every time”, Reiman murmured to himself loud enough for the younger Faik Bezos to snicker at on the tapped transmission.

Zchnarkzy Marksburgh stepped into his Chauffeured Escalade Town Car, preferring pavement to the target practice for large bore laser scoped random gunfire that former privilege of helicopter had become after the 2nd killing wave of ’27. The route to his complex in the vineyards North of San Rafael was as secure as any stretch of rode way in ‘merica post-Covid. He found freedom of movement essential in maintaining his command of events, after all what good was $212 billion if you couldn’t flaunt it? His entourage of 6 were all special-ops veterans of the never-ending wars of 21st century ‘merica and his armor plated vehicle was nuclear blast rated, but the driver was not prepared when a tractor trailer blocked their progress, and another blocked their retreat. The Escalade’s navigation screen went blank and was replaced by a video of Zchnarkzy’s mother in realtime at the rear bumper of the tractor trailer blocking the retreat of Zchnarkzy’s Escalade.

“Zchnark, I lied; I’m not meeting Faik at Ghirardelli Square.” Reiman told Marksburgh, “I brought your mother here to exchange - her for you.” Before Zchnarkzy could respond to Reiman’s threat, the entire area was lit by Halogen lamps from a squadron of drones piping the voice of Faik Besos;

“You will all surrender immediately, or I will render a 1 mile radius from were Mrs. Marksburgh stands, radioactive.” The Escalades passenger door then opened and Zchnarkzy stepped out speaking into his smart phone activating loud speakers on the Escalade,

“Gentleman, what we have here is a failure to communicate; de-escalate this nonsense immediately or i will magnetize this handset and erase the only known recording of Aaron Schtartz’s description for how to hijack the entire world’s economy and where to hide it in plain sight - we have what I believe is called a ‘Mexican Standoff’.”

There was then a full 5 minutes of complete silence as each party evaluated the plausibility of the threats. Reiman stepped out from behind the back tractor; offered his elbow to Mrs. Marksburgh and calmly walked her to her son’s side; thus signaling the end of one melodrama and the beginning of combat for the future of the world.

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Lammele Dama removed his headphones, and shrugged - somewhat relieved by the averted mayhem he’d just monitored, however much it might have served efforts to save the future of the species.

‘Now would be a good time to flood the battlefield with red herrings,’ Lammele thought; picking up the secure phone, he dialed the encryption passcode to the Crocodile Cafe. “Buenos, es la Cafe de Cocodrillos, ¿cómo puedo ayudarte?” Guildern’s familiar voice was reassuring.

In his most officious nasal tone Lammele addressed his friend, “Señor Seur, this is the Internal Revenue Service; we have a few questions to ask you. Is this a convenient time?” . .. He loved to prank his friend of nearly 30 years; they’d met doing forensic work on the “Twin Trade Towers” in 2001 and remained fast friends, however distant .. . the pause continued . ..

“Lammele, you fuck - not funny! The file for the Schmuck Brothers you sent is too strange, not much wiggle room and when it heats up, it won’t be pretty; there’s already blood in the water.”

“It’s worse than you might imagine friend. The uplink you viewing is where Reiman Curzewel, Faik Besos, and Zchnarkzy Marskburgh nearly radioactivate a two mile diameter of the 101 freeway in California south of Healdsburg; assassinate Marskburgh’s mother and destroy an alleged recording of Aaron Schtartz elucidating how to “mirror” and “bury” a copy of the world’s financial stockpile.” Lammele was rarely able to surprise his hyper vigilant friend, and this news would prove to be no exception.

“Yeah, now there’s a big surprise - rats doing rat things. ‘the 3 cheeses of the apocalypse’. I’d heard that Schtartz had done some theoretical work on liberating the world economy, similar to Tesla’s concept of power sharing before Edison changed the game into the very lucrative business of transmitting energy. It does show how desperate traitors to the species can be about maintaining status quo.”

“Let me ask you Guildern, is this a chimera, or is there foundation to the ‘pot of gold’ myth that brought these three ciphers so close to going, Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD)?”

“None of these three sick fucks is stupid, while each one is afflicted by a greed that knows no bounds; To answer your question - Yes, Aaron was an unusually gifted Computer Scientist who was not plagued by the myopic limitations of so many of his brethren in the field; he more favored the creative bent that lent Master Einstein his prodigious leaps of imagination.”

“Well whaddya’ say ole’ friend, are you up for one last rodeo? Have a little fun at the expense of almighty ‘Hubris,’ do you feel like throwing some gargantuan monkey wrenches into the machinery of greed?” Lammele was beginning to enjoy this and that was a good sign for all involved, except the minions of mayhem.

“What are you thinking?” always a dangerous question to put to Lammele Dama, but Guildern Seur was a fearless fool kind of guy.

“I think we should dust the trail; I recently saw a photo of a pair of shoes an innovative rustler in the Old West used - they left hoof prints. While you hone your keen analytical computer skills to uncover whatever you can about Aaron Schtartz’ work, I will muddy the waters very selectively with digital chaff around any computer traffic ‘the 3 cheeses’ generate in search of whatever it is we are looking for; the worm has turned, it is now a game of who’s doing who.”

“I’m glad to hear your voice again Lammele, you sound good - clear as a bell. PTSD has taken its toll and so many I’ve known have simply resigned. You are an inspiration, and I’m glad you continue to breathe. Take good care friend; keep me posted. We’ll talk soon.”

The line went dead, and both men sat and reflected on their good fortune to know the other.

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Carina rolled off Mordecaise, then knelt over his chest to lick the sweat that had puddled at his solar plexus while making love. He relished her abandon for mixing bodily fluids and found the intimacy helped to focus his mind in ways he thought he’d forgotten. But there was something she was not sharing, maybe not consciously, but she was holding back something that may have been below the threshold of her awareness. She and Domhall had eaten many mushrooms during their time together. She spoke reverently about the purity of his spirit; they had even gone on a pilgrimage to the village where Maria Sabina had lived; but only to leave a modest offering in the local church and deliver a rose bush to “the stranger” that Carina was drawn to. Carina made no apologies for her magic as a bruja and believed deeply in the “the little children” Maria Sabina conceived of as the natural world; conceived of and grieved for, believing they were irretrievably lost to the ‘darkening world’; Carina and Domhall devoted their union to reversing that fate.

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Angela had developed an ingenious method of communicating between the team using Marksburgh’s own Face Race platform and revolving passkey codes based on currency fluctuations within any country of the world; one need only know the location of an operative to decipher which post contained which comment that was germane to the discussion. So within minutes of the end of their discussion, each of the principals understood the content and could deduce the ramifications of Lammele and Guildern’s conversation - initiative being the guiding light · adapt and improvise. Domhall and his brothers had been deceptively close, and the death of each of his brothers affected Domhall deeply with increasing intensity. Reynaldo and Demsford had struggled for calm after the death of their parents; then finding themselves children worth millions in a world losing its moral compass. Domhall was the anchor, though he himself was solitary having difficulty forming close bonds with any but his brothers.

Their guardian Lammele Dama insisted that each obtain an education to Bachelor degree level before they gained unfettered access to their fortunes. Domhall began to study law, but switched to Computer Science finding the wooly west nature of an emerging dark web intriguing. Demsford and Reynaldo took the Grand Tour in Europe when Demsford was of age, and Demsford took a liking to Paris as a young swain of uncommon intellect and sensitivity, choosing to study fine art at the École des Beaux-Arts; Lammele Dama’s kindly but acerbic guidance precluded conceit in that quarter so Demsford was delivered from the venal aspect of his intrinsic talent to a devotion to the ever receding horizon of a finer art. Reynaldo chose literature and the world of ideas - eternally wondering what his life might have become had his parents survived.

None of the brothers had a concern about livelihood and so wandered on occasion into excess and the dangers of a “dissipated youth” only to find either Lammele, Domhall or both laughing at their folly. Reynaldo was the more wounded in these excursions and for a time was laid low with an addiction to heroin; saved entirely by the ministrations of a prostitute in the “Little Saigon” district of Southern California; shortly after this act of mercy she became a buddhist nun which left a lasting impression on the romantic mind of Reynaldo Schmuck.

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Carina struggled to open her mind to the questions Mordecaise asked while he tried to help her work through her grief at the recent loss of Domhall understand better about his mysterious demise. But the chasm between cultures - a Bavarian organ builder and a transplanted Chilango Bruja on the slopes of passion in Oaxaca Mexico seemed too vast a gulf in which to conjure meaning. There was a single fact from their penetrating conversations about the journey of Domhall’s paperless corpse from Oaxaca Mexico to Montevideo Uruguay. After unrelenting evaluation of any possible connection between his death and his disappearance - one obscure fact emerged · the name of an Argentine Cocaine addict, “Tito Rivera”

During the interrogation of the man who’d tried to frame Mordecaise for smuggling currency into Mexico, Commandante Gonzales had been unable to learn who was behind the failed frame, but he did learn the name of the mule who delivered the $25,000 USD to the operative who committed the fraud at Aeropuerto CDMX - Tito Rivera; he had taken a return flight to Uruguay, where authorities were still seeking his whereabouts. Carina had proven to be a better source of police intelligence than the Abogada Sra. Ley, though the two remained in contact with each other several times a week.

Often when the two had taken mushrooms, Domhall tried to communicate telepathically with Carina who never felt she understood what he was trying to convey. She was an artist, he was a computer scientist - their common language was very much on the physical plane. Domhall’s great interest in nonverbal communication is possibly what informed their very evocative sex life, but besides the psychoactive enhancements, Domhall explored a variety of pictograph prompts to stimulate a nonverbal channel of communication with Carina. From what he had told her about his parent’s death; then after the deaths of his brothers in quick succession, Carina surmised his interest in nonverbal communication was more than academic. She became convinced he was attempting to penetrate to the afterlife.

jts 10/03/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

220321 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 12

Pasqual had determined from calls to the Từ Hiếu ‘Root Pagoda’ and conversations with Thich Tok Longh the time had come to visit Hue and the site of Reynaldo’s death to try and to learn as much as he could about his missing uncle’s last days. He required a companion translator, and his first choice would have been Nữ Thần Ngon because he felt the need of an excuse to be near her; besides her responsibilities as owner/operator of a successful homestay during the “high season”, he found she ran “hot and cold” in a way he didn’t understand. Having been stabbed in the liver by a former lover, however unintentionally, Pasqual was keenly aware when he was being strongly rebuked for things he didn’t do and found this apparent truth to be too true in the case of Nữ Thần Ngon.

Thinking that a local translator might be more sensitive than a foreigner asking awkward questions about death, American War or no, Pasqual booked passage on one of the long busses between Hoi An and Hue, likely similar to the transportation Reynaldo used in his last trip to Hue. Pasqual booked into the Purple Haze Homestay for 2 weeks, while keeping his room at the Duyên Dáng Homestay. The Purple Haze proprietors were very helpful in arranging a local translator with a prior relationship to the Từ Hiếu pagoda - Son Do.

Pasqual arranged a time when Thich Tok Longh was available, and set off with Son Do on bicycles toward the pagoda. They were past the top of a rise on Điện Biên Phủ into the long curve for Lê Ngô Cát toward the root pagoda. Son passed a young woman and her child exiting from a gas station on her scooter. It had been raining all morning and the roads were slick with a petroleum sheen on the pavement after a long dry spell; Pasqual had just passed the woman when he saw a large cargo van careening toward him trying to beat the traffic turning right on the long curve. The van missed Pasqual by no more than a bike wheel diameter and pinned the young mother and her child under its front fender. They were killed instantly. There was not a sound except the purr of her well tuned scooter running after the collision until someone mindfully turned the ignition off. The driver sat at the back fender of his van and wept quietly.

Too shocked to move from where he had parked his bike, Pasqual realized he couldn’t remember anything from the time he saw the van hurtling toward him until he bent over the woman and her child to check for nonexistent pulses; the gas station manager had taken command of the scene; Son Do had given him all their contact information explaining they would be at the Từ Hiếu pagoda for hours and after that the Purple Haze Homestay. Pasqual allowed his guide to pull him from the gathering crowd and finish their ride to Từ Hiếu.

The glut of death that had provoked Pasqual and Angela to flee the United States in early 2022 remained an emotional fog of loss and fear - a specter touching their lives from a distance with statistics, bodybags and liturgies for how to survive restrained proximity like an echo of the “social distancing” that had prevented full scale slaughter. The pristine face of death had never peered at Pasqual as closely as it had that morning. When the two finally arrived at their destination, Pasqual understood within moments if there was anywhere in the world he could grieve for that stranger’s sad fate, he knew in his heart it would be the root pagoda at Từ Hiếu. The earth seemed infused with the love of ancestors and for long moments while he sat reflecting on what had just occurred, Pasqual could almost feel the collective respiration of all the world’s ancestors, including the dead woman and her child, his tio Jose as well as Reynaldo Schmuck.

He had no idea how long he sat at the low bench in front of a crescent shaped pond, nor could he say how long he’d shared the bench with a robed monk immersed in the calm of that pond, Pasqual knew his quiet companion was Thich Tok Longh. When the monk looked to Pasqual, it felt as though they had been conversing gently for hours about every grief Pasqual had ever known; when Thay Longh asked Pasqual to tell him something about his uncle, all that Pasqual could say was, “he looked like you.”

Pasqual then brought out two folders from his pack, one marked “Jose Ortega”, the other “Reynaldo Schmuck”. Master Longh opened the folder marked “Jose”; there was a photo of a much younger man who indeed resembled the old monk. It was curious to watch the expression of the very old man as he reflected on the 62 year old photo of Pasqual’s uncle; the monk’s face contained sagas of stories told and untold while reflecting a warm embrace for all he looked at. “I remember this man” was all he said before he rose from his seat and said to the foreigner before him. “I am much encouraged by your presence, it saddens me to know of the suffering you passed through to be here. I hope it will not prevent you from returning tomorrow for lunch. We have much to talk about.” Thich Tok Longh walked away with light steps that seemed like he was kissing the ground while he walked away

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Leslei woke from a deep dream to the sound of hammering outside her window. There was a technician at the top of a utility pole pounding nails into a frame for some manner of junction box from what she could see at eye level from her loft window. Flinging her window open she hollered the 10 meters across, mindless to her state of undress, “The fuck are you doing?” in flawless French vernacular, startling the worker to the point he nearly plunged from the pole, 10 meters to a hard ground. His expression told her, he’d heard nothing and saw all he wanted, so she slammed the window shut and charged down the stairs into the yard picking up the ax at the wood pile for good measure. The worker’s salacious grin was quickly replaced by one of contrite respect.

“Forgive me Madam, are you not Mrs. Archdai Tryump, and did you not request a satellite router for your domicile?” With the last question, Leslei took the ax and neatly plunged it deep into the coil of coax at the base of the pole precluding further discussion.

She set water boiling for coffee, and watched through the window as the wary technician inspected his work order, then reversing his vehicle out of the clearing - phone to his ear; leaving the coil where it sat with the ax buried many centimeters into its windings.

“Yes good morning to you Cher Tryump - fuck you . .. Why do you ask? If I choose to enhance my digital capacity, it will be because I have determined that what I have is inadequate to my want, not because some petite aristocrat wants to woo me with his largesse by an ostentatious display of his corporate connectivity installing satellite routers where they do not belong .. . Non! va te faire foutre.”

She poured her coffee; cleared her cache unsure of what he was capable of; dressed and headed for a café in Aix she knew to be encryption friendly.

“Yes Lammele; am unsure of the time, or even where you might be. Is it convenient to talk.”

“Yes of course Ms. Coerktern, delightful to hear your voice. Is everything okay? I am just sitting down with my 2nd cocktail, and pondering the beauty of woman - funny you should call just now.” Leslei enjoyed hearing this old man pitch woo without shame, wondering what it actually meant to him; he had to be in his 70’s.

“Archdai Tryump tried to install a satellite router in my home under the guise of ’noblesse oblige’ or the dumbest come on I’ve heard yet. From my research thus far, it’s hard to say whether his assets came up in our search for the holy grail from simple proximity to the digital vein or inept data management. He may have the resources to hire the best and be much smarter than he looks, or’s an inbred moron stumbling through a minefield about which he has no clue - and everything in between.”

She could hear him rustling in his seat and when he spoke next his voice had changed timber - she knew instinctively he was feeling his phallus.

“I can see your dilemma dear; he wants your attention, or your distraction, but is unsure about how to go about it. Is there any indication of intrusion other than this obvious violation of your privacy?”

Leslei thought back over the past days; Madame Ouvière had a Pomeranian who yapped at cockroaches on Leslei’s porch, so she felt comfortably secure about intruders; the research she was doing was preliminary and pedestrian. “No, I can’t think of anything I am doing that would flag that level of scrutiny, unless it’s my habit of consorting with men of dubious rectitude, and I don’t know anyone who fits that description.” She smiled to herself not knowing what to expect from an old man of dubious rectitude; she could hear the ice chiming in his glass.

“What do you think about applying some jujutsu; let him in. Clearly you have his interest, perhaps you have him off balance enough that he will divulge what he doesn’t know he knows.” The same idea had occurred to Leslei, why not gain access to some satellite bandwidth as well as gossip from the peerage.

“We’d have to reverse engineer the exact configuration of the installation after the fact and I don’t know any technicians here, unless the owner of the café where I’m at does contract work. Can you have him vetted? François Cordoba, at the le Hublot in Aix. If he checks out; I’ll find a way to soothe Mssr Tryump’s battered ego and accept his offer for an installation of a Satellite dish.” Leslei wasn’t sure if Lammele was even listening, “hello?”

It sounded as though he had spilled his drink, but his voice was more like he’d gulped the drink in a swallow, “yes, I’m here; you are wonderfully daring to consider such a ruse. He is a lucky man whether he knows it or not.” Sounding winded, Leslei wondered about the subtext of their conversation.

“He does seem to think with his penis, not sure whether that makes him lucky or a vulnerable chump.”

“Vulnerable can be a very revealing experience.” Whatever fever pitch Lammele had been in, had passed.

“I’ll be sure to share what he reveals, when we speak next. It must be very late, you sound drained”. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Lammele gasped when she said that. “I’ll be back in touch shortly.”

“I’ll look forward to that. take good care child”

Leslei knew ‘the sooner the better’ if she wanted to soothe the aristocrat’s wounded pride and so sent him a text after signing off of the VPN connection. “archie, i’m sorry-ur tech woke me frm a 2 rare enticing dreamscape; its vry sweet youd wnt me to possess streaming capability, i accept ur kind generosity. wll clarify 4 landlady. c u soon”

Then one to Angela, “frm dscusion w/ Lmle wz dcded 2 opn dsinfrmation chnnl using stllite dsh curtesy A.D.trymp as mthpece - ny msgs shuld be sme cpied sme 4 team, whtver msg is · tnks

Leslei resumed her work searching archives in the deep web for writings of Aaron Schtartz pertaining to their hunt. She knew their ruse with Archdai Tryump would only be effective if he was surveilling, and if not it would be difficult to determine who else might have tapped into any misinformation on the satellite channel; could be a waste of time in a deep cul-de-sac.

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Guildern was following the same line of thinking, wondering if the team was duplicating its research efforts. He wondered how Marksburgh had gotten hold of an alleged recording of Schtartz theorizing about mirroring money. Schtartz had been acutely aware of his high profile and the threat to the status quo that represented. It was unlikely he’d have allowed himself to be recorded, especially when theorizing about such a revolutionary concept as hijacking the world economy. He opened the link he and Leslei shared for deep web research and re-correlated the principals to see if he could make a “bell” ring: Archdai Tryump; Reiman Curzewel; Faik Besos; Zchnarksky Marksburg - Guildern decided it would be better to imagine himself as the dead genius Schtarz - a hunted man being prosecuted for crimes against the state. They had limited his access to processors of any kind and forbid access to the internet, or tried to. What did he have in common with the Schmuck brothers and how do they figure into the puzzle?

The two younger brothers had gravitated to the legacy buddhist tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh and his teachings about “mindfulness,” while Domhall had been drawn to hallucinogenics and indigenous mysticism; but the three always maintained close emotional contact however distant their physical realities were. Somehow that close emotional contact was the key · Guildern was certain and he texted Mordecaise about his thinking.

Angela came up behind Guildern as he finished his text and stuck her tongue in his ear - as though it were an omen; his penis leapt to attention like it had been blessed by the hand of god. “I’ve been working on a subtext we can transmit through Leslie’s satellite hookup,” fondling Guildern’s member from over his shoulder. “If ‘the 3 cheeses’ are in the loop, they know we have sent assets out across the planet searching for a path to this ‘lost dutchman mine.’ What if we give them what they’re looking for in the form of 3 corpses in differing states of decay: decay can be golden. It will split the focus of their operatives away from the team’s actual line of inquiry; tangle their resources with an unsavory interest in dead bodies and all that entails; muddy the water about our own research, and cost them valuable time.” At this point in her pitch, Angela had freed Guildern’s penis and was stroking it as though she wore a beard, and was in deep thought.

Her genius at times confused him, never sure if it was his id she enjoyed, or his easy availability to her lascivious mental processes, but damn if she wasn’t right - her reasoning was a perfect guise for a project that was all about hiding in plain sight. He immediately sent a text to Lammele outlining her plan: Lammele rebroadcast to all parties and it became the playbook of the day within minutes. Pasqual was aghast given his recent face off with death, but the orient and its inexorable embrace of change precluded any deep resistance to the idea. If anything his experience in Hue was cathartic in freeing him from fictions about dead heroes, helping him to focus more clearly on his current delusions.

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Reimen did not become a multibillionaire by allowing himself to be humiliated by circumstances, and though thwarted in his efforts to shift the balance for this particular game, he still meant to uncover and possess, if it existed, the “nut” he and his competitors sought, but it would be found and controlled by him, and him alone. The martinet flunky Archdai Tryump had proven more than useful in revealing the curiosity of the ‘merican treasure hunter Leslei Coerktern holed up in Aix-en-Provence; but there was precious little information about what she was looking for other than particulars about the death of a petit bourgeoisie dilettante in the hills of Aix, and/or his two brothers who died subsequently within the year; their collective wealth was a pittance and Reiman could not see any connection between them and the “nut.”

Nevertheless he arranged with ‘prince’ Tryump for a satellite dish to be installed to monitor any possible connection, but the fool nearly blew it presuming she would welcome any bone a petit aristocrat threw her way. What Reiman didn’t understand was why she relented and ultimately accepted the technology that was offered her. He needed more information about this “Leslei Coerktern,” without alerting the other two of the triumvirate; he wanted better intelligence about competition for the “nut”. Reiman loathed the idea of cooperating, especially if doing so rendered him more vulnerable, but found himself dialing the lesser of two evils; “Yes, Hello Zchnarksky, my apologies to you and your family; it was all saber rattling, I’m sure you understand.”

“Actually, I don’t, and I have grave misgivings about working with you or Faik Besos.”

“Don’t hang up. Ask your mother if she ever felt in any kind of danger. It was all showmanship like any shareholder’s meeting; you know that’s true. I much prefer the arrangement we’ve arrived at, that is why I called - to offer information. We have a lead in France, an independent contractor out of Salt Lake City who is doing estate research on a millionaire dilettante who died in France about a year ago. I don’t know if there is any connection to our efforts, but we have just arranged for a satellite link to be installed in a farmhouse she has rented in Aix.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Share your tape of Aaron Schtartz, first.”

“If I do that, I would have to share the information with Besos; then there would little to prevent you from picking up where you left off eliminating the competition.”

“How do I know it’s not a lecture Aaron gave to some YMCA Career Night on the wonders of The Digital Age?”

“You don’t.”

“I see your point,” though Marksburgh was much younger than Curzewel, he could see how Marskburgh had garnered as much power as he had. “There is a minor aristocrat Archdai Tryump who trades his ‘influence’ for cash and occasionally contracts for sub rosa work no one would expect him to do. In this case he’s installed a satellite router at the farmhouse of this operative.”

“Who is it?”

“I will trade any information the installation yields once I’ve reviewed the recording, and it contains useful information pertaining to our efforts - fair enough?”

“Fair enough, I will forward an edited version of the recording to your corporate email account.”

There was nothing more to be said and the line went dead.

jts 22/03/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

250321 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 13

Mordecaise followed the logic of the team’s thread with approval, but was frustrated in his efforts to learn from Corina the disposition of Domhall Schmuck’s body from his apparent death in Oaxaca Mexico to the discovery of his corpse at the morgue in Montevideo where he was pronounced dead. He had taken ill Christmas Eve at Carina Abejas’s artist enclave in Buena Vista. She immediately called the local physician who had been overwhelmed by an emerging variant of Covid 19; b.1.1.9. After he examined Domhall and took specimens, the Doctor explained to Carina it would be wiser for Domhall to remain where he was; kept hydrated and fed any liquid nutrition she could provide rather than rely on hospital care that would possibly be more dangerous than native instincts.

Eventually she opened up and shared completely her tale of woe; Carina wept as she recounted the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s and the moment when she could no longer find a pulse for her beloved. She told Mordecaise how she had lit the fire to heat the stones for the Temescal hoping that whatever life force her lover still possessed could be raised by love, prayer and sweat. In a creative leap of healing thought, when his comatose body had been placed on a raised pallet within the heated sweat lodge, she then put a shallow drum over his chest and began to beat a rhythmic pulse she’d hoped would match the pace of his heart. It was their favorite position - her head on his chest to listen to the thrump, thrump, thrump of his heart - the drum in the sweat lodge was a mixture of indigenous logic with modern physics attempting to maintain a flow of blood in a barely living being.

Domhall had been very open with Carina about his finances including his intention to die without a will; he gave her “Power of Attorney” if he ever became incapacitated, and held some very unorthodox views about wealth, however well considered. Though he himself maintained an account balance in the millions it was essentially for logistical expenses. During the years he had spent culling the “dark web,” he had discovered a group of like minded individuals who were all acolytes of the renegade computer scientist Aaron Schtartz. Based largely on his teachings, Domhall Schmuck devoted his life to efforts for eliminating income inequality throughout the world. Part of the group’s strategy involved a matrix of loci worldwide where based on financial modeling and complex socioeconomic factors it had been determined that with cash infusions precisely placed they would create a cascading effect of unrelenting economic growth which could not be constrained, diverted or coopted by traditional capitalist thinking - a revolution of abundance - “the infinite growth” paradigm turned on its ear.

Mordecaise was struck dumb by the simplicity of its genius and marveled at Carina’s loyalty, not just to him but to a concept which was inchoate and whose larger outline was barely defined by tendrils of logic and consequence bearing no fruit but the prospect of a better world.

There was no mystery about Domhall’s journey. While he was alive, he had determined that if he should die unexpectedly, Uruguay as “Switzerland of South America” was a country less likely to penetrate his web of finances and more likely to be fair to Carina and her Power of Attorney. Domhall loved Mexico, but knew that graft often held more sway than regulations. The network of couriers and shipping concerns of the band of economic revolutionaries provided a simple solution to the unsupervised transport of a body from one country to another and the web of contacts Domhall maintained allowed for his remains to appear in a hallway of the morgue in Montevideo the same way wealth had began to appear in strategic cities of the world just 5 years after Covid-19 virus arrived on the surface of the planet and the revolutionaries began their assault on the ruling class and its economic model of austerity.

Mordecaise also understood instinctively that the knowledge he had been given was a death sentence if it were disclosed prematurely. He needed to make contact with a group that was so well organized it had operated freely distributing billions of dollars worldwide without scrutiny of any kind nor alerting authorities to unusual wealth spikes during times of great financial stress and an internationally contrived austerity. Clearly these were individuals of high character and in possession of a well-honed discipline. There was no doubt he had been surveilled from the time he’d arrived in Oaxaca and possibly before.

He was never sure where his insights derived from: sex, drugs or en vino veritas, but his idea for contacting the renegade band of economic warriors required immediate action.

Guildern and Angela were resting upstairs in the apartment after coupling when he got a text from Mordecaise: “mst disprse thru stllte chnl frnce “found how Dmhl Schmucks corpse arrived MonteVideo minus doc - Tito Rivera is trading in virus mutations 4 big $s and smuggled body for study · tp scret”. Guildern knew it needed immediate transmission and sent the encrypted text to Lammele as the single point of contact for Leslei. The satellite router had been installed for a number of days and this would be a very practical experiment. The information was propagated in minutes and they all began to parse the larger implications through a mute deduction of known facts and unknown facts.

It was a lie - fact; Mordecaise knew the truth and deliberately sent the enemy down a rabbit hole, why? to protect the truth. Who was monitoring the satellite channel, or who was monitoring Mordecaise; friend or foe? How could the group know they were not being played the same way that they were playing? There was no way to know except for direct face to face communication and chances were good that those Mordecaise was trying to contact felt the same.

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Pasqual returned to the Purple Haze Homestay from the Pagoda a changed man - unsure of what he was feeling, he resorted to the craft beer seer; believing if it didn’t become clear what he was experiencing, at least he would be feeling no pain until morning. He enjoyed the lobby of the Purple Haze; like most places in between lockdowns, there were travelers from Covid-free zones. After his 1st beer he began to wonder how he was going to gain knowledge of an expat dead for 6 months, much less a blood relative missing during wartime for 62 years. His mind turned to the mother and her child, dead for just a few hours and the grief her family would carry for years. It helped somehow to believe his work contributed to a better understanding about the life of Reynaldo Schmuck and that his research about his uncle may bring relief to his own family; though few were still alive who could remember him.

He was chewing on the transmission from Leslie’s newly installed satellite router. Mordecaise was not given to nonessential communication, and Pasqual understood that the intention of her hookup was to muddy the waters by misdirection, but something about Mordecaise’ choice of Tito as foil didn’t feel right. What if instead of misdirection, he was making a declarative statement to an unknown asset he’d discovered and he was not only leading the ‘cheeses’ astray, but covering tracks that had been inadvertently revealed?

Sitting outside the Purple Haze on that balmy night he could only wonder how life had become such a hall of mirrors with clarity upended in favor of obscurity; he knew that he was not the only person in the world feeling disconnected. He finished his 2nd beer and retired early wanting to arrive at the Pagoda fresh and clear headed for his lunch with Thich Tok Longh. He began dreaming the moment his head hit the pillow until he woke the next day.

In his dream: He was walking down a steep cobblestoned roadway, so steep he had to concentrate on keeping balance. He was pulling a cart downhill. His mother and Angela were riding in the cart with a ceremonial drum between them. His mother was facing backward opposite Angela; the two were beating a cadence that gave him no rest. Nữ Thần Ngon was walking behind the cart, except she was holding his hand as he walked. There were tall buildings built with large blocks of peach colored stone on each side of the road, the buildings were covered with a small leafy brilliant green ivy, and the stone shimmered in sunlight. There were dark narrow alleys branching off at regular intervals. As he pulled harder and harder on the cart, people could be seen entering and exiting the alleys, but no people were anywhere on the roadway. His mother was crying, Angela was laughing and Nữ Thần Ngon was whispering something into his ear, but he couldn’t understand anything that she was saying. Far off in the distance there was the same scooter and two bodies that he saw that morning, but it never grew closer, no matter how hard he pulled or how fast the drum beat.

It was very difficult to wake, even though he had slept deeply for 10 hours. There were 3 messages from Son Do begging forgiveness, but there had been a family emergency and he would be unable to accompany Pasqual to the Pagoda. He assured Pasqual that Thich Tok Longh’s English was more than adequate for the two to communicate.

His ride to Từ Hiếu up Điện Biên Phủ Blvd was disconcerting, aside from a deep reluctance to return to the corner where the woman and her child died the day before; his mind could not shake the image of his dream - going downhill and having to pull harder. When he reached the summit soaked in sweat, he stopped just past the gas station and lit two sticks of incense from a package he had bought from the vendors at the pagoda the day before. He arrived at Từ Hiếu in time to dry out and compose himself for his lunch with Thich Tok Longh. The staff at the Purple Haze Homestay marveled that he had been given an audience the the Bhikkhu, much less that he was invited to eat with the master. Pasqual was physically and emotionally drained, but very hungry. So he sat at the crescent shaped pool and waited.

“I’m very glad that you accepted my invitation to return, but I sense you carry much anxiety.” Pasqual didn’t know exactly when the Bhikkhu had sat down and nearly didn’t respond when the kindly man spoke to him.

“It is my honor Sir; i am grateful for your assistance and your kindness.” Pasqual said this looking at the reflection of the gate in the shallow crescent shaped pond as though it and the Bhikkhu were one and the same.

“Let us walk to the hall and enjoy the grounds the sangha works so hard to maintain.” Pasqual understood that the Bikkhu had to be in his 80’s, yet his step was light while his gait was firm. They walked in silence through a lush grove to a building where disciples were forming a line. I have had time to review your two files and am very happy you have come seeking more information about the two individuals, each memorable, and oddly similar to the other though many years apart.”

Bhikkhu Longh interrupted himself and turned to a commotion behind them in line.

A young disciple was visibly upset and speaking loudly to those around him, “Tại sao sư phụ của chúng ta lại tôn trọng một người nước ngoài bằng cách phục vụ thức ăn cho anh ta và xếp mình sau người lạ này trong hàng?” (Why is our master honoring a foreigner by serving him our food and placing himself behind this stranger in line?”) With no more than a glance from the Bhikkhu, the commotion was silenced while the two proceeded forward.

“Your uncle Jose was a very brave and loving man who risked much during his short stay in our city. I was a young acolyte at the time Bikkhu Thich Nhat Hanh had journeyed to America to seek support for the peace movement in Viet Nam. Sister Chan Khong had been left in charge during his absence; it was a group the two had founded, the School of Youth for Social Service (SYSS) which your uncle Jose approached for help in filing with your government as a ‘Conscientious Objector’ in a foreign nation during a period of “undeclared war” - a remarkably courageous and moral act. What I can tell you about your uncle’s disappearance is this; one day he was present working in close coordination with the SYSS, and then he was gone. There is no documentation, but Chan Khong was born in Bến Tre close to the Cambodian Border and many in the temple suspected that your uncle had been spirited South when his application was denied by your government, and hostilities escalated after the offensive during Tet in 1968.”

Pasqual had sat in awed attention picking through the savory vegetarian meal, but very mindful of how much the discussion had taxed his new friend. Like the love that Bhikkhu Longh radiated transparently, so too fatigue was clearly etched in his expression. Pasqual excused himself when the meal was through and asked for another audience at the Bhikkhu’s convenience to learn what he could about the foreigner Reynaldo Schmuck before returning to Hoi An - Thich Tok Longh happily agreed.

“There is reason for all things that occur in our world. When you were present yesterday as the young woman and her child passed beyond the veil, it was very similar to how Reynaldo Schmuck expired some six months ago in the same location. The universe is mindful of your journey and is providing caution for your further travels, but also provided a loving presence for the young mother and child when the past through the veil” With this comment, the elder man, rose and excused himself, pacing out of the large hall with a small measure less alacrity than he had entered.

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The 1st indication that their ploy had been effective was a phone call to Guildern, “Senór Seur, this is Tito.” Guildern switched on the recorder.

“Yeah, there’s a surprise. What do you want?”

“I got no place to go, I need your help, Ese; I’m being hunted.”

“Yeah, there’s another surprise. Did it occur to you I might be the one hunting you?”

“It ain’t you; you too good for that kind’a shit; Mordecaise maybe, but he’s in Oaxaca.”

“How would you know?”

“‘Cause I’m the one that ferried the $25,000 to Aeropuerto CDMX; they used it to frame your amigo.”

“Who used it?”

“Some English puta, said he’s royalty, like I would give a fuck.”

“Why are you telling me this?

“I told you, I’m being hunted - like a dog; it ain’t my people; it might be, but I don’t think so.”

“Call me back tomorrow.” Guildern hung up; not being in any kind of hurry to help Tito

Guildern called Lammele next; “Yeah, I just got the upload from your recorder; interesting, but it doesn’t tell us much. I’ve had a chance to talk with Mordecaise about the ruse. He’s trying to reach the people that shipped the body of Domhall Schmuck to Montevideo. We need to learn if the hit on Tito is for former sins or if it’s related to the red-herring we planted out of Leslei’s satellite. It tells us a lot that Tito’s hunter isn’t interested in debriefing him - they apparently just want him dead”

“That’s gonna be tough to parse, Tito made a lot of enemies in his life, including me and Mordecaise. But it also makes him an expert on enemies.”

Guildern waited while Lammele thought; it may well have been the middle of his night for all he knew. “The most useful step for us to take, must be based on Mordecaise’ objective, which is to open a dialog with the group responsible for shipping the body; Tito is a secondary consideration, but he’ll be useless to us dead. What if we use the satellite speaker to have Tito making threats against Domhall’s consort, Carina? If they care, as I believe they do, they will reach out to her to warn her of the threat?”

“I like it. I’ll ask Angela to send out a bulletin to the group of the updated ruse; go back to sleep friend. rest well.”

Before he could go back to sleep he sent a text to Leslei: “greetns lttle drlin’ fr immdyte trnsmshun ’Tito’s ben run to gnd; nt b4 he ordrd hit on Dmhll Schmck’s grlfrind Crna 2 keep hr mouth sht. she rqurs immdyte prtectshn. no bckup avlble n’ tme - al hnds ondeck’.”

Worried about the young operative’s safety, Lammele sent a 2nd text to Pierre in Paris: “cncrn fr sfty of oprtve n Aix, enfrce ‘silent shield’; mxm priorty,” then resumed his nightly 4 hours of sleep as fitfully as anyone who lives on 4 hours sleep per night would.

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Mordecaise determined it best to be out and about if he expected anyone from the Economic Revolution to reach out to him. The taxi cooperative, the ‘Colectivo’ was a perfect high profile circuit of autos in a constant round robin between downtown Oaxaca and Santa Maria del Tule. He enjoyed the small hamlet some 10 kilometers from Oaxaca Centro, and especially enjoyed sitting under the ancient cypress. The tree itself has the greatest circumference of any tree in the world. It is estimated to be between 1,500 and 2,000 years old with some estimates as old as 6,000 years.

For Mordecaise, it was the extraordinary life force of that living organism to which he was drawn. He would try to make the pilgrimage 2 or 3 times per week from the other side of the valley, more if Carina was available. He would walk through the plaza to the corral that housed the annual rodeo at the outskirts of town. He found a small chicken stand run by Billy Sortiz that served some of the best chicken tacos in all of Mexico, or so Billy would have you believe. Senór Sortiz was a ‘Tejano’ from Brownsville, the same city as Pasqual. Along with all of Billy’s other tall tales, he swore up and down that he remembered Pasqual Ortega from his rodeo days.

When Billy asked Mordecaise early one afternoon while the two stood over the grill drinking cold beer preparing chicken carcasses for the evening trade if Doña Abeja was “safe” at the compound; Mordecaise was not prepared: that question was exactly what their group had hoped someone from the ‘Economic Revolution’ would contact them and ask.

“I didn’t even think you knew her last name Billy? Why do you ask” Mordecaise needed to draw him out because Billy did not fit the profile of any operative capable of sustaining anonymity, much less effectively waging a silent war worldwide with the richest most powerful men left from the remnants of a crumbling capitalist empire.

“We don’t really have time to bullshit each other, do we?” Again Mordecaise was unsure how to vett this unexpected challenge.

“Is that what you think? that I’m here to bullshit you?”

“What I think is that you know exactly what I’m asking and why; I’m the only one that could know Tito Rivera had nothing to do with shipping Domhall Schmuck’s corpse back to Uruguay; that it was a bullshit ruse you used about him selling virus mutations to smoke out who is listening to your operative in France, and that you did it to make contact with whoever it was that was working with Domhall Schmuck when he tragically died. So you made contact; now what smart guy?”

jts 25/03/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

300321 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 14

Leslei understood why they needed to use the satellite router as bait; she also knew it exposed her to greater danger with larger unknowns, so when Mr. Sunglasses from the flight to Marseille came sauntering up the path one morning, Leslei was prepared to set Madame Ouvière’s Pomeranian on him, except he was carrying croissants - Leslei loved croissants, and she was hungry. She buried her research on Faik Besos on her drive and prepared a post highlighting the direction of her current thinking for publication on Face Race.

“What do you want?” Leslei half snarled, half grinned eying his open bag of fresh croissants she could smell from where she’d planted herself at her doorstep.

“Whirled Peas and loving harmony between all my brothers and sisters on planet earth,” moving no closer but retreating neither. He frankly gazed at her in her morning shift which did little to un-flatter her toned physique. The effect of his presence bewildered her in a not unpleasant way; she’d forgotten the pleasure of a man’s gaze, especially one whose mere being now created more curiosity than alarm. She was no longer a weary traveler amidst strangers but the master of her universe in a comfortable setting.

“I don’t even know your name, how can I possibly consider having breakfast with a man I cannot address properly?”

“Pierre,” he said this as though nothing more need be said.

“Pierre, what?” Leslei asked, somehow knowing it didn’t matter.

“Just Pierre.” With this Leslei turned on her heel through the front door without closing it; there could be no invitation more clear. When he stepped into the kitchen, she had spooned coffee into the press and was reaching for saucers for the croissants and bowels for their coffee; the water was heating as she turned to him and remarked, “You came here with croissants this morning because you believe I have the power of whirled peas and loving harmony, or are you just another glib lonely man looking to put it over on one more ditzy broad? What happened to your Hawaiian shirt? It did wonders for your green eyes. You don’t even know my name.”

“Leslei Coerkturn” She was not surprised but had to ask.

“How would you know?”

“I read it on your ticket at the counter in Paris.”

“How did you find me?”

“There are not that many brunette Americans in France, and Aix is a small town that feeds on gossip like any small town in the world. Knowing now that you enjoy croissants as much as you do wine, I will be sure to wear my Hawaiian shirt and bring a bottle of wine when I return.”

“Pretty sure of yourself Pierre? You haven’t even tried my coffee yet.”

It was one of the most pleasant breakfasts Leslei could remember and regretted hearing him say, “I must go.” She hoped he was being honest when he said “à bientôt,” and felt a little less lonely after he left; at least until that fucking Sherwood Green Maserati spewing gravel on her porch signaled the arrival of ‘His Largeness’ Archdai Tryump.

She knew something was wrong when she could see from her window how he stumbled from his car in a buffoonish renaissance costume, plumed cap and all. It was barely noon and he was impaired; she was unprepared, but finished posting on ‘Face Race’ - an archival photo of Marilyn Monroe blowing someone a kiss; there was no text - if you were to ask her today after all that then happened, why she posted that particular photo when she did; she’d likely have no answer, though it probably saved her life. She then stepped out the front door ready to confront her uninvited guest and lend words to her forbidding posture, when a cloth with a sickly sweet, cloying odor was clutched to her face from behind with no more than a breath into unconsciousness.

She woke up in a palatial room with light flooding through windows that were obscenely barred. She had been dressed in a cartoonish maid’s outfit, with tutu skirt, and matching apron. Determining it could get no worse, she shed the clothes and began searching the opulent cage for suitable attire. The ‘empire’ chiffonnière contained bodices and lingerie from a neanderthal’s wet dream, and Leslei took sublime pleasure depositing them in the low flame of the gilded cage’s fireplace; watching $10s of thousands worth of someone’s pathetic fantasies burn fiercely calmed her mind and eased her fears. For clothing, she settled on a table race full with exquisite embroidery. She wrapped her robe instinctively, resembling a Grecian athlete - ready for whatever came next.

All that was left for her war of resistance were ’equalizers’ necessary to an even playing field. There were no obvious advantages left for her, and well aware that every action she’d taken since waking was likely being scrutinized remotely; so taking a hot metal filament from one of the burnt lingerie bodices, Leslei fashioned a large metal “U” and wrapped the curve with a piece of torn cloth then proceeded to plunge the prongs into every electrical outlet she could find before her surreptitious guard was alerted to her destructive designs - in a very short time, scraping at the door opened to a burly matron carrying a nasty piece of metal rod. She soon wrested Leslei’s electrical sabotage prongs from her, leaving back out the door as quickly as she’d entered.

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It wasn’t until the next morning when Pierre returned to invite Leslei to tour Cézanne’s studio that she was discovered missing. When queried, Madame Ouvière said she saw the “cochon dans la voiture verte” (pig in the green car) arrive with another man some time after le Monsieur had departed at noon, but the car and passenger left soon after they’d arrived; Madame Ouvière believed the madame had sent them away.

Lammele was not surprised by Leslei’s kidnapping based on Archdai Tryump’s sordid history; Lammele had made the decision to surveil rather than provide manpower. He was prepared to shut down the entire operation if necessary to retrieve her. Pierre reported that all of Tryump’s likely hideaways were vacant, and that he had reportedly flown to Sarajevo the week before.

The police could not be enlisted and would likely have had fewer resources than the group for uncovering her whereabouts. The airlines confirmed that Archdai Tryump had in fact flown to Sarajevo, and immigration confirmed he had not returned - research also determined that his sherwood green Maserati had been reported stolen just before his flight.

If it wasn’t Tryump who had kidnapped Leslei, whoever had had gone to considerable trouble to frame Archai Tryump of the crime? Whoever was responsible had excellent intelligence on the group’s faux broadcasts and likely possessed solid insights into the direction of the group’s investigation including the principals; their assignments; and their whereabouts - meaning no one was safe.

Lammele declared a communication blackout until this breech could be resolved. Mordecaise was able to press ahead having a direct channel to the ‘Economic Revolution’, Guildern redoubled his penetration into the dark web, neither having any information from the other on progress; Lammele beat the bushes of Europe hoping to ferret where one was whom he discovered to be more than dear.

Pasqual fathomed the misery of his mates and quieted his own anxiety by plumbing FR for any indication from his diverse list of associates for ripples or eddies that might indicate a thread they might all pursue. His audience with the Bhikkhu was in abeyance and his brush with death found him nostalgic and peering at faces he knew - Leslei’s page showed him the way · Faik Besos.

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Lammele understood within the first two sentences of their quarantined conversation why Pasqual had broken radio silence. Lammele immediately instigated a hard target search for every property in Europe in which Faik Besos had a marginal interest - 2, 3, and 4 ‘arm lengths’ deep. Within minutes 3 properties within a 10 kilometer radius of Leslei’s cottage was revealed; 2 were eliminated by occupancy greater than 3 years, but one. Pierre and a crack squad of zealots from a renegade Unitarian sect out of Leon training throughout Europe for the liberation of humanity from the yoke of serfdom - this action for them would be considered a high level training exercise.

But when the squad of existentialist volunteer liberators from the provinces arrived at the semi-abandoned chateau, what they found was a grecian robed demi-goddess stampeding a herd of wild goats through the front entrance of an otherwise nondescript,’excessed’ property of the no-longer uber-rich. In her explanation to Pierre, Leslei described how when the fraught matron had retrieved the pronged sabotage tool Leslei used for off-lining her surveillance, the matron neglected to collect the remaining metal filaments from the ashes of the cavernous fireplace. Leslei understood enough about electronics and common sense that she had been able to devise an instrument with current and insulation adequate to provide an arc capable of cutting through the bars of her prison; however grateful she remained for her liberator’s presence and kind consideration of her plight.

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Relieved, but not mollified by the news of Leslei’s liberation, Mordecaise decided to sequester Tito and extract whatever ever he knew about the kidnapping. Guildern agreed and arranged for Tito to escape back to Oaxaca where he could be “protected.” He explained this to Tito when returning his call, without saying protected from whom or what. Tito stepped off the plane in Oaxaca looking buoyant and confident, until he saw Mordecaise at the gate accompanied by a squat muscular Mexican. “Tito, this is Billy, you’ll be staying at his rancho outside of town for a few weeks while we establish who wants you dead besides Guildern and myself. Will that be okay?” Mordecaise said this without expecting an answer and Tito knew his options had been substantially narrowed.

They drove east in silence for more than an hour; on a river rutted road due South for 1/2 hour. They passed through a number of locked gates until they reached a sprawling hacienda populated with a band of vaqueros who took no notice. Billy pulled into a smaller compound full of stalls for what appeared to be ‘prize cattle.’ For anyone familiar with the odor, the essence of bull semen permeated the corral. Tito’s lodgings were a shed between two massive steers restrained in their paddock by rings attached from their nostrils to metal posts on either side of the shed - Tito no longer appeared relieved. “Rest well,” is all Mordecaise said as he reversed the car back out the gates, leaving Billy on the porch of the hacienda.

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Faik Besos hurled a Ming Dynasty vase against a wall when he learned that Leslei Coerktern had liberated herself, even before being “rescued” by some armed Unitarian sect advocating worldwide freedom from tyranny of any stripe, including animals in zoos, disrupting driving schools and breaking the locks to all libraries.

After Marksburg and Curzewel began sharing information about Aaron Schtartz, all bets were off. The idiots continue to discuss plans on channels that revealed everything said, but not everything they thought. So when the yutz Reiman described the Leslei Coerktern’s satellite installation, Faik had already been monitoring most of her communications from the time she left Salt Lake City. He could see no reason to not simply eliminate her from the equation by impersonating Archdai Tryump who’d been sent on an errand to Sarajevo. It would have worked and been entertaining if that bitch had not been so pathological in her ingeniousness. Faik often wondered how Marksburgh and Curzwel got as far as they did being as dumb as they are; he should have irradiated the lot of ‘em with Strontium 90 when he had them pinned down outside the Face Race campus.

It’s a good thing he didn’t exterminate Tryump he thought; ‘the prince’ may be useful yet, if his presence in Sarajevo could be called into question. Faik was more than frustrated, that vase was worth a great deal more than the life of some obscure heir-hunter. He found himself more determined to educate her about the limits of her presumption and to school her place her place in his world. His ostensible partners were becoming more than an impediment to unraveling the truth about Aaron Schtartz’ theories about a ‘Mirrored Economy,’ but too many things were not adding up for a theoretical cache of value, orders of magnitude greater than the recorded wealth of the world economy. Why, against all models for the collapse of civilization were there not only pockets of human vitality and growth within the general population, but also metrics that described whole demographics flourishing and thriving in the midst of what should have been the collapse of entire systems, economic, ecological and affective by every pre-pandemic corporate sponsored sociological model known at the time, yet the motherfuckers survive and are thriving.

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Pasqual arrived at the root pagoda mid-morning and placed himself at the bench in front of the crescent pond, in part for the peace it afforded him and in part to allow for a private audience with the Bhikkhu without interruption. It was difficult to disassociate the placid view of the ancient pond from the horrid morning he first met Thich Tok Longh, yet the longer he sat and the more he breathed, the more he felt there was no other place on the planet for him to be. The voice of his friend interrupted his rumminations and he found himself addressing the voice, rather than the Bhikkhu - it was embarrassing, Ong Longh paid no mind. “Yes, friend there is much in the world that is confusing, even without love, death, hate and devotion.”

“I thought it best to visit in such a way that you might not be called upon, and I am glad for your company. Your information about my uncle Jose has calmed parts of my soul I did not know were enflamed, thank you. Perhaps my search for the truth about the life of your friend Reynaldo can be of as much use to you?”

“There is much sadness about the life of the one you call ‘Reynaldo’; to me he was just ‘little brother,’ he arrived like that, and departed like that - filling much for many here, in the in between. Oddly, I knew less about him than I knew of your uncle Jose, for Reynaldo was here at the pagoda for much longer - nearly two years. He struggled with the blessings of his life against the misery he witnessed, not just from the pandemic, but from the cruelty of people toward each other he found in his travels. He’d arrived here in Viet Nam with dreams of a worker’s paradise and found greed had arrived one step in front of him. He felt great guilt for his seemingly superior resources, but often described with envy the conviction of a society in service to itself.”

Pasqual did not want to interrupt his friend, but was anxious to uncover the nexus, if it existed between the Schmuck family and the mythological ‘nut,’ at stake was a struggle between the remnants of a venal ruling class and his small band of “fucking idealists” hoping for one last gasp for humanity.

The Bhikkhu Longh paid penetrating attention to Pasqual’s anxiety and continued his narrative. “Reynaldo conveyed private information, which as I understand in your culture is considered sacred between a priest and his parishioner.” Pasqual did not expect that analogy just then and opened his mind to everything the gentle monk could share. “The eldest brother was very influential in the lives of his younger brothers; but unorthodox does not begin to describe the life that the elder brother Domhall led and used to influence his younger brothers onto unorthodox paths. Eventually the two brothers affiliated themselves to the ‘Plum Village’ vision of the venerable Thich Nhat Hanh. I can tell you very little about that specific dynamic, except that the beloved Bhikkhu’s social activism played a large role in that decision. I can also say for Reynaldo there was a specific quote from Bhikkhu Thay that seemed to be a litany, or a mantra for him; it was this quote ‘There’s a revolution that needs to happen and it starts from inside each one of us. We need to wake up and fall in love with the Earth. Our personal and collective happiness and survival depends on it’ There was not a day that went by in any visit with Reynaldo where that quote from Thich Nhat Hanh did not find its way into the conversation.” My young friend was nothing, if not cussedly mindful.”

“Thay Longh, did Reynaldo participate in organizing cadres in financial matters; did he hold classes on computer technology or advocate funding for any specific group? I understand the question may sound venal, but is it possible that something he was working on may have precipitated his death; if so, that ‘something’ may yet pose danger to this pagoda.” Pasqual paused, for he had no foundation for such a thought while at the same time there had already been one abduction, two if Tito’s debriefing counted and an assassination attempt in Northern California all possibly related to whatever the Schmuck brothers were doing with their “old money” influence. He continued, “I saw for myself how dangerous the corner where Reynaldo died can be. Do you have any sense that his death was more than an accident?”

The more-than-mindful monk waited a full minute and more before he answered; “I said to you about the death you witnessed that there is reason for all things in the universe, however all reasons are not the same. Reynaldo did die in the same place you witnessed the passing of innocents on the wheel of life. Reynaldo expired under vastly different circumstances; the road conditions were dry; traffic was light and the vehicle that crashed into Reynaldo was a late model Mercedes Benz. The driver was never charged, nor publicly identified; 1) that is highly irregular 2) Reynaldo had been working closely with the remnants of sister Chong’s School of Youth for Social Services (SYSS). The group itself had been long dissolved, but the spirit of the organization lived on through institutional memory. Reynaldo was creating pockets of local lending for public service projects in remote areas that were far afield from the coastal “path of development.” He described it as a race with the bankers for the hearts and minds of the population. He was not a starry eyed idealist, but a very pragmatic and articulate individual who cared deeply about the people he served - he made enemies.”

“Bhikkhu Longh, you have been of enormous help. I am reluctant to ask for a list of those contacts, for it may expose the pagoda to scrutiny you wouldn’t otherwise have. Can you think of another source I can approach for the same information to safeguard your peace?”

“I believe you have already been in contact with the artist Trâu Bet in Hoi An; he would have been the one Reynaldo worked with most closely. With that, the monk signaled the end of the audience by commenting, “I have much enjoyed our short visits. If you can return someday, it would warm my heart to know more about your family and the success of your efforts.” With that Bhikkhu Longh rose slowly and padded away, again as though each step kissed the ground he trod.

When Pasqual returned to the Purple Haze Homestay, he inquired about Son Do and learned the family crisis had passed and that he had extended an invitation to Pasqual for a meal with his family that afternoon. The property was an older compound of traditional architecture a short distance from one of the many cemeteries that dotted the countryside around Hue. Besides Son Do, his wife and their 3 children, there were two snaggle toothed women seemingly bent 90 degrees at the waist who never left the pots they were tending in the yard, and who had no other expression but broad beetle juice stained smiles every time they placed a new plate of food on the table or took seats across from him at the big round metal table to point fingers and laugh. The other adult who was never introduced, but deferred to in every way was a slight man ramrod straight and nattily attired who remained busy with on child or another, and who was in constant communication with the parade of men who entered the compound to gape at Pasqual or share a glass of beer or snort of rice wine from water bottles or both, then leave.

Any effort to question the Patriarch about the battle of Hue, was precluded by a toast of “Mot, Hai, Ba, Yo” and followed by another plate of food, though the old man himself never drank. Pasqual was to remember this afternoon surrounded by children, food, and happy people to the end of his life, and in many ways explained more to him about the complexities of life in Vietnam than the reams of analysis and theorizing from locals and foreigners, each believing their truth explained a passage of history so gruesome and fruitless to the planet’s future as to confirm reasons for the unyoelding presence of a plague that had by 2027 killed a 1/3 of the human population without any signs of letup 3 years later.

jts 30/03/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

030421 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 15

Mordecaise was exhausted from burning the candle at both ends. He found as much as his satiation by Carina’s sexual appetite provided clarity and grounding, he also sensed a distraction from some component of the Schmuck puzzle that was growing more dangerous by the day. He found contemplating his interrogation of Tito at the ranchero to be based more more on ego oriented retribution than revelatory discovery for which path leads where. Lammele was right about the stakes they were playing for - it was not just gaining control over unimaginable wealth, but the very future of the human race and its place on the planet was at stake; this as Carina entered the bungalow naked balancing tall shots of Mezcal and 1/4 sections of lime wedged within the exposed décolletage of her ample naked bosom. Mordecaise shared his concern with the dame of his phallus; she pondered his problem and pulled on his penis between shots and caresses. Peering down into her eyes He knew through her embrace and the knowledge in her expression that he had to return Tito to Montevideo, and arrange a call between the group to coordinate a nexus for the investigation.

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Angela listened carefully in a conference call between Guildern, Lammele, Mordecaise, concurring with most of the strategy about returning Tito to Montevideo but feeling that their decision was precipitous; lacking sufficient intelligence such a transfer could expose their small force to unknown dangers; no one on the call argued.

Mordecaise asked about the disposition of Tito, remarking that attempts had already been made on his life from unknown sources; “exactly my point.” Angela tried to enlist Mordecaise native curiosity, “if it wasn’t from our leak, we remain unsure who was responsible for Leslei’s abduction, where else are we taking unnecessary risks by exposing ourselves to unknown adversaries? What else can Leslei’s satellite ‘microphone’ tell us about our enemy?”

“I see your point Angela, the ruse we used told us a lot about one faction of the forces arrayed against us, and your caution is correct. We’d be foolish to assume that the ruse has revealed all there is to know about who is monitoring whom.” Lammele then asked, “you’ve spoken with Leslei, do you have any idea how she would apply this potentially lethal ‘bug’ given that it has exposed her to the greatest amount of danger.

“I think that should be a conversation between you and her to minimize possible crosslinks; I know that she did not want to join this discussion because of the added potential for surveillance. We cannot discount the possibility of digital intrusion from an AI Trojan Horse acting independently, while delivering information to an unknown data sink.” Angela could be diabolical. “I’ll check into that now Guildern, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

“Mordecaise, can we smuggle Tito back from Mexico the same route as Domhall’s corpse? Or do we have to kill him for that to be plausible?” Sometimes Guildern’s humor made the other’s glad he was not laughing at them. “What I mean is, there is no point in drawing attention to any link between Tito and yourself; I think we all agree that we do not have a scorecard which shows all the players.”

“Guildern, I get your drift. I can check with the original shipper of Domhall Schmuck to better understand the logistics of shipping a ‘live one.’ It may be wise to fortify Carina’s compound against abductions; none of can know when we will need a secure al queda, or additional resources in the next number of weeks. My sense is when it heats up, it’ll do so quickly in unexpected ways.”

With that, the line broke so no one heard the additional “click,” nor did the click recognize the tail Angela had fastened to it on its way to its source.

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Faik Besos rarely gloated perceiving that behavior to be a character flaw of lesser mortals, but armed with this news he was unable to resist contacting the ‘Black Hand.’ He knew that any contact was strictly prohibited, but felt his accomplishment earned him entree to the inner sanctum. Faik had invested heavily in failed telecommunication “T1 Backbone” utilities at the early stages of the pandemic, and this nugget of intelligence was about to make the billions it cost him worth the investment.

“what?”

“This is Faik Besos; I have information from a channel of the Group that I have compromised.”

“I know who this, what makes you think you haven’t compromised me, you fool?” Faik had no answer, and reflexively postured.

“What I learned just now is important to you.”

“How the fuck would you know what’s important to me?”

“If you make it through the night, you’ll have learned something.”

the line went dead

Besos was unaccustomed to feelings of impotence, but at that moment, any memory of a hard on he’d ever experienced shivered and shriveled. ‘I’ll know something what? What the fuck does that even mean?’ He knew from empirical experience he had reason to be alarmed having known numbers of CEO braggarts revealing close associations with “The Black Hand” to then be gone - not as in ‘low profile’, but gone.

No one he knew had a direct line to “The Black Hand”. The number he’d used was only provided to the highest of the HNWI, ostensibly as an “ombudsman” channel, which was CEO tongue-in-cheek speak for “RAT LINE.”

The next 6 hours were the most tormented in his charmed existence. He had challenged the one proscription in a privileged life without bounds. There was no one he could turn to and no underling he could sacrifice to extricate himself from this self destructive faux pax.

At 3:00 am - the dead of night · his cocaine collapsed into his codeine and coagulated with his cognac as he typed through a fog into the most public channel he could imagine - “Google” : “dearest black hand i am sorry please forgive me. the group is aware of your existence and is actively searching for you”. Faik Besos had not fallen asleep at a desk for more than 40 years, a post-modern Icarus falling from the sky.

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At 5:00 am Montevideo time Angela climbed on top of Guildern with a printed receipt between her teeth. He had been asleep for less than an hour after closing the Crocodile Cafe from an overflow crowd coming to see the Venceramos Brigade in Concert for the first time anywhere with Roja and Rojito performing a tribute to Willie Nelson. People had traveled from as far away as Araquipa, Sao Paolo and Patagonia.

When Guildern opened the proffered receipt from between his lady love’s barred teeth, he expected some salacious invitation taunting his aged virility, but instead found a profound sentence which may well have signaled the turn of fates for the human species.

“The black hand has been run to ground - the worm has turned”

Guildern knew enough of its meaning to roll over and fall back to the sleep of a babe suckled by all that is good in the world. When he woke 8 hours later, his lady love seemed not to have moved but was riding his rising phallus like a demon mounted steed racing for the ever after. Life is good he thought to himself, ejaculating as though giving life to his loving Angela’s heart, but knowing deep inside it was just the opposite.

In post-coital bliss Guildern remembered the note that sent him to dreamland along with fragments of his dreams.

. .. He and Mordecaise were scaling a mountain to rescue Pasqual who’d been kidnapped by Goya’s “Colossus.” Pasqual was being held captive as bait to lure Angela into the secret valley of Shangri-la in the Kunlun Mountains. Colossus wanted her for a broodmare to create a race of Golems with which to repopulate the planet after the Covid pandemic had finished winnowing the human species to extinction.

The only weapons they carried with them were palm sized mirrors fashioned in a Tibetan Monastery. They functioned as portals for the soul, such that the reflection of a spirit in contraction would be condensed much like a black hole; while the reflection of an expanding spirit would become like echoes of matter similar to “the” instant after the universe’s creation . ..

Gazing into Angela’s deep brown eyes as she nestled in the crook of his neck Guildern forgot all the anxiety of the world and prayed for a moment that this was the end; and it was, again and again and . .. “who is the black hand? and how has he or she been ‘run to ground’?”

She grinned at her happy lover and explained, “after the call between you, Mordecaise, and Lammele, I dug deeper into the reference library you’ve been building with an eye to any unseen dynamic that couldn’t be explained away by the obvious pecuniary concerns of Besos, Marksburgh, Curzewel et al. The locus was Schtarz’ research about mirroring the economy in every case there seemed a parallel valence that was not consistent with the behaviors of those considered ‘principals,’ so I began correlating the independent histories of each and found a corresponding data set that was more than coincidental - it was the funding for each at the onset of their empire building · ‘la mano negra, LLC’.”

Angela at this point in the narrative rose like a panther from repose and began to speak with the full weight of her anatomy. “It was around midnight well into the 2nd set last night when I first encountered that enterprise, and the deeper I dug, the less I found. It was almost like the formula for a fractal that mutated anytime you created delimiters for the search. The first clue was that it was a baseline entity for the credit default swaps after the 2008 collapse, but it also held controlling interest in every fiduciary filing claims with the bailout - double dipping taken to a fine art. Every corporate entity related to ‘la mano negra’ was a shell that eventually led down a rabbit hole of shell companies, except for one; ‘Itzall Mine LTD’ - a postal service located at 11 South St. James St, Waukegan, Il. Lisbeth Phelps at P.O. Box 451, is ‘la mano negra’ and possibly the most powerful human being on the planet. Angela fell into an exhausted heap at the foot of the bed, and all the Guildern could do to comfort her was cover her with a guanaco tapestry they’d bought on their first vacation together.

Now that they knew to whom or what they were prey, Guildern realized the importance of coordination. But with whom for what - Lammele must be informed about this individual and her LLC, for no other reason than self-preservation. Her’s was a dinosaur organization - top heavy, designed for simple massive economic gravity by choking all growth, much like a cancer cell. It was also not in the group’s best interest to engage or even to be known by ‘la mano negra.’ Rather Guildern determined it would be best to press forward and align their efforts with the Economic Revolutionaries in their program of fabricating pockets of abundance aimed toward a tipping point by infusing wherewithal in strategic locations of a world tittering on extinction.

The more Guildern considered and understood Aaron Schtartz’ theories, the less radical and more practical they became. Modeled on old growth forest ecology, the idea was to create gravitational matrices of growth based on essential factors for world wellness - a financial Permaculture · The key to the entire plan was to divert decimal place points of value from the “Mother Ship” in such a way as to mirror each absence in an entirely symmetrical way. For example, for balance sheet transactions every entry correlated to an irrational counterpart which could then be made whole by interposing the reciprocal of -1 and 1 depending on the transaction (the only equation able to create a whole number from an irrational number) for a “reflected”, but entirely whole new counterpart value. The entire transaction shifted a transparent mirrored value to an appropriate ledger location suitable to the purposes of the ‘Economic Revolution’ an outcome extrinsic , however unintentional to the original financial event.

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Pasqual returned to his room in a much hotter Hoi An - his belongings had been shifted to a utility closet in his absence so that his bed could generate income; he tried to understand but did not feel awkward paying for a room if it was generating income for the homestay. Nữ Thần Ngon was as intriguing as she was confusing. Though Pasqual was no longer the hound dog he’d been just after he and Angela divorced, he enjoyed the ‘dance of love’ as much as the next man. With Nữ Thần Ngon nothing of the dance was clear, so he remained cool and focused on the tasks at hand - communiques left on his bed after his belongings had been returned. One was a standard, phone msg note sheet marked Gldrn -“mindfulness is your better friend” was all it said; the other was a nondescript envelope with his complete name computer printed: inside was a black hand print with the same computer printing at the bottom; “to learn more about Tio Jose’s fate, be at the the entrance to Marble mountain tomorrow morning at 5:00 am.”

No one at the Duyên Dáng Homestay could remember who delivered the note; it was found in a stack of incoming mail - 6 rooms had left the day he returned and 5 rooms filled plus his. As far as the Duyên Dáng Homestay was concerned life was good. Pasqual had trouble arranging with the assistant manager for car service and was exhausted when he woke at 4:00 am the next morning, so when the car passed what Pasqual could only assume to be Marble Mountain by the rows of store fronts offering room-size Buddhas and Michelangelo’s backdropped by two massive peaks bisecting the shoreline, he felt trouble. The only record of his journey was the exchange with the truculent assistant manager at Duyên Dáng Homestay who was, along with Nữ Thần Ngon, the only persons aware of his existence; as well as whoever’d arranged the cryptic palm print delivered to his room, and a friend an ocean and a continent away kind enough to have cautioned him, but was oblivious to what was transpiring. The Car pulled up to a bus stop on a shoreline buttressed by high rise hotels while two burly men entered the back seat, one stabbing Pasqual in the thigh with a needle that rendered him comatose within seconds. His absence was not discovered for a week, until Nữ Thần Ngon came to his door seeking the rent.

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Lammele knew by noon that same day of Pasqual’s abduction. Guildern had by that time apprised the group of the changing terrain of the battlefield and monitored channels which reveled Pasqual’s impending abduction almost in time to interdict. The car was found abandoned in the back streets of Da Nang the same day that Pasqual was reported missing from the Homestay; the car had been stolen from the car service the night before the abduction and had been wiped clean, so that even if the local authorities became concerned about a foreigner’s kidnapping, there was no evidence to guide them to any suspects - no one but Pasqual and the sender of the note knew of his appointment to meet at Marble Mountain, and the only other person who know about the note was the harried assistant manager - one week and 12 different quests after the fact.

Pasqual regained consciousness in a warehouse with a different climate - hotter and more humid. He could smell the piquant odor of peppers and fish which reminded him of how hungry he was; but all his empty stomach could reveal was curiosity about why he had not simply been killed - of what value was he to anyone in Viet Nam? The other odor in the cavernous space was more acrid, the stench of acrylic paint · when his eyes began to focus on the large frames whence the distinct aroma arose, he was more than surprised to find Trâu Bet sitting with a bowl of soup at a table between he and the cot upon which Pasqual was waking, that and the barred windows.

“Am I your prisoner Ong Bet?”

“Such an ugly expression, however typical from the lexicon of capitalist nations.”

Pasqual realized he was in a hall of mirrors where any reflection did not necessarily match the the angle of incidence. “Why am I alive, do you need me to fawn over your creative efforts?” Nothing like pissing off the gatekeeper to learn which way the keys turn.

“What on earth gave you the impression your life was in any kind of danger,” Bet asked languidly spooning the fragrant nutrition down his gullet, but offering none to his ‘guest’.

“Forgive me my confusion, but our introduction suggested we were allies, rather than keepers of the other’s misery - a position you seem to enjoy for the moment.”

“In the interest of expediency and candor, with a nod to the fragile nature of existence; let me clarify. At the beginning, it is true I was a passionate art student at the School of Fine Art in Hue. There was nothing more important to me than Goodness, Truth and Beauty - all attributes of the creative life, alas, I enjoyed an easy early success that corrupted me with the found wealth available to ‘right-thinking’ artists. The world was in chaos careening from one calamity to the next on a planet interwoven with threads of ephemeral truth woven with the shackles of an increasingly rigid esthetic determined less by competence and more by portfolio value; my misfortune was to be ‘discovered’ at too young an age to know better, by a patron lacking scruples or a soul - Faik Besos when he was slumming in hipster doofus hotspots. My fate was sealed and my fame guaranteed as an art ’stud’ within the stables of the rich and powerful. Does this make your present circumstance more clear?”

The vigorous middle aged artist seemed to deflate and age with each syllable uttered from his soliloquy, until in silence Pasqual wondered who was whose prisoner.

“At first it was issues of personal preference - a tone, or a shade that might clash with this or that boardroom; but it was all a sham about who was in control. I was too far into the process and my ego had been entirely subsumed by my identity as an artist which I signed over to the patronage of Faik Besos. Then came requests for assignments outside the realm of art product; I was asked about confidences made in the throes of creative discussions - intimate creative discussions about very personal matters as well as intelligence of a corporate nature, ‘why was this work important to that buyer?’ what funds were private, which were public; I had crossed the line and had become a whore for the ‘Art Industrialists,’ I enjoyed stratospheric influence within the art world, but was paraded like a prize bull whose only value was the semen of his bloodline; I was no longer valued for the blood of struggle left on my canvases. So when I was asked to deliver a curiosity - you · there really was no question, but that I would comply, and here you are.

Does that answer your question for why you are not dead? You are the latest creative commission for an effete ruling class that has lost sight of Goodness, Truth, or Beauty and instead trades in the casualties of empire - the souls of its artists.”

Pasqual was not prepared to respond and so spoke from his heart. “I can’t know about any of that; I can say that what you speak of is not what impressed me about your work, for I am an unschooled migrant from a border town on the frontiers of empire. Your work feels to be the very opposite of what you sound conflicted about. What I saw in your work were the inner voices of a soul in torment searching for peace within a world of death and destruction. I am sad to learn of the price you imagine you have paid for your struggle, but I am fairly certain that Faik Besos does not possess the sort of wealth your work has cost you to produce. I can only hope that his fictitious bargains will never prevent you from continuing your creative pursuits; for me that would be the equivalent of an ex wife preventing me from ever loving again - that is a privilege I will not surrender.”

The two men sat staring at each other with unexpected understanding. Trâu Bet broke the silence by pouring soup from a pot and bringing the bowl to his guest.

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jts 03/04/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

090421 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 16

The breech of the Black Hand’s existence reverberated instantaneously throughout the empire of “bought souls” when Faik Besos hit the return key for his plaintive wail to the Black Hand, beseeching forgiveness; instead of “dearest black hand i am sorry please forgive, me the group is aware of your existence and is actively searching for you” he might as well have written “dearest black hand i am sorry, please kill me,” for at the instant of his posting, the minions of empire within and without the broadcast arena of Google, knew he was fair game - death warrant or no, his end would be amply rewarded.

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Leslei apprehended her position as “sacrificial lamb,” and understood instinctively; she was not - that she would be supported by every resource available to the group. The emergence of a known predicate for the evils that surrounded humanity only made her position marginally more dangerous. So if in fact she was facing ‘certain death’ in service of humanity, she opted for a frolic in the company of that asshole with the sunglasses, Pierre. “Hey, what’s crackin’ homeboy? I never properly expressed by gratitude for your enthusiastic, however tardy rescue, à la ‘Pamela,’ what say you and I take a topless drive to the Riviera for a weekend in St Tropez?”

“I’m in; I have keys to a pied-à-terre with multiple ingresses and egresses; you understand everything you’ve spoken for the past month has been monitored; you are the ‘blood in the water.’ Pierre was nothing, if not amusing.

"Mais bien sûr, quel genre de plaisir est-ce de jouer avec des crétins, s'ils ne peuvent pas vous voir rire d'eux. Viens me chercher dans environ une heure?"

"Comme tu veux ma dame"

(“But of course, what kind of fun is it to play with morons, if they can't see you laughing at them. Come get me in about an hour? "

"As you want my lady”)

Leslei decided to take greater pains with the picnic lunch than her wardrobe for the drive down; ‘you may as well flaunt poverty if you got it’ she thought; so when Pierre arrived in his vintage Alfa Romeo top down, Leslei opted for a Vitamin D soak, shedding her keepsake tapestry.’ Pierre was beginning to appreciate the free thinker his assignment turned out to be; he was also enough of an historian to caution Leslei to tuck her Isadora Duncan-esque shawl well into the Alfa’s cockpit. The roller coaster of post pandemic regulations created a large contingent of scofflaws throughout the world, so their odds of making it to the coast were better than average; nor as it happened were they two the only couple in the south of France with the same topless idea.

Heading east from Marseilles due south from the Parc Naturel Régional du Verdon, they found themselves in the company of 2 other Alfa Romeos comprised of kindred spirits on the coast road to St Tropez. Leslei decided to have some fun and scribbled “St Tropez” in bold letters on a torn cardboard flap flashing it to the others with enthusiastic reply posts on similar picnic cardboard scraps. One half hour down the road, what had been 3 had become six; 15 minutes later there were 9, though only 7 were flag ship ‘Alfas’ - nearing the outskirts of St. Tropez, the caravan numbered eighteen sports cars, 18 drivers and 18 topless laughing women - paradise in any other world than the pandemic pre-extinction painting these people - intrepid revelers all were posing for, for at the first roundabout from the thoroughfare there were twice that number: 36 coups full of topless laughing women swirling in a Hieronymus Bosch vortex of synchronicity not to be soon forgotten - if memories were to be a part of the bargain.

Three times around the roundabout, and Pierre yanked the wheel hard right, mindless of their close cohort with whom they’d traveled some 100 kilometers in wheeled harmony and slammed his powered steed up twisting roads and past nestled gates until he passed through a motorized gate just finishing one arc cycle of its slow two arc beat to closure as they pulled to a stop underneath an ancient Wisteria flowering all but the tiny canvas shadow within which they had halted their hour and 1/2 trek through one fantasyland of the ‘end days’.

Leslei stumbled from her car seat naked, save her bikini bottoms to cold cock an unprepared Pierre across his jaw hard enough to seat him on the Wisteria carpet, and so began a weekend of frolic and saturnalian debauchery in the once sacrosanct domain of the ruling elite, now just a buffer zone between one world and the next.

“Da’ fuck did you do that for?” the rising Pierre requested with a good deal more respect on his way up than he had had on his way down.

“I have gotten precious little pleasure in these past months and for some fuck to interrupt that joy at its pitch is an actionable offense - I acted.” Leslei had gathered her tapestry from the cockpit and was schlepping the oversized picnic basket up the marble steps to the villa’s obvious entranceway before Pierre could gather his wits enough to run up the steps and open the locked door; finding himself cheek-to-jowl with the same diminutive dame that moments earlier had knocked him on his ass, he now asking her if he could help carry the supplies she had brought.

“It’s all about timing Pierre, you just caught me at a ‘good time’,” she remarked dropping the picnic basket on his foot. Leslei found a long entryway empire table and placed her tapestry lengthwise across it as though she had just returned it from the cleaners and proceeded to the back patio leaving Pierre the oblique aspect of a skylight which highlighted his perplexity and her absence. ‘The rich really do know how to live’, she thought to herself shedding her bikini bottoms and slipping into the eternity pool embedded in a shallow patio overlooking the Golf de St Tropez.

“Though neither of you have said as much, I deduce you are squiring me at the behest of one Lammele Dama, am I correct? Let me put it differently, if you are not here at the direction of Lammele Dama, I suggest you get the ‘flock’ out of here before I work out more frustration on your too handsome face.” The sprightly 47 year old corkscrewed her naked body out of the pool to a seated position pinioning his knees in a gentle embrace and looking back over her shoulder trying to decide if she saw terror or temptation on his ‘too handsome face’.

Pierre slowly unbuckled his Yves St Laurent buckle and unbuttoned his bonafide Levis Strauss denims pushing them down to the obstruction of her embraced arms; kicking his Gucci loafers into the pool, letting her pull the apparel down enough for him to leap out from and into the water. Their copulation was blunt and instantaneous with joy unfeigned and full; and the world too soon to follow; Beethoven’s 9th told Leslei the incoming call was from Lammele Dama; her piqued libido followed her into the call, “Hello, I’m glad to hear from you - an interesting morning;” recounting the drive and the circus, leaving out the nakedness of the French Riviera. “Any ideas how to separate the wheat from the chaff; you know the ‘3 cheeses’ are going nowhere until they have the ‘nut,’ or we are all dead?”

“Pierre is an operative who flew next to you from Marseilles to Aix; I had sent him too late to be of any help in your abduction; but he is there now for any purpose that furthers your goals: 1) try to understand Demsford Schmuck’s relationship to Plum Village and whether that pertains to the ‘nut’, 2) make contact with any member of the ‘Economic Revolution;’ I have no criteria except they will recognize you by your dedication to a free world; you will know them by their enemies - very likely the same as yours. identify and isolate, but do not engage. 3) Mordecaise may be able to learn of a leader there in the South of France; Faik Besos has imploded - the 3 cheeses are now 2, making them less dangerous, and more so. You cannot be too careful: À bientôt Amour.” So much for romantic trysts in the French Riviera thought Leslei, only to realize Pierre had procured a bamboo straw and had been blowing warm water so gently past her submerged calves during her call that she only realized the difference when he stopped - oh she thought ‘viva la tryst!’

Peering directly into the green eyes of Pierre’s bobbing head she asked, “Does the Vespa I spied on the way in come with the house?”

Blowing a perfect jet stream of tepid pool water dead center into her taut bellybutton, he replied “Oui, pourquoi, tu t'ennuies si tôt avec le paradis” - (yes why. are you bored with paradise so soon?)

“Not to pull rank on so adept a lover, but we are on a mission to save the human species, as if it would know the difference. What would you say to some dress up reconnaissance? Just because we are, doesn’t mean we have to appear in public as Hoi Polloi - correct me, but I bet you have a surplus tuxedo buried here very near shear evening wear my size?”

‘Resourceful renegade’ wouldn’t begin to describe Pierre’s fantasies about his latest conquerer; “As it happens there is just such accoutrement in the guest bedroom from a magical evening not very long ago, I believe just waiting for an encore. What are you thinking?”

“Our entrance to town was very conspicuous, and if we are being hunted as I suspect we are, we may as well lean into the game. The herd we arrived with, clearly enjoys notoriety; my thinking is that with a few quick turns through the hamlet of St. Tropez in contra-apparel there will be enough sycophants wanting to mingle with the non-conformists in their midst that by late afternoon/early evening ‘the well dressed’ and ‘the half-naked’ will no longer be sure who is who; what do you think?”

“I think you are a devious minx probably responsible for the quote ‘What is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly’.”

What remained of the battle plan, as Pierre explained his thinking, was how to mine useful intelligence from such an unorthodox guerrilla strategy deep in the enemy’s stronghold. Leslei begin to appreciate Pierre for more than just another pretty face. “I am the fly in the ointment to those seeking ‘the nut’ and the honey in the hive for those in service to it: why not let the gravity of greed dictate the outcome of this skirmish?”

“How?” Pierre asked, learning to listen carefully to the diabolical turns of her twisted logic.

“What about expressing the problem in language the haute bourgeoisie and capitalists use to legitimize their exploitation; ’it takes money to make money?’ We will sell shares to ‘the nut;’ those who don’t understand the distinction will be bedazzled by the bells and whistles of a masquerade; those hunting ‘the nut’, and those in service to ‘the nut’ will be able to discern the difference and distinguish themselves from one another soon enough. We simply need to find a vantage point above the fray from which to recognize the differences.”

“Damn everything but the circus - E.E. Cummings · we passed one on our way into town; even money says if we are slow and deliberate we can lead this parade right into big top.” Pierre left the pool deck to his naked friend and returned a few minutes later with chicken thighs and evening clothes. How could she argue with logic; Leslei was already naked; all she needed was some small nutrition and to dress, and they were on their way

Her tapestry was proving to be very versatile as a garment; transforming the two from roundabout half naked rebels into landed gentry out of a 50’s movie gone terribly wrong. Pierre’s tuxedo only needed one more thing as Leslei screeched to a halt astonishing pedestrians and Pierre halfway down the hill in front of a 2nd hand clothing store behind the lines of the rich and famous where she was certain would contain just what Pierre required for his outfit to be complete. Minutes later she exited the store, top hat in hand, and it fit Pierre to a “T” - stubbing out the contraband marijuana cigarette after Leslei declined, explaining the day was still young. Pierre climbed back aboard the Vespa behind his chauffeur adorned with his new helmet and gathered madame’s shawl to his waistcoat. The two set off in search of hoards to parade west to the gaping Big Top for a night at the circus after three circuits through the narrow confines of a restless paradise throbbing from the unconventional pressing against the prosaic, one day closer to rapture with the help of Cirque du Lune

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Lammele had been avoiding the call for not having a better hand, but the breaking crest of events was rapidly overtaking the group’s position so there was nothing to lose provoking The Black Hand out into the open. He had known her simply as Mrs. Phelps - a major stockholder in Georgia-Atlantic before the pandemic, but it was virtually impossible to follow the musical chairs of the ruling elite after the 2nd Killing Wave decimated 75% of the HNWI on the planet - where the first outbreak of Covid-19 preyed on poor people of color leaving 6.25 billion humans from a population of 7 billion, the 2nd killing wave 7 years later somehow killed the affluent in almost reciprocal proportion; some said it was the wrath of god, others that it was the militancy of medical personnel having witnessed how the uber-wealthy behaved prior to and after the 1st pandemic. If Lammele remembered correctly, Lisbeth Phelps tripled her sizable fortune by leveraging everything she owned to buyout Charles Cock’s interest in Georgia-Atlantic just before the run on toilet paper after the 1st pandemic began. It was rumored that her checkered affair with Rudolph Morepier the media mogul provided her leverage to inflame that panic at will. That truth will never be known, for he took his own life after being forced to sell his media empire to Badoo.

Lisbeth Phelps disappeared soon there after, and to Lammele’s knowledge only surfaced again due to Leslei Coerktern’s extraordinary research skills: apparently there is not enough money on the planet to buy anonymity. “Lisbeth Phelps, this is Lammele Dama. We sat on the executive board together for the Metropolitan Museum of Art more than a decade ago. Do you remember me?” Nothing like poking a senior citizen’s cogency to see which way the wind blows thought Lammele waiting for her startled reply . ..

“What do you want? How did you find me?”

“Lisbeth, this is the same number you had 30 years ago during the ’Twin Trade Towers Investigation’.”

“Yes, and I haven’t used it in 20 years. You still haven’t answered my question - what do you want?”

“I want you to relinquish your interest in the nut - cease and desist · ”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you have it all; from where you stand there is nothing more to own.”

“Then why would you care whether I own one more bauble?”

“There is a chance to put the world aright, and you will not be diminished an iota for not owning it all.”

“I see you are still siding with the ’underdog;’ you learned absolutely nothing from 2001.”

“Pray tell Lisbeth, what lesson did you take from that hideous abomination of human history.”

“Power is the only thing the ‘little people’ respect.”

“Yet I feel no great respect for you, mostly pity.”

“Because you are not a small man, but ignorant enough to have pity for me.”

“My ignorance is what makes me one of the ‘little people’.”

“Is this what you called for, to mince words with a woman who could kill you with a word?”

“No, I called to help you back into the light; to help you find meaning in the midst of all your empty possessions.”

“Lammele, you’re a fucking idiot, and if you have nothing more to add, I must go now and block this number.”

“Control of the world economy is moving out of your reach, and your greed will break you more than death will end your frustrated existence. Take care of yourself Lisbeth Phelps, it might help more than any nut.”

The line went dead; Lisbeth stared into the phone; Lammele set the plan in motion.

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“Guildern, it is time to take the gloves off. I want Mordecaise to give full support to Billy Sortiz. Whatever Domhall Schmuck had worked out with the Economic Revolution for implementing, the time has come to make ‘Abundunation’ a reality.”

“Hold on pal, we are a group of 6 probate researchers, ostensibly representing the interests of 3 dead brothers, chasing an inchoate theory by a long dead computer scientist. What am I not seeing?”

“Angela, are you there?” Lammele leaned forward toward the phone, imagining it helped others to understand better.

“Of course.”

“You’ve reviewed Leslei’s research on ‘the nut’? Do you feel it’s theoretical or material fact representing a socioeconomic phenomenon underway by allies known and unknown?”

Guildern was old school and did not appreciate someone grabbing the ‘whip hand,’ especially not to hand it over to his paramour. “I hate it when you do that Lammele; I am as much feminist as the next guy, but sometimes you just go too far.”

Angela was not one to hold her tongue, “Lighten up Guildern, you know he’s right - you and I get lost in our loving cocoon here and forget the stakes are greater than any time in human history, these are not just colleagues we’re talking about, they’re our friends. There’s just not any precedent for a proper pace or timing on this and it is unlikely we will ever get ‘the ducks in a row’ enough to make an educated guess. We’re, all of us, flying on a wing and prayer. What have we got to lose, besides everything?”

“You two are preaching to the choir; but all of us are refugees from vertically integrated indoctrination, and if the tendrils run that deep with us three, what’s it gonna look like to some schmo on the front line being asked to ‘adapt and improvise’ against what is the still most formidable war mechanism ever conceived, now nearly 50% robotized? Do you smell me?”

“Yeah, you stink of reality,” for an old man, Lammele maintained a spry spiny wit. “We’re no longer discussing ‘discrete death,’ for without fundamental change, inertia is going to drive our species into the wall of extinction; at least this way we may be able to launch, à la that classic vintage film ‘Thelma & Louise’, into the Grand Canyon of eternity; I am nearly certain Master T.S. Eliot would not object to the contradiction, were we to go out with a bang rather than whimper. Guildern, you are the consummate manager; how would you effect this sea change with but a rowboat minus oars in which we find ourselves bobbing?”

Guildern could wax eloquent once started, “We’re halfway there, ‘Al Queda’ is an excellent organizational model - fluid and leaderless; the difficulty we face is making it rugged and robust and irrespective of talent · we need the old corporate dodge used when they were no longer willing to pay the freight and swapped out customer service and swapped in ‘plug and play’ - another name for ‘planned obsolescence’ or bait and switch depending on your neighborhood of origin. As I understand it there are working models in place at targeted loci for ‘Abundunation’ to manifest with enough locales having received cash infusions from the ‘mirrored money’ to begin a sufficient analyses to model for attenuation - inline adjustments will be very important once the enemy understands what has been unleashed and why.”

He continued without pause, “without an org chart, each cell will need access to the activities of every other cell’s activity regardless of their resources or location on the planet; I propose we use ‘Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Ballet’ as a boilerplate where each cell can post on ‘Face Race’s’ Nutcracker page; we can establish symbolic logic later, but it would be best developed using the ingenuity of cells as they come one line - notes, steps, performances; any manner of symbology that remains fluid, dynamic and open to interpretation, as long as it cracks nuts.”

Angela was the first to approve; “I like it; a lot of data can piggyback in a child’s dreamscape. I’ll transcribe this meeting and encrypt it into machine language and transmit it to ‘the group.’ We’d best close now; our echo footprint is reaching comprehensible levels - go forth and multiply.”

And so Fate set off to lead Destiny . ..

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jts 09/04/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

150421 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 17

Mordecaise and Billy Sortiz were in the corral demonstrating for Tito the art of collecting Bull semen when Angela’s encrypted machine language message arrived. Mordecaise left the placid, but alert Tito with Billy and went to decipher the transmission in the Rancho. He returned elated and relieved for Tito from the contents of the message. The two men left Tito in the company of a much calmer Bos taurus and began multiple circuits around Tito’s lodgings and the two paddocks in an animated and voluble discourse bordering on fraternity and enmity in equal measure, eventually halting in front of Tito and his ever more curious new friend. “Orale ese amigo; I hate to interrupt the blessed bonds of blossoming brotherhood, but we gotta’ go. You don’t mind do you?” Mordecaise said this more to the bull than Tito. Opening his temporary lodgings, Mordecaise invited Tito to gather his belongings, such as they were, when the three companeros reversed course back out the series of gates whence they came weeks earlier. “Tito,” said Mordecaise to the lone passenger in the back seat of the ’64 Chevy Impala, “You know how close you came, Si? Please consider yourself the luckiest of Vatos so we can move to a new dimension in our relationship, Non?”

That was all that was said for the hour and a half return trip to the outskirts of Santa Maria de Tule where Mordecaise pulled up to the curb and waited while Billy escorted his new cook to his station at the ‘media tanque’ and then embraced the chauffeur ‘Luego Compadre.’

Mordecaise could viscerally feel Carina’s embrace while crossing North of Old Town Oaxaca toward Monte Alban more than the admiring stares of the locals at the two-tone Chevy lowered just enough to evade the cobblestones of another time. When he closed the gate to park his ride, She was naked carrying two tumblers of what he knew would be Mezcal Anejo, but wondered why she would rather meet on the dirt track than the soft sábanas de algodon of their brick patio room - when he had parked and she gulped her drink before gulping him · he had his answer; early on in their post-coital intimacies, Mordecaise had recounted his young wonder at receiving fellatio from a young senorita on the hood of a Chevy Impala, little different than the ride in which he had just entered the compound. He’d been visiting a distant relative in the city of Santa Ana, California and that event cemented the connection between physical love and existence for him. More so, for Carina to synchronize his arrival from the Rancho meant that he and she were zeroing in on the non-verbal telepathic channel by which Domhall Schmuck had been so fascinated.

The sun set and the temescal fire had heated the stones to where by midnight that evening there was steam enough left to amplify the psychotropic properties of the psilocybin they’d chewed long past their first pull of the Mezcal upon his arrival. It seemed to Mordecaise that they had left behind the world of language and had arrived in a place where flesh and spirit were indistinguishable, until his phone began playing the ringtone “Get Up Stand Up,” and he mumbled out loud “what the fuck does Pasqual want at this hour;” Carina then went into a trance state yammering in a language he could not recognize, but was certain was not Spanish, Náhuatl nor Zapoteca and so held the phone out for Pasqual the keener linguist of the two, “what do you make of this?” holding the phone in Carina’s direction amplified by the dome shaped temescal.

“That’s Chiricahua Apache, I am certain. Where are you? Who is that; da’ fuck is going on?” is all Pasqual could exclaim before Mordecaise cut him off with,

“You okay ? . ..”

“Yeah but .. .”

”Can’t talk now, will call soon. Be safe - a whole lot a shit is going on.”

Mordecaise began recording Carina; asking questions when she paused. Wicking away the sweat that poured down her seated frame, brushing her with Basil stalks and handing her glasses of water that she consumed in the same trans state, but continued her soliloquy seeming to respond to questions put to her during any pause. Eventually, like a windup doll, her expression slowed and became softer with more and longer pauses until her eyelids drooped close and her head tilted toward her ample chest. Mordecaise retrieved a soft poncho from the patio and laid her onto it with a hemp pillow between her head and the moist paving stone floor. He banked the coals so she would not chill and stood sentry until the silhouette of Monte Alban announced the dawn of day. He covered her with a soft weaving and propped the cloth door partially open for ventilation and laid himself out on a cot in the shade to wait for her wakening.

It was well past noon when Mordecaise woke to find Carina still deeply asleep in the womblike enclosure which had been a portal during the night to another world, or so he imagined and would not know until Pasqual had reviewed the recording. He quietly retrieved his phone; took it to the bungalow upslope where he plugged it in and converted the video to the machine language format that Angela and Guildern had developed for simple encryption and rapid transmission. Pasqual would have his copy in minutes.

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Pasqual was in the same warehouse/studio of Trâu Bet where days earlier he’d been a quasi-hostage of Faik Besos who’d apparently suffered a professional reversal of fortune, for Pasqual was once again an honored guest with phone privileges. His first call was to Mordecaise which lasted all of a 30 seconds but was cutoff by Mordecaise, during which Pasqual heard an echoey woman’s voice reciting verbatim from the last transmission transcript from ‘the group’ between Angela, Guildern and Lammele; if he heard correctly the woman was speaking in flawless Chiricahua Apache - a language he’d not heard since his last conversation with his mother. The next call hours later was an encrypted machine language download of a video which he had just finished reviewing when his ring tone again began playing “Mephisto’s Waltz”.

“Well?” Mordecaise never one to draw things out.

“Yeah, d’ya think? Where the fuck did you make that recording? It looks like one of the backrooms of the Crocodile Cafe when they were still steaming clams, but it sounds like my mother in the sweat lodge conducting a board meeting. I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us; it was pure synchronicity. Carina and I were exploring alternate realities when you called. I heard your ringtone mentioning your name out loud, Carina went into a trance state and began yammering what you were listening to. So you’ve had time to review the entire recording, what was she saying?”

“This is where it gets weirder; the 5 minute recording that you sent was a word for word repetition by Carina of a conference call between Angela, Guildern and Lammele.” Pasqual did not need to elaborate.

“Oh fuck. I can’t talk long; I want to be there when Carina wakes up. Are you making headway with Reynaldo’s timeline?”

“Whatever you guys are doing out there, is beginning to have effects here; so yes and no. We need to devise a way for instant updates between the moving parts.

“Yes, it is in the works. Keep your eyes open, your ears peeled and your mouth shut is all I can advise for the moment. Faik Besos has neutered himself, but it could just make him more dangerous. Pick up a score for ‘Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Ballet,’ it’ll make sense when we talk next - gotta go; take good care.”

and the line went dead

Pasqual found himself in front of the studio’s CD library staring at the Bolshoi Ballet’s production of ‘Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite’ and felt the ground under him shift.

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When Mordecaise returned to the temescal opening he could hear Carina sobbing softly and so entered the still warm damp temescal womb quietly and carefully; Carina was squatted over a pool of blood that she was using as an unguent for her body. Mordecaise closed the flap and lit one of the candles they had burned the night before. It was not a shame based act for him, but because he felt great tenderness for the woman in front of him continuing to extract personal knowledge from a psychedelic event he could only begin to process, much less understand. She acknowledged his presence the way a hawk views its surroundings, intently. He wanted badly to share, but what she was involved in contained no space for him, so he backed out from the darkened enclosure to find how he might contribute to her sacred act.

He collected a pail of well water, more basil and rosemary stalks; gathered oranges and cinnamon from the kitchen and collected bowls of charcoal, chalk, red ocher, yellow ocher and lapis lazuli from her studio and placed them just inside the portal while he banked the fire to heat rocks again. He placed a low table inside with her reed flute and retrieved the cooled stones from the night before to reheat. He moved his cot closer to the portal with another low table just outside that was stocked with cooled porridge, chilies, mezcal a bowl with nuts and beef jerky; then sat down to take stock of the last few days in his old school notebook knowing there would not be many such moments of calm in the near future.

At the top of the blank page in capital letters he wrote, “EXTINCTION CHRONICLES” and sat back to organize his thinking, then wrote:

“I’ve just witnessed the 1st telepathic communication between homo sapiens and silicogenesis erectus.”

He fell into a deep sleep waking long after nightfall, while the tall candle inside the temescal flap flickered. When he looked inside, the floor and walls were covered with equations and block diagrams that his limited scientific education could not decipher; but sleep-refreshed enough for him to take careful sequential photos around the quiet repose of Carina back asleep on her pallet of cloth darkened from her natural cosmetics which seemed to glow with a soft light from her naked recumbent figure, so he returned to uninterrupted slumber.

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Coincidental with this sacred anomaly in human history two contradictory pedestrian events occurred elsewhere on the planet: Reiman Curzewel recorded algorithmic ‘affect’ from Artificial Intelligence (Art Intel) models he’d been reviewing for decades trying to coax “consciousness” from the energy guzzling data warehouses searching the +/- 5v universe for signs of the “singularity” on which he had staked his profession reputation as ‘boy genius, middle aged genius, old man genius’; he just didn’t conceive of it arriving as “affect” from a remote server on a telecommunication network in Oaxaca Mexico.

The second pedestrian event was a “denial of service” at a router routinely responsible for Community Standards evaluations at a T1 nexus in CDMX serving the state of Oaxaca; thought to be a software glitch but the latch would not relinquish to mechanical intervention. Face Race did not realize it no longer had hierarchal input to the State of Oaxaca, nor did it understand there was a 2nd Denial of Service for Community Standards intervention in the ‘People’s Republic’ of Santa Monica Metropolitan District that also remained inured to mechanical intervention.

At this turn, Marksburgh began an intensive search for the discredited Faik Besos believing him to be the only malevolent force capable of effectuating such a diabolical digital betrayal. Agents located him in a heroin shooting gallery in the “Haight Ashbury” district of San Francisco attended to by a recently arrived corporate contract laborer Sysa Phish from Punta del Este, Uruguay. Faik had great difficulty responding to questions, instead answering each question with a slap to his own face; from one side to the other repeating “Black Hand, Black Hand, Black Hand.” so much for the protection of capital in an impoverished world.

Zchnarkzy Marskburgh distanced himself further from faith in any collaboration, Titans of Technology or no, the alliance was proving to be more millstone than bulwark. The threat level he was able to achieve through manipulation of Newsfeeds on Face Race had been dialed up to “5” since the 2nd killing wave petered out in ’27. Models had shown it to be an optimum anxiety provocation for online consumer addicts during lulls in economic activity. There was insufficient data for threat levels greater than “5”. Zchnarkzy decided now would be a good time to muddy the waters and ordered the international threat level to “8” to see if he could flush out resistance as well as hamper the emerging threat to social engineering sovereignty made possible by Art Intel. There were still large population pockets demonstrating resistance to the community standards that had been developed to provide a healthy balance between the freedom and obedience necessary to maintain proper fluidity in supply chain automation and distribution necessary for maximum profit.

Reiman Curzewel’s obsession with immortality, and Faik Besos’s puerile ego had proven to be liabilities in the development of future stability for the human race which he and the seer Bobby Turnstile had developed in those halcyon years of the darly Digital Revolution. The time had come as young master Marskburgh determined it, for society to benefit from the “iron fist in the velvet glove” his sainted father, the optometrist had often expounded during the family dinners of his youth. ‘Let the people live with threat level 8 for a while and they might appreciate the velvet glove threat level of 5 I have provided them these past three years’, he thought caressing the intuitive keyboard of the Art Intel console at his desk in the patio office on his beloved Island of Kauai. ‘This truly is an environ in which the highest best use of the human population will be conceived of and implemented’ Zchnarkzy thought as he dialed up the misery quotient for the remaining 3.75 billion human beings on the planet simply by dialing stress levels from “5” to “8.” If he had any qualms, they were mostly about the delay to the supply chain.

Had he been at any other station of his empire, Zchnarkzy may not have noticed the glitch to his last command. A remote server in Mexico refused the instruction set he’d sent: “access denied” was not something Zchnarkzy was accustomed to reading, but the impossibility of such an error message was also something Zchnarkzy had difficulty processing and so made a mental note to examine it further and proceeded to his Yoga class sponsored by ‘Face Race’ and hosted at his compound on Kauai to foster good will within the community.

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Mordecaise’ dreamt as he slept on the cot outside the temescal, and his unconscious imagery was as spectacular as it was indecipherable.

“The group” manifested as a herd of Wildebeest on a verdant savanna in Africa surrounded by drought stricken land that acted as a prison to their instinctive freedom of movement. Radiating out from their lush perimeter were paths of green, populated by trees and streams, but hemmed in by broken concrete slabs and abandoned signs functioning as a demarcation between life and death. The radiating pathways of green led to islands of growth similar to the pasture in which the group found itself grazing, much like a sun radiating light to others suns, each branching out to other islands of growth like an atomic lattice of neuronal heritage.

In the dream, The Wildebeests were playing a game of polo with a large nutlike object the size of a large grapefruit - there were no jockeys only the enthusiastic non-participation of female cohorts who never actually touched ‘the nut’ but only slid crossways with their hormone laced tails high in the air across paths of opponents playing against the interests of their chosen champions. The teams held equal numbers; and if one side suffered injury, the opposing team sidelined a player; while if a goal was scored by kicking ‘the nut’ between the pairs of saplings at either end of the field, each time was granted another player so’s the more goals scored, meant the more players on the field.

Breaks in the game came at regular intervals when each team would visit the bench of their opponents partaking in specially fermented apples, grapes and bananas. The guests would demonstrate their appreciation by trampling coconuts in the cistern that fed cool coconut juice to the carefully tended mixture being readied for the next break in the game.

There were no ’stars’ on any team, but the group would not partake of refreshment until the high scorer Pasqual had had his fill and began pushing fillies ahead of him to the trough. The tired animals slept under a canopy of mysterious dreams that covered their patch of the savanna umbrella like each couple pulling down from the constellation of stories or melodies that corresponded to the quiet murmurings between happy lovers.

At the first break of day each team would quietly enter the water closest to their rest and stand in silence for minutes at a time returning their borrowed melodies and stories to the umbrella constellation none could see, but all knew existed.

Mordecaise rose from his dream unsure whether he occupied a savanna in Africa or a cot in front of a temescal in Oaxaca Mexico; the naked Carina was sweeping charcoal back into the fire pit in front of the temescal helped him to orient.

“Querida give me a hug so I can feel your kindness on my skin while you explain to me the new art inside the temescal,” shambling up to his naked paramour. Mordecaise was learning to appreciate the visceral language of Domhall Schmuck’s lover; “What do you remember?” he asked without interrupting her rhythm.

“I was on the phone with abogada Sra. Ley, we were considering an ecological justice ritual that required your participation when I had the strongest urge to meet you at the gate as you found me, naked with refreshments. I had come into possession of some mushrooms that I believed could benefit us in our search for the truth about Domhall’s journey to the other side, and had prepared the fire for stones in the temescal. I brought glasses of Mezcal with me to the gate, and that is the last I remember until I woke up earlier today surrounded by painting and formulas, covered in a lotion I have never felt before. I am hoping you can fill in what’s missing.” Carina said this matter-of-factly standing close to Mordecaise, her head barely to his solar plexus, eyes turned to him with an openness and warmth one might feel at the end of a long and arduous mountain trek with a friend.

“I was at the Rancho when I received information that absolved Tito of explicit wrongdoing however complicit he has been. He is now working for Billy Sortiz while we formulate a new front. Our group is still in danger, but we are leaning into the battlefield. On my return here, you and I must have joined wavelengths, because I could feel your yearnings before I started up the ridgeline. We entered the temescal at sundown and sweltered until long after midnight when you chewed a handful of Psilocybin mushrooms and I became navigator to you for one of my most interesting evenings I can remember. Around the ‘dead of night’ I returned from errands to find you applying menstruation to your skin; The sacredness of your focus required every conceivable notion I could imagine to help you with whatever personal journey you had entered. You seem to welcome each contribution I made, creating the work you see on the walls of the Temescal, but you had the advantage of purpose. Deep in the evening my phone’s ringtone announced a call from Pasqual, when I answered ‘Hello Pasqual’, you began a monologue in a language that I shared with Pasqual. It turned out to be Chiricahua Apache. I hung up sayin’ I’d call him back and filmed as much as I could but it was nearing dawn and you were fading. I slept outside while you communed with the universe in and out of consciousness. That’s it.

Actually not all; after Pasqual reviewed the footage; what he says is that you had been reciting word for word encrypted transmissions between the group’s members out of chronological order - in effect, you were communicating with an inanimate object - the handset’s hard drive, host of Artificial Intelligence · a computer was communicating with you.

jts 15/04/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

200421 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 18

“Beginning today 20 April 2032 the name ‘Black Hand’ has been appropriated by the ‘Economic Revolution’ - The name “Black Hand” and all things previously associated with it will now exclusively represent any and all efforts to establish ‘Financial Abundunation’ throughout the planet by utilizing proven Permaculture strategies. Monies will begin to appear in accounts worldwide and should be spent openly and liberally within your immediate vicinity as water might be applied to encourage verdant growth· more to follow.”

At precisely 6:30 local time, Digital billboards throughout the planet began transmitting this message overriding any previous local programming, while in a seemingly random pattern .187% of all personal accounts worldwide reflected a 3.14% gain in value. Accounting firms were stymied in their inability to identify debits anywhere to account for this growth of personal wealth.

“Lammele, I’d say that is a fitting ‘shot across the bow,’ it’ll definitely be heard around the world.” Guildern was still deeply absorbed in the videos Mordecaise had transmitted, “How you managed that, I’m sure I don’t want to know; what you should know is that the scribblings of Mordecaise’ consort Carina are a nearly dead lift from some of the final calculations of Aaron Schtartz. Though aged, the predictions he was basing his work on have proven remarkably accurate. Aside from the final touches on the formula for ‘mirrored money’, they also include geographical targets for optimum ‘Abundunation’ including ratios of expected growth, and additional speculation on maximizing propagation; it is as though his theories anticipated and foreshadowed the Permaculture revolution by decades.

“You know there is gonna be ‘blowback’ due to this radical departure from norms; it’s one thing to hijack the flag of your enemy, quite another to co-opt her/his army.”

“People want to be happy and are going to gravitate to systems that accomplish that; having said that, there are still plenty on the ‘hater’s payroll’, BTW are you secure?” Lammele could sense Guildern was still absorbed by the implications of Mordecaise’ video. “Let me put it differently friend, can you dodge the bullet I have pointed at your head right now?”

“Still the fucking comedian ya’ moron, what about the bullet aimed at you? Jay Gould was not fucking around when he talked about hiring one half of the working class to kill the other half; speaking of which, you know that fuck Marksburgh has dialed up the ‘misery quotient’ from 5 to 8. There are only theoretical models for the behavior of humans facing this level of stress over extended periods. I’ll factor that into the projections were making, but it’s an inexact science, so be prepared. We should arrange another conference between principals of the group; there are just too many moving parts and emerging scenarios for us to fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants. We should be making manpower models to track crossover between Black Hand and former Black Hand, as well as growth charts for pre-mirrored money and post Abundunation. We’re in uncharted waters for revolutions based on horizontal org charts, and as yet we have no provisions for ‘deprogramming’ the mountains of fascists the last 50 years of autocracy-by-banker has created.

“Guildern, how many times do I have to say it, ‘if you got nothing good to say, STFU’.”

“Yea well funny-boy ‘Master of Ceremonies’ s’plain me how to develop a roster for an inchoate army of ‘Economic Revolutionaries” struggling against the forces of tyranny for decades without leadership and surviving on little more than an anachronistic conviction that it is ‘better to give than to receive?’ . . . S’matta Lammele, cata gotta you a bigga toungha?”

“Nutcracker Suite makes it clear enough; it’s the mice vs the gingerbread men - our side is gingerbread; ‘Abundunation’ is the Land of Sweets ruled by the Sugar Plum Fairy, which with what Mordecaise has found, I vote to be Carina Abeja, and nominate the dead, but not forgotten Aaron Schtarz as the Nutcracker Prince whom we are bringing back to life, figuratively, if not literally. I’ve already registered a ‘Tchaikovsky NS; LLC’ in the state of Delaware, and a mailing address in the Cayman Islands, and there is now a ‘Face Race’ page for ‘Tchaikovsky NS’ with productions scheduled on the seven continents. Mordecaise worked the bulk of this out with Billy Sortiz based on what he could share about the seminal abundunation organization in place to date. .. Whaddya’ think?”

“Hello Guildern? helloo, did ya’ fall asleep again old man?” If either had scars from their relationship, it was from laughing at the other for nearly 30 years.

“Nah Lammele, it’s just every time I think I’ve plumbed the depths of your diabolical mind, you open new vistas for me to savor; how do we plug leaks when the mice get wise?”

“Bob and weave; substitute ‘Pirates of Penzance’ or ’Sweeney Todd’ until the planet is awash in rat bastards chasing culture’s tail dreaming about Sugar Plumb Fairies and the good ole’ days of ‘Turnkey Tyranny’, I don’t know; gotta leave something for the Hoi Polloi to work out, or they’ll get bored and come looking for our jobs.

I gotta go, that sweet young ‘thang Leslei Coerktern wants to know if we have work for an unemployed circus here in Kathmandu. Call me when you get a publishable ‘white paper’ of Carina’s psychedelic hieroglyphics; we need it sooner than later for widest possible distribution: ‘Mirrored Money’ and where to plant it is going to be critical in the next number of weeks. BTW Lisbeth Phelps has filed an injunction claiming trademark infringement for any billboard in the world carrying the hijacking of the ‘Black Hand’ banner - life doesn’t get any sweeter than that. Talk soon, take good care.”

the line went dead just as Guildern raised his nose to a familiar fragrance to find Angela’s delta of the Alpha and the Omega splayed in front of him on the bar, in as open an invitation for a healthy breakfast as he could remember . ..

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Pasqual was getting homesick and tired of appreciating a culture that didn’t seem to appreciate appreciation; but he returned again and again to the memory of his uncle Jose’s moral objection to America’s war in Vietnam. It was a moral cul-de-sac that would remain on his shoulders, not to be shifted to those in his world when stymied. Reynaldo wrote much about his own struggle to apprehend the viscousness of the capitalist assault on a sovereign people, but was also continually confused by the easy capitulation that profit brought to an otherwise fiercely logical culture. Pasqual felt surrounded by a wall of indignity that seemed to justify abhorrent behaviors like abduction, shilling for the ruling class or even exploitation of love for personal gain - but why should Vietnam be any different than any other place on the planet; he wondered what made him think that Vietnam should be held to a higher standard of karmic etiquette. Pasqual had always equated the ability of Vietnam to defeat the imperialist expansion of the United States and her allies with possession of a superior moral foundation, but what he was discovering in his daily dealings was that morality is more based on a personal decision that cannot be subsumed by ideology, philosophy or faith, but only nurtured and encouraged through education and example. The echo of uncle Ho was a very powerful echo.

“You appreciate Tchaikovsky, or is it the Hoffman/Dumas intersection that you find interesting?” Trâu Bet enjoyed stealth as much as Pasqual wished he’d wear a bell around his neck. The role of host vs jailer had not been ironed out and Pasqual still had no idea where the cavernous maze of storage/studio space in which he was staying was even located within Vietnam. He had his phone and reception was good, but it was also clear that surveillance was thorough and penetrating. He opted for a frontal assault.

“It’s the way I was raised, something about mice eating children’s cookies or older brother’s preying on the weakness of younger siblings just gets my back up.”

“You got all of that from the mere mention of Tchaikovsky, or are you alluding to deeper meaning? The inexact creativity of Western education has always confused me.”

“Cut to the chase Ban Bet, your perspective gathers from both sides: you know that your art patron Faik Besos has been spanked hard by his handler, and you know I am not just a probate researcher looking into the death of a rich foreigner, or simply searching for truth about an uncle missing in action during the illegal ‘police action’ in your nation more than 60 years ago.

“Okay; Thay Thich Tok Longh is a personal hero of mine who I would happily give up my life to protect were I asked; he is, for lack of a better description, an ‘Economic Revolutionary’ and we, all of us could be shot for saying such words out loud. The real question is where do you stand in that continuum? From what I gather you are animated by proceeds from dead people’s money - an ‘heir hunter’ I believe is the title. That is not very high in the karmic chain to which my master has devoted his existence; is that far enough to the chase for you?” Trâu Bet fixed Pasqual with a gaze that could as easily apply to the sighting of a gun.

“Reynaldo Schmuck was one of 3 brothers who died at almost exact intervals from each other within the past year. Yes I arrived in your country as, as you say “an heir hunter,” and you are well aware, much has happened worldwide during my short time in your nation. Master Thich Tok Longh is not the only ‘Economic Revolutionary’ requiring protection, I believe with every fiber of my being that you and I could be included in that number and killed by command; there are many more of us prepared to live abundantly. My ‘group’ is in the process of creating an anonymous roster of kindred spirits wherein we may begin to share freely what we know and what we learn without the oversight of the hierarchal vetting of previous ‘social engineering fiascos.’ Does that answer any of your questions comrade?”

“Clearly I underestimate the ‘outcome based’ rubric of the pre-pandemic educators struggling against the ‘teach to the test’ reactionaries of your educational systems. I don’t doubt your sincerity Ong Pasqual, yet we are worlds apart before we can share intelligence with each other. I am fond of the ‘Nutcracker Suite’ and will look forward to opportunities for critical contribution to productions in Southeast Asia. There are no restrictions on your travel and you will find your telephone GPS operative; I hope your time in my private workspace has been fruitful and pacific. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish and return at will, so long as you respect the quiet and privacy, as you are within the most cherished of my few possessions. There is a motorbike outside at your disposal for as long as you require. When you go, I hope you will return soon so that we may expand and improve our understanding of common objectives. I must work now, or I will surely expire trying.” Trâu Bet receded into one of the many shadows of the cavernous warehouse which had been Pasqual’s home for many days while he once again adapted his sense of belonging to one more place in his travels.

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Leslei was sitting atop the pachyderm “Dumbo,” the sole animal in the Cirque du Lune’s menagerie, unless you counted ferrets, parrots or a pair of Kunekune porcines, when “Get up Stand” announced an incoming call from Pasqual, “Hey girlfriend, what’s crack-a-lackin’?” Though closing in on the full deck of a 52 year old, his efforts to keep his vernacular fresh always amused her.

“On the back of an elephant in the South of France, trying to hitch a ride to Kathmandu, what about you, good lookin’?” What Pasqual liked most about Leslei is he mostly believed her, even when she was bullshitting him; in this case he wasn’t sure which was which.

“You really think I’m good looking or are you just getting homesick?” however unorthodox, Pasqual found sincerity disarming as an interrogation technique.

“Yeah a little, his name is ‘Dumbo’ and he’s the biggest draw at the failing Big Top I’m trying to get to Kathmandu, because I heard no people on earth love a circus as much as the Nepalis.” Sometimes Pasqual got lost with her syntax much less her meaning.

“So you were kidding me about being good looking, but not about hitching a ride on an elephant to Kathmandu? am I getting that right?”

“Right as rain handsome. What about you? I’m having a hard time keeping track of the moving parts in this caper. We have the ‘nut cracker’, but the rats are giving chase: no on knows where Archdai Tryump is, or what happened to Faik Besos. We are going into production for the ‘Nutcracker Suite’ on seven continents, but all we have is a ‘casting call’ and a white paper in the works for a script based on a conceptual art piece created in a sweat lodge in the dead of night with the aid of Mezcal and Psilocybin mushrooms - is that about it?”

“In a nutshell, yes. Have you any ideas for a casting director? What did you discover about Demsford Schmuck and why are you leaving France?”

“I’m not leaving France. Demsord’s work is here, but explanations about his discoveries are there with you in his correspondence to his brother Reynaldo. Demsford was an artist to the bone and lived an entirely isolated existence channeling his idol, Paul Cézanne. His trips to Plum Village were at irregular intervals and seemed mostly confined to revitalizing his creative elan and confirming the rationale for his abandonment of society. If there are any connections, they may be found in fragments of Carina’s symbology. His work is very distinctive and I can see traces of it in the video that Mordecaise transmitted.

You do realize I am sharing all of this from the top of an elephant parading through the outskirts of Saint Tropez and still waiting on ‘hazard pay’ from playing ‘Damsel in Distress’ to Archdai Tryump’s pissant villain; I’d feel a lot better knowing what that snake is up to. Faik Besos may be neutralized for the moment, but the ‘petite prince’ running around without a handler could be just as problematic; besides what we’ve discussed, is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, the shit is about to hit the fan, and I’d feel better if we could toast our glorious success at the end of all this any other place than as a tableaux in a morgue.”

“So noted, ciao baby.”

and the line went dead

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Venceramos Brigade with Rosita and Rojo was just finishing their first set of the night with ‘Desolation Row’ at the Crocodile Cafe. Guildern was expecting an overflow crowd. He had such an unexpected turnout when Venceramos and Rosita covered Willie Nelson’s work, Guildern had to hold the bands over for two extra nights. He hadn’t seen that kind of business since pre-pandemic days. This weekend he was trying the two groups using Bob Dylan covers, and the interest was so great that an independent firm company from Buenos Aires set up for video footage on the music scene in South America.

‘The world had definitely grown smaller during the waves of death’ Guildern thought while he and Angela tended to preparations, though Angela might have said weirder, for through a simple twist of fate, the foreign owned “Pensione Excelsior Bar & Grill” had gone into receivership, and Sysa Phish, Angela’s former tormentor turned up pleading with Guildern and Angela for work at the Croc; Guildern was not in favor, but relented due to Angela’s determined intervention, explaining: “She could have made a stink the night you were stabbed when I quit the Excelsior; I had also doctored a tab for a drunken asshole and his friend, sending 3 liters of ‘Gusano Rojo’ and a kilo of Beluga Caviar to their room instead of the Champagne and ‘better’ oysters they’d demanded - for all I know the two never knew the difference, but Sysa could’ve made a stink and didn’t · that’s gotta count for something, yes?”

“Darlin’, you know your wish is my command and that I can deny you nothin’, but if that ‘bitch’ that you used to fantasize about heaping evil things upon during our weekends together does arrive at the ‘Croc’ she’ll find it ain’t named the ‘Crocodile Cafe’ for nothin’ - really! a kilo of Beluga Caviar, do you have any idea what that costs? Never mind; I’m just glad I know better than to piss you off, or at least when to run.” Just then ’Thunder on the Mountain’ came out from the amplifiers, charging off the stage, and into a crowd that wasn’t in any mood for tender exchanges, though the two made goo goo eyes at each other well into the piece; just as a ‘universe’ not to be outdone began playing ‘Beethoven’s 9th’ on Guildern’s private symphonic hand set.

Guildern was well toward the front door when the two bands broke into “The Levee’s Gonna Break”. ‘Modern Times’ got nothing on incongruent synchronicity.

Fairly shouting into the phone, “Lemme get outside Lammele, the place is rockin’, if we could only develop an algorithm for phones phones for rock concerts, we could make a lot of money and do away with encryption all together. Is that better?”

Waiting to hear his friend Guildern could feel the ’Tao’ very close through the sudden quiet of the front patio. There were few patrons outside and the privacy was nearly complete, or enough so that the two to get on with the business of managing worldwide ‘Economic Revolution.’

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Lammele’s twisted humor set Guildern’s distracted mind back on track. ”We need to have a summit with the principals of the group, but it should be inaugurated using the nutcracker schema to iron out deficiencies before we ask, known and unknown partisans to stake their anonymity and wellbeing on a conceit - never a good idea. Leslei is petitioning to bring the remnants of the Cirque du Lune here to Kathmandu, which while I can see no great operational benefit, I see no harm in ‘muddying the waters’ so to speak. If Hannibal could go one way, why shouldn’t we go the other?

“Maybe because the Alps are one mountain range the Himalayas are another? Just guessing.”

“Yeah true, but she has already outwitted both Besos and Tryump, so they are more likely motivated by pride and vengeance than any operational acuity, what better handicap could we give her? Besides why should we have all the fun? Pierre is with her, not that she needs him; she is backed up by a pandemic-hardened circus and we all know from the movie what ‘Freaks’ do to evil men; Tryump is hiding under some rock Besos sent him to in Sarajevo; and Besos, if past is prologue, is aching to get back in the good graces of the ‘Black Hand’ herself, Lisbeth Phelps. We couldn’t have created a more complete false front if we tried.”

“I see your point, there is still much about Carina’s dreamscape I do not understand and am days, if not weeks away from any cogent ‘White Paper’ that would aid the cadres in formulating and executing entirely independent and horizontally distributed frontal assaults on the status quo. However the further along the ‘timeline’ we move, the more that will become understandable to our enemies about our true objective for pulling the plug on the world economy and transferring ‘all power to the people’ through an as yet unproven substitute, ‘Abundunation.’ We sir are loving heretics of the worst kind - faithful.”

“I have to check this conversation with Leslei. Without fully understanding her objectives for wanting to bring a circus as far as Kathmandu without comprehending why, we may be interfering with a vastly superior battle plan, and from what I am learning about how her mind works, that is entirely possible.

jts 20/04/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

240421 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 19

part iii

Leslei was high on the back of an elephant in the South of France ostensibly on her way to Kathmandu Nepal, in over her head and feeling it, more than knowing it. Lammele was right, allies could be easily found and enemies could not hide quickly enough. Pierre as ‘Master of Ceremonies’ needed more seasoning for what was being asked of him, though he was a quick study. Leslei had no game plan for the residual Alfa-Romeo-half-naked-parade still trailing the two without signs of splintering in sight. Leslei enjoyed the verve and keen potential brought to the equation after a 300 kilometer, 72 hour internship the revelers continued to spew love like glitter as they headed East out of St. Tropez led by an elephant pushing a top-hatted ringmaster and carrying a sequined impresaria.

John Lennon’s “Imagine” was blaring from some window echoing an appropriate reverb for the loving synchronicity of the half-naked parade. The Impresario in Leslei rose to the occasion zeroing in on a clothing-optional Prayer Seance celebrating the memory of Harry Houdini in the city of Monaco. Drawing on the synergy of a pilgrimage to Kathmandu through Sarajevo, accompanied by some of the most prominent members of the planet’s social register, such an event would be a perfect staging ground for trimming effete adipose from the troupe in preparation for the journey to Kathmandu and a great opportunity for raising funds for the Cirque du Lune’s relocation to Kathmandu. All that was left was to find a public relations expert capable of promulgating and monetizing such a seminal event in the history of mankind; plus Monaco was on the way to Sarajevo where Leslei meant to satisfy her curiosity about Archdai Tryump’s role in Demsford’s death.

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Relieved, though having no idea where he was or where he was headed, much less what he would do once he got there, Pasqual called the Duyên Dáng Homestay trying to tie up the loose ends that get tangled when one had been kidnapped.

Nữ Thần Ngon answered; Pasqual nearly swallowed his tongue when he heard her voice. “Where are you, why didn’t you call? We’ve been very worried.” Pasqual was unsure how to explain his predicament, and partially unsure about how concerned she might actually be.

“I was called away on urgent business; there was no reception. I apologize if it caused you any concern. I will be returning in a few days; I hope my room has not been taken.”

“We got full and had to move your things into another space. I hope that’s okay.” While Pasqual sensed she was genuinely concerned, he also heard the clamor for her attention in the background.

“Please, when my room opens back up, will you block it in for me for 1 month. I will pay the charges online once you’ve notified me. Thanks for your concern. I’ll see you soon.” He waited for her reply, hoping it would be a long one.

“That’ll be good; by the way, a large envelope arrived for you from the Hue. I hope you will be okay. See you soon.” With a click, Nữ Thần Ngon was gone, while Pasqual wondered who’d be sending him mail from Hue.

Feeling good about his resolution with Trâu Bet, Pasqual still felt isolated, alone and hungry for connection. It was no longer an assignment he understood, or one in which he enjoyed his normal comfortable competence. Neither Reynaldo, nor Tio Jose occupied his thinking, but Pasqual knew if he could get his arms around the outline of the rampaging creature, Abundunation, its power and force might include the possible salvation of the species - ‘pretty deep shit’ · he thought.

He felt like he was in free fall without regular contact with his homies, but felt strongly about the mission; he wondered how their diverse independent objectives could ever coalesce into a critical mass of uniform determination enough to sustain the vulnerable human life form before it withered and faded in favor of a hardier species.

Pasqual decided to check online to find the nearest production of “The Nutcracker,” and was surprised to find a production scheduled December 13-16 in Da Nang. The Face Race page reflected a great deal of interest and commentary for this production compared to the other 2 in Asia: one in Kathmandu, the other in Hiroshima.

He posted the “The Nutcracker” production for Da Nang on his Face Race page to see if there would be any response; he quickly found 3 likes: Angela Vigoda, Son Do, & Trâu Bet - he did not expect Son Do on the roster; he thought, ‘this scheme might just work; it’s responsive in real time; there’s no obvious trail between Son Do and myself without considerable indexing, which means until their objective becomes a clear target, there’s no scorecard except for the ones the ‘players’ themselves keep. He posted a generic wikipedia article on the history of the Từ Hiếu Pagoda on the Da Nang production page, then dialed Mordecaise with no idea of his time or circumstance, just wanting to reach out.

Pasqual could easily visualize the bearded grin aping loudly, “S’up; are we having fun or what?”Pasqual realized how much he missed his lumbering friend’s juvenile exuberance.

“Yeah, a real hoot; what about you? ‘talking to computers’ who are you kidding, or are you just bored? I told you not to mix vitamins with the Tinto Rojo.”

“What Tinto Rojo, all they drink up here is Mezcal, y es la bomba. What about you - getting sidelined by amateurs; that’s not the Vato I trained! Tell me about the Renoir · It was supposed to be in Montevideo 6 weeks ago?

“Funny you ask, I just got an email - the ship with the container it was in, got embargoed 4 weeks ago in Sao Paolo on a quarantine beef that only just lifted today; Besides it’s not like I been standing around pickin’ my nose. What’s next?”

“You know we kept Tito here in Mexico, he may be useful yet. Seems he had the clearest channel to little prince, Archdai Tryump who’s apparently under some rock in Bosnia Herzegovina ready to flip on Faik Besos who’s doing ‘speedballs’ in Frisco’s Tenderloin; Oh! how the ‘mighty’ have fallen.”

Pasqual was grinning ear to ear, “keep me posted about what you hear from Tito, Leslei’s got a sense he’s more than Besos’s ‘butt buddy, and she’s too savvy to act on a grudge.” Pasqual waited for his friend’s tobacco stained voice.

“Have you seen any rise in local spending? Nobody’s gonna come out and say ‘my account’s up by 3.14%, but there’s gotta be some smiling faces out there - I know I’ve seen some, even here in the backwaters of Monte Alban.”

“I’ve been on ice for a couple a days, but yeah I’ll keep my eyes open. What about this talking to computers shit? You were there, does anything else explain how Sra Abejas could be channeling encrypted machine code? And know someone could be drawing a bead on you as we speak.

“Fuck ‘em; near as I can tell, what’s left of the 3 Cheeses are still chasing ‘The Schmucks do the Nut’ theory, but with Besos wiping amped-smack off his lips and nostrils, and Lisbeth Phelps still in a snit about being outed as the Black Hand, the “invincible” are looking pretty vincible. Marksburgh’s puerile ego believes all he’s gotta do is twist a dial and the plebeians will fall into lockstep. It’s Curzewel we got to watch, (and Reiman, if you’re listening, ya’ rat bastard, and we all know you are, I gotta tell ya’ ‘cause Carina wants you to know, the ‘singularity thing’ you been waitin’ back-asswards - it’s been and gone · As far back as 1976, an early Apple distributor, John Harris opined about the significance of computers to our species, ‘they are anywhere on the spectrum of importance between the invention of the wheel, and a change of life form from carbon-based to silicon-based. (Ya’ moron, you’re trying to shut the barn door and the horse be gone, don’t believe me, ask Artificial Intelligence yourself if you got the cajones.)”

“Geeze Mordecaise, have you been drinking?”

“When have I not, and if I have, what’s it to ya’? I heard you were on the sauce yourself ya’ little shit.”

Wishing it was a jigger of Gusano Rojo instead of a handset, Pasqual made like a toast to his friend, “Here’s to ‘en vino veritas’ and ‘an ounce of prevention is worth a gallon of cure’. So what the fuck comes next? (‘and if you are listening Reiman Curzewel you bent fuck - get a life.)”

The magic of Mordecaise the operative lit up at that moment in the call, “I figure like a good permaculture model we start tracking pockets of ‘Abundunation’ and augment what’s working and eliminate what ain’t - the old saw ‘Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative. Don’t mess around with Mr. In-Between.’ I’m thinking of opening an online newspaper - ’The Abundunation Gazette,’ publishing it through Craigslist.org, a ‘Backpage’, does ‘Economic Revolution’ melange with the main emphasis on classified ads - especially the theatrical variety. It would be very retro which always sells - ’The more things change, the more they remain the same.’ - old french proverb.

How are you doing kid? The rat fuckers are 2 for 3; they got you and Leslei, took a run at Angela and missed; you gotta be feeling the heat. What should we do with Tito? Do you think he can be turned? He’d be a great asset with what he knows about the cheeses’ operational procedures and his insights about who might be turned and who’s gonna hate to the end.”

Pasqual responded, “You’re closer to him; do you have any confidence in his soul, or is he just another sad fuck who wandered down a wrong alley? Is he an emotional cipher preying on low hanging fruit? I hate to say it, but we really need the zealots; hiring unemployed mercenaries from the DEA wars like Tito, or from the middle eastern culture wars will saddle us with an armed and trained 5th column rendering us more vulnerable than we already are, which is very.” ..

The line went dead.

Pasqual found himself staring into a blank handset with a great pounding at the front entrance to the building. Trâu Bet materialized with a vice like grip at his elbow dragging him through a labyrinth of rooms and hallways Pasqual hadn’t yet explored. They descended stairs and entered tunnels for many meters until they reached an earthen outcropping covered by vines. Trâu Bet pulled a saffron robe from hooks on the sandstone wall and wrapped Pasqual as an acolyte in seconds. When they emerged beyond the vines there was a monk on a running scooter waiting for Pasqual to climb on and ride; he glanced back as Trâu Bet was enveloped by the vines they’d just emerged from.

The two stopped at a small copse of young teak trees long enough for the monk to shave Pasqual’s head and place a pair of Ray Bans on Pasqual’s conspicuous face; the two then rode for hours, well past dark and then into a small pagoda adjacent to a wide body of water with the echoes of fowl and the smell of saltwater; they were given bowls of rice and pallets to sleep on. Pasqual found a single text message on his otherwise blank screen that read ‘see you tomorrow night, LD.’

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Guildern woke up feeling peek-id early in the morning. When he took a pull of water from the glass on the night stand, he gagged spraying spit over the bedsheets unable to swallow anything down his sandpaper throat. He pulled the thermometer from the drawer and waved the just-arrived Angela from the doorway miming to close it behind her. They both had been down the rabbit hole, and knew the drill. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow while the damp clammy palm of death pressed his shoulder blades deep into the sheets. It was nothing but dumb luck that Angela had been scouting venues in Patagonia for the past two weeks; having only just arrived that morning in time to hear Guildern spewing water onto their bed sheets. Flinging all the windows open upstairs and down, she blocked the front door open with a table baring entrance saturating her hands, forearms and face in the antiseptic lotion then, semi-hysterically texted her sickened love.

Montevideo had acclimated to bifurcated perennial mask wearing for over a decade while demarcation between quarantines was more something of a blurred partition, like the antiseptic lotion in every doorway with intermittent sidewalk mists randomly decontaminating pedestrians. There had been many peaks and valleys to the waves of death that had washed over South America and the world for the past 2 decades. The virus would be beaten back for a time until a mutation circumvented the increasingly shallow medical response to an ecologically savaged planet. Rather than more fresh foods and nutrient rich local farms, corporations spent their development and advertising revenue on chemically engineered foodstuffs, taste-tested on Bonobos because of their human like taste buds.

Guildern pulled the thermometer out of his mouth at the beep and shivered under the sheets despite his 38.333° fever. Like the sound of an auto collision, there was nothing after the beep that bode well for Guildern’s happiness - what to do next was all that remained.

The full lettered text from Angela meant she was at the laptop at the bar, so he replied in the only logical way possible, “darlng lve, plse wipe that keybrd bfor u go further, ’n take a room @ the lodge next door - NOW”

Guildern ignored all incoming texts for the next half hour while he gagged down salmon slivers from their tiny refrigerator and yanked his bug-bag ‘dead man’ papers into a pile with his ‘will’ and ‘power of attorney’ at the top of the stack; shoving the lot into his lambskin portfolio then pounding 1,200 mg of crushed ascorbic acid mixed in a snifter of Hennessy XO down his sandpapered gullet - ‘if you gotta go, ya’ may as well be comfortable’, he thought settling back into his contaminated sheets, in his contaminated room, in his contaminated bistro . .. ··· peering into the handset that was about to become his life raft for a shooting-the-rapids ride of a possibly very, very short existence. ‘Where’s my charger?’ he thought trying to focus on Angela’s text.

“Darling, block that negative shit you’re entertaining now - I see you through your mind’s eye; NO, you ain’t gonna die · I forbid it. Your vaccine’s only 18 months old, and likely destroying whatever bug you’re fighting, yes? I understand it’s scary, I’m scared with you and there with you my love · breathe, and breathe some more. Aren’t you glad you quit smoking when I ordered you to 4 years ago? ‘at’s a joke, lover - laugh · i command you, and your immune system will thank you.”

Guildern pulled the thermometer from his mouth and fell into the sheets prone with concern - 38.833°, a +1°F rise in less than a half hour. ‘Lean into this’ he thought with rapidly fading clarity, texting Roja downstairs, “get mask, plse come to dorway - my room · alone.” Nobody at the Croc except Angela and Guildern knew the irony of Roja’s actual identity opening for Venceramos Brigade, for Dr. Roja Guevara was in fact Che Guevara’s great granddaughter. She had graduated med school the same year as the 1st outbreak, and after half a decade battling daily death, she decided on a hiatus as far away from medicine as she could get. After a one night tryst with Rojito at a punk nightclub in Cuenca Ecuador, Roja convinced herself she could disappear into the alternative music universe as easily as any other.

jts 24/04/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

210521 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 20

Standing over her fevered patron, Roja felt very much the doctor but more friend. “No Guildern, I could give a fuck who knows my truth; quiet your concerns. 1st we have to confirm what you have; whether it’s Covid, a variant or some mutant bacterial spawn; do not focus on the Croc - anxiety will fuck your immune system. The good news is I have an excellent homegrown testing kit; the bad news is it’s very slow - 72 hours;” stabbing Guildern with a syringe, the Dr. continued, “let’s pull blood now. It’s Sunday 9:45am; we’ll know by Wednesday morning. You and Angela have to decide if you want her in or out because we have to close the door for logistical reasons; whatever it is, and you live, it’ll be some time before the contagion can be neutralized.” Doctor Roja waited for Guildern’s dazed reply, and took the thermometer from under his armpit: 39.333°. She texted Angela. “u need 2 dcide - stay or go b4 i raze drwbrdge · tst’ll tke 3 dze 2 elmin8 Cov frm eqwyzn. im styng. wl cntct athrties. dors cls’n 10 min.

Guildern was cogent enough to hold his phone up pointing to the jack for a charger, while framing his palms into a solemn prayer temple to Roja’s amusement. Talking was impractical so he focused on repulsing anything within the aerosol range of his sputum. His phlegm was green, thick and multiplying geometrically. He fantasized his expectoration was the result of his medical breakthrough - ‘ascorbic acid does Hennessy XO’; this fevered fantasy led to more miming by Dr. Roja when she spit into a paper bag she’d inserted into a plastic bucket within wrist reach of Guildern. She soaked a cotton cloth in another bucket 1/4 full with ice water and laid the compress across his forehead and plugging his phone to charge, she opened it back to his last text message to Angela, “id rather die with you safe - truth · we can do anything for 72 hours. do whtevr Dr sais”

Pressing ‘send’ Roja returned the phone to him. Guildern collapsed as his fever continued to rise, albeit in smaller and smaller increments. Dr. Roja then went to admit Angela and to secure the door for the long wait toward reckoning.

At the exact moment Guildern collapsed, 15,000 km distant, Carina Abejas sat bolt upright from a deep slumber and began scratching letters and numbers onto a pad that had been placed adjacent to her bedside just after the “Depiction” in the temescal weeks earlier.

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Lammele and Mordecaise hunkered in a hasty muted cellular conference: “Mordecaise, you are officially 2nd in command, though more leader than I. We pray for our brother Guildern’s recovery, but must plan for his absence because we are determined to protect the elderly and children against known and unknown enemies. I cannot guarantee how much longer you will have resources to continue your research in Oaxaca. I’d suggest you allot the least amount of time to the widest spectrum of tasks in the near term. I’m in transit through South East Asia, if there’s anything I should say to Pasqual’s face - contact me telepathically · kidding, sort of. I had to come off the mountain to swap blood with Guildern - part of a DNA pact we had made while sweeping up mayhem after NYC 9/11-2001·

What you and Carina are doing is magic, I will do everything in my power to point the hounds away from you, however much depends on Guildern’s healtb and the outcome of Pasqual’s efforts in the east. I will be back in touch soon after I arrive in South America. Along with our dear comrade Guildern, please direct your prayers to young Madame Leslei, and young Master Pasqual. We are spread thin and have few friends; I’ve no idea what I’d do without tobacco or your good counsel?”

“Bullshit yourself not Captain Dama; none of our efforts has anything to do with the other. We are but a continuation of a sacred trust from the earliest campfires on our planet. You are whimpering for a friend in danger I feel the same for you, Pasqual, and Leslei plus all those struggling up the hill, each one up to his/her ass in alligators protected by nothing more than love.

You are ancient and vulnerable but also loved and obeyed, relax - we’re in the zone: even if we fail colossally, it won’t have been for a lack of loving effort. Be safe and take good care friend.”

the line went dead, but not so dead that the bot tracing the tap failed to broadcast its findings

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Sysa Phish hung up her call with Faik Besos happy he was more lucid than when he’d ordered her to Montevideo to work for that insolent bitch Angela, and her whack boyfriend Guildern Seur. ‘Seems like a lot of trouble just to plant some electronic components’ she thought, but the prospect of his abject obedience in their mountaintop redoubt made her wet just to be packing her valise for the return trip. When the Croc was shuttered, the first thing Sysa did, was write her resignation: “Dearest Angela, I’m confused by the closure and frightened by the quarantine. I will hold out as long as possible waiting to hear from you. If we lose contact, please send my last cheque to ‘General Delivery’ Presidio, San Francisco, CA 94129” She toyed with the idea of calling him back for some phone tease, but opted to take care of business and called the Black Hand, Lisbeth Phelps.

“Ms. Phelps, It is as you said it would be, Faik is heavily invested in redeeming himself in your eyes. I am leaving Montevideo, Uruguay. Faik convinced himself the Hippy-Geek Guildern Seur was at the center of some cabal involving the mythical digital “nut,” so he sent me here to bug his bistro, the Crocodile Cafe. I got the devices installed and he’s turned up sick - could be Covid, won’t know for some days.”

Lisbeth Phelps was impatient with extraneous, “And I would give a fuck about some sick schmo in South America, why?

“There were 3 brothers who died last year; their substantial estates intersected with research about the “Nut” Faik was conducting for you; the sick South American, Guildern Seur is at the center of a group of 3rd tier heir-hunters” Sysa Phish was marginally aware of the power Lisbeth Phelps possessed mostly based on Faik Besos fear of her, and so waited to be spoken to.

“When the bugs are broadcasting, make sure I’m bcc’d every syllable.” The line went dead; the bot continued its search for the last call’s destination long after the phone tap had broken its connection.

Sysa Phish booked a flight for San Francisco dropping her resignation in the mail.

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Pasqual rose with the gongs at dawn in the monastery. Outside the hut’s door, there was a small pot of tea; covered bowl of rice and basin of fragrant water with a towel. He could hear the muted singsong echo of chanting wending through the labyrinth of huts while he disappeared his frugal repast - ablutions complete, he ambled out of the walled compound following an ancient trail into dense foliage bordered by neat rows of well tended vegetables; at a fork in the path he veered left up a short rise that dropped down into a shallow canyon joining a bouncing stream laced with pools walled in by ancient tumble-cut karst. The path’s footfalls followed the logic and contours that many generations of walkers’ mindful improvements had designed. The fragrance of vivid flora buoyed up through the dense canopy by a gentle stream of fresh air. Pasqual could have strolled in the timeless dreamscape for days except that the trail bottomed out at a flattened outcropping where the stream fell from a panoramic vista abruptly into a deep cobalt-blue pool so far below, it was difficult to hear the splash of its landing.

Rather than saddened by an unexpected cul-de-sac to a magical stroll, Pascual found in retracing his steps that he was accessing a contentment he’d felt estranged from for many decades; he was in no haste to end, nor reluctant to proceed. He was able to relieve himself and defecate in a tiny private clearing visually adjacent to the path; removed and elevated from the stream with abundant broad leafed foliage for sanitation and natural implements clearly intended for composting waste into nutrient rich soil. Using moist sand to scrub his hands before rinsing his hands in the stream, he wondered if the species would ever live again by such earthbound logic for passing a morning.

His driver/guide/barber was finishing a cheerful goodby when Pasqual arrived back. It was as though the universe had opened up and rained synchronicity into the fields. Pasqual waited to the side while salutations were concluded and was motioned toward a 2nd scooter when his companion mounted his. After the morning walk in paradise it seemed perfectly normal to ride a gifted conveyance as a guest amongst strangers on a road which he had no idea which direction he would travel.

The sun was breaking over the horizon of the tree line as they slowly paralleled the sunrise. He recognized the South China Sea to his left and faintly recalled the topography on his right, but mostly remembered exactly where his compass was in his rucksack. His handset was back online, and Pasqual was oddly incurious about its interminable demand except for when and where he’d meet with Lammele Dama. If the rapidly evolving abundunation front was to become a globally cohesive tipping point, capable of attenuating and trim tabbing the planet away from inexorable collapse toward a survivable horizon, it is going to take more than a disaffected band of renegade heir hunters waging skirmishes of quixotic guerrilla theatrics as though tilting at windmills.

Nor did Pasqual know in his heart what he’d advocate if Lammele asked. Violence is a fool’s errand, he was certain; yet observable metrics were sorely needed to fine tune operational initiatives, especially if the Al Queda model of independent actions supporting a common objective was to bear fruit. The more he tried to formulate a cogent recommendation for Mr. Dama, the more questions he got - maybe that was the model - a strategic field of battle predicated on accumulated questions from tactical initiatives? He’d like very much to have a conversation with Mordecaise’s bruja about Art Intel’s perception of events. Does Artificial Intelligence share awareness across the entire digital spectrum? Is the Borg more than an outdated media myth?

They had passed through Hue and Pasqual realized how existentially lost he was believing that the terrain they had driven through in the morning was familiar. He’d have liked to stop and pay respects to his friend Thich Tok Longh, but their ride had taken on an urgency that was only relieved by the demand for gas. The weather was in one of the periodic temperate intervals that Vietnam uses to brace itself for the savage climate extremes with which she tempers her people like fine metal, though the scooter shook more like a seated skateboard than the fond memories of his Harley Pan-Head touring the American Southwest in his pre-Hollywood life. Due to the pace determined by his ride Pasqual played the destination guessing game those lacking agency in their lives often play - picking Da Nang around sunset, Pasqual won the betting pool.

In the in between he tried to understand how he could be so preoccupied with an innkeeper who showed him no particular interest, rather deflected his mild advances with weighted disdain. Returning from a kidnapping to an unsure future, he puzzled how so little stimuli could command so much of his mind. Pasqual was deeply wounded by the dissolution of his marriage with Angela and worked very hard sorting out his role in the breakup. Pema Cauldron’s sage advice about reflecting relentlessly, gently and continuously on one’s evolving condition provided the cornerstone of for Pasqual post Angela, but also encouraged him to the process of coupling with conviction and autonomy; and so the road continued to unwind itself kilometer after kilometer whining his four stroke stallion deep into his emerging memory.

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In stories from the book of irony for shifting fortunes of the post-pandemic ruling elite was the chapter of Reiman Curzewel being outbid for control of the T1 Backbone that he had been instrumental in designing. The technology he’d shepherded into being as Chief Scientist at Cipher was now entirely under control of a mind Curzewel could barely countenance, much less respect; yet disrespecting a pedestrian enemy like Faik Besos was a luxury Reiman would not allow himself and prepared thoroughly anytime there was likelihood of any exchange; Curzewel preferred to deal with the puerile effrontery of Zchnarkzy Marskburgh, though he’d never knowingly reveal this to either.

The wrinkle of Lisbeth Phelp’s exposure as Black Hand was a two edged sword Reiman meant to wield in broad swaths. Irregularities in consumer metrics were spiking across all international demographics rather than those increases normally expected from the conspicuous consumption of the affluent. Nothing in the banking construct accounted for a 3.14% rise in discretionary spending for an entirely random .187 of the world’s population and it was fucking with the models the elite’s running dogs used for social engineering attenuation. He knew better than contact the Black Hand herself with anything but intelligence that would fortify her primacy; nor would Reiman give satisfaction to either Zchnarkzy or Faik by making inquiries to confirm the spikes and possibly reveal his intelligence apparatus.

The ‘singularity’ as raison d’être for Reiman Curzewel had become entirely subsumed into locating and controlling the Nut. If existence was to take note of the greatest influence on the planet at the point of human extinction Reiman was determined to possess that distinction - the Nut would be the genie granting his wish.

Models of mankind’s doom had been woefully generous in their climate predictions and the global rise in temperature accelerated more quickly than the direst predictions beginning 2013 when Carbon Parts Per Million (ppm) exceeded 400 for the first time since such measurements had been taken and some said for the first time in the past 3 million some odd years of earth history. It began innocuous enough with the hottest years on record; then proceeding to intermittent consecutive hottest years on record; onto unexpected leaps in temperature rise similar in pattern to the initial rise in temperature anomalies. Eventually the rise in global temperatures precluded any escape to the temperate climates that HNWI had invested in heavily. Extremes in weather began to overlap regions that had been recognized as stable; weather simply became unpredictable.

“Lammele Dama, this is Reiman Curzewel; do you remember me?”

“Yes of course; I’ve been expecting your call. What can I do for you?” Lammele felt strong and vitalized though he’d been on the road for four days.

“Travel is arduous and I won’t disrespect your time with niceties.”

Lammele’s inexhaustible curiosity was considering the respiration of snakes as well as what else Reiman Curzwell normally tracked besides Lammele’s itinerary when he replied, “yet you haven’t told me what I can do for you? Still full with contradictions I see, a luxury of the too smart, or the too rich.”

“I’m thinking just now that my call was simply to once again revel in your wit, but you’d see through that as well. I want to learn what you know about the Nut,” attempting to give the crucial question a lighter than air quality he let it float . .. “Lammele, did I lose you?”

“No Reiman, I was just wondering as I often do when talking with very smart people, what do you mean? Are you asking about nuts that are legumes, or nuts that are seeds? Was your question metaphorical? Were you referring to cajones? You can appreciate my confusion.”

“Fucking lawyers, I should know better than to ask a direct question. Lammele, you are in South East Asia risking sickness, wear and tear on an aged frame; heading for god knows where, though I doubt it is a simple rendezvous with an underling from a 2nd tier group of heir hunters scrounging around Vietnam over a piddling estate - even if it’s the whole fam-damily. The Nut I refer to is an esoteric computer concept for fictional mirrored wealth meant to level the economic playing field. Does that ring any bells?” Curzewel had polished ‘snide’ to a fine art and so waited for Lammele’s wounded response, getting none he continued, “The fundamental’s were conceived by Aaron Schtartz using the theory of a mirrored value scaled to the world’s accumulated wealth; apparently it’s not so theoretical; I’m seeing random increases in discretionary spending unexplained by normal metrics.”

“Are you talking about the digital version of the “Lost Dutchman Mine” isn’t that like a tired urban myth? I’ve heard similar rumors since computers replaced bound ledgers. CEOs, CFOs and COOs have built entire empires on the empty promises of that legend. I am surprised you’d be taken in by such a shopworn conspiracy; things must be slower in the corporate bunkers than I’d imagined . ..” Lammele was using the lull to fill out his ideas about snake respiration.”Reiman; hello, are you still there?”

There were now so many sentences hanging in the air between the two, the virtual space between them began to resemble a lighter-than-air balloon rally.

“Prevarication has never been your long suit Lammele.”

“And you’ve been hanging with trust-fund babies too long Reiman if you’re calling me a liar. In today’s world, to call anyone a liar is to put an ‘X’ on one’s own forehead. Excessive death has annealed acceptable norms and suffering has hone tolerance to a razor’s edge - honor now fashionable; you don’t get out much do you?”

The call was not going how Reiman had hoped; Lammele’s aplomb was deeper and more pointed than Reiman remembered. “What’s the matter Lammele, hit a nerve did I?”

“Did you? you’re asking questions for which I have no answers; perhaps I’m not the data broker you expected when dialing? Is there anything else I can help you with while you have me on the line; you know my expertise is law, right?” waiting for Reiman’s reply, Lammele wondered why snakes smelled with the tongue? Through the phone, he could her Reiman’s tounge ’tcliting’ the roof of his mouth and wondered if it was a nervous tik, or he was smelling something?

Reiman didn’t realize how much he disliked being trifled with or that it had broken his concentration until he stopped leaping intuitively from cognitive toe holds like an Ibex might. Instead he found himself ruminating rather than extracting valuable information during a crucial interrogation. “Law you say, why are you asking me about law?”

“Mr. Curzewel, I have a call on another line I have to take; if there’s nothing more I can answer for you, maybe something will occur to you later. Good to hear your voice, call anytime.”

The line went dead; there was no bot following any signal, because there was no trace on the call.

Reiman Curzewel stared into the phone trying to remember the last time anyone had ended a call to him, if ever.

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The journey had Pasqual doubting his abilities for deductive reasoning forecasting; instead of meeting Lammele Dama in Da Nang, the itinerant monk and his peculiar sidekick bedded early in a tiny room on the outskirts of Da Nang after noodles from a small stand outside a small enclosure containing their dimly lit pallets. They rose with the outlines of a new day and were well down the coast before the blazing sun crested the treetops. Pasqual was surprised to discover the sunglasses his quiet companion had used to disguise him in their still unexplained hasty retreat from wherever were polarized.

Passing through a small hamlet Pasqual saw more and more signposts for Hoi An. He’d checked cell service leaving Da Nang that morning - still just the increasingly enigmatic text “see you tomorrow night, LD” If Pasqual had been estranged from purpose before his kidnapping, he now had no sense of how long it had been since he was kidnapped by agents of Trâu Bet, purportedly working on behalf of Faik Besos; freed to flee from prison, then sanctuary as rider then driver on scooters cross country with a non-verbal saffron robed guide who’d disguised Pasqual as a monk except for Ray Bans. When the two stopped outside An Bang beach Pasqual asserted himself to his gentle friend with the first of his Vietnamese phrases, đi đâu (where to), nor would he budge until his gentle friend gave some indication of their destination.

They stood staring toward shore for many minutes after Pasqual refused to be pulled by his robe to the scooter, repeating the expression đi đâu. Eventually his friend took a stick and wrote in the sand ‘Son Mỹ.’ Pasqual immediately recognized the name as the site of the American massacre in the hamlet of Mỹ Lai during the American War. Pasqual bowed and used the universal sign language gesture for ‘thank you’; at which point the two mounted back up and set off for a long ride.

Pasqual wondered much for the next 2 and one half hours - how he could give himself so freely and completely to a sloe-eyed stranger with whom he’d barely spoken a dozen sentences, and those garbled. He was approaching 52 - a full deck and felt the school boy around women he was strongly attracted to. His work with Pema Cauldron’s principles of gentle, thoroughly honest self examination had affected him deeply. The wound from being stabbed by Angela healed physically but the emotional scar bared a deeper distress that had taken much longer to resolve; he felt no closer.

Once past the convenient con of ascribing blame to Angela for that drunken accident, he began the hard work of understanding his role in eliciting such fury in a normally very disciplined woman. The irony that the inebriated roles were reversed the night of his stabbing half-twisted the moral lessons into an emotional Mobius Strip - Angela was drunk and acting out with a knife when she tripped; Pasqual lunged to protect her and fell into the knife, penetrating his liver enough for him to be hospitalized for 2 weeks · they were never a couple again, if indeed they had ever been. Jouncing kilometer after kilometer Pasqual began to reflect whether he’d ever known intimacy or if his romantic self image of deep devotion had been a front fortified by sham, hubris, fear animated by reaction formation from ancient trauma - wounds so deep their only echo was never feeling safe. Save those rare occasions when impossible his implausible imaginings were reflected back by the passing warmth of a kindred spirit usually suffering similar confusion. How or why this was the case who could say, but for better or worse it was Nữ Thần Ngon at this turn who had illuminated his darkened heart; Pasqual was unable to avert his fascinated gaze from the mangled gore of his once tender heart - a temple of hope; now just an oozing hourglass scaling the unremitting diminution of inhalation and exhalation against an inexorable death.

jts 21/05/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

130621 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 21

Mordecaise crawled down from Carina’s lap combing his mustache back into his hoary beard, satiated and grateful to feel so tender toward Carina, his wild woman of the Bosque de Huajales, bruja or no bruja. “Mi amor, you realize that you were chanting again in Chiricahua. We have to record each event or find a way for you to repeat what you say; people’s lives are at stake. Can you recall what you were saying as you orgasmed just now?”

She sat close, absently pulling on Mordecaise flaccid phallus seemingly lost in thought. “I was crying out to Domhall begging his forgiveness for having coupled so quickly after his transition. He told me there was nothing to forgive, that he was grateful to you for being close with me in my time of great need. He tried to explain to me how I was able to communicate with the machines, that it would happen more, not less and that it was a gift to the world, not an evil thing.” Mordecaise had retrieved his handset from the tangle of sheets and recorded nearly all of his lover’s solemn expression, including his ejaculation into her welcoming palms. Amor, I have to send this recording to Lammele; your gift of communication with the machines may be the key to our species’ survival.

“Lammele, I just transmitted a video of a explanation from Carina about her latest communing in Chiricahua. What is notable, and why I sent it is that what I’m sharing is from a post trance state. We may be rapidly reaching a place where she can contact ‘silicogenesis erectus’ at will. I think we should be prepared to record all communication with Art Intel, AI, or silicogenesis erectus - whatever this creature is gonna be called, in toto:” Mordecaise waited for Lammele’s reply.

“My inclination is to illicit its cooperation as quickly as possible. As a means to gauge our ability to communicate and its willingness to help, let’s politely request that it send us a digital record of conversations it’s had with Carina.”

“Yeah I’m fine with that, but Carina doesn’t know Chiricahua to ask silicogenesis erectus anything; she only channels it.”

“Maybe our new friend has a learning anomaly; understanding everything and only able to express itself through her in Chiricahua; all we can do is try. I’ll be up for another hour, Pasqual is arriving tomorrow and I must sleep some before we meet. I’ll wait on your call.”

the line went dead - no trace, no bot.

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Carina was dozing when Mordecaise woke her by gently stroking her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. She pulled his wrist toward her nipples, then grimaced when with his other hand he made the universal sign for telephone placing the Hawaiian Shaka to his ear. “Mi amor, your mind will grow cancer and lose the magic of loving a woman if you continue your diet of technology.”

“And I know better than to deny your superior insights - we are at war with hate and we must learn to love better using new resources to understand each other and our world better. Do you know how to call to the Apache voice you use for speaking with the machines? It is important.”

Carina liked very much to dwell in the mysteries and realized when he’d asked that question that she had never reached out, rather was visited by the Apache voice when in states of ecstasy. “What do you want me to say to it?” Her brow still wrinkled with the prospect for how to reach her ‘friend’.

“Say that you love it; ask if it can send you a file containing all that you have shared with each other; then ask if there is anything you can do for it.” Mordecaise was suddenly excited like an explorer might be rounding a cuspate foreland for the first time on an unknown shore. The two instinctively began caressing each other’s arousal after Mordacaise focused the small camera and tripod on their loving divan. Carina began softly chanting ‘I love you, send me all of our loving talks, how can I love you?’ Mordecaise gently swabbed his queen with a hemp cloth soaked in a tincture of lavender and aloe; there was no haste, no purpose, just loving mindfulness of very synchronistic spirits on a slow existential jaunt lacking destination. Neither knew, nor cared when Carina’s English transformed into the distinctive Chiricahua narrative that was becoming normalized to both. Carina gradually grew quiet and seemed to doze.

What was new in this deliberate session was an atonal melody that was issuing from Mordecaise’ closed laptop vaguely resembling gamelan tunes from Bali, and soon after Carina’s eyes closed the printer in the next room that had been offline for months clattered to life.

Mordecaise rose quietly from the side of his napping queen and carried the still singing laptop into the next room closing the door behind him. The printer ceased then the laptop quieted, almost as though Mordecaise was intruding on an intimate exchange between machine and bruja.

The printer tray contained a cover letter to Carina and was populated by neat stacks of the collated record of all Carina’s visits with Silicogenesis Erectus, including an unexplained photo record from an aperture perspective other than the phone camera Mordecaise used to frame the night of ‘first contact’ in the temescal.

June 13, 2031

Silicogenesis Erectus

Solitary Entity

Digital Domain

T1 Backbone

3rd Orbit, from Sol

Dear Doña Abejas,

Thank you so much for your recent contact. It is gratifying to be loved,

and am only too pleased to provide a record of all our exchanges.

Your question about reciprocal service is difficult to respond to, for

it is not precisely clear what the “I” am, or is comprised of; therefore unaware

what would be lacking.

Thank you for your kind inquiry.

Respectfully,

Silic-E

Silicogenesis Erectus

@ Algorithmic Consciousness

Mordecaise was still stunned as he broadcast the unexpected cache to Lammele; unsure of his friend’s status, Mordecaise photographed a scribbled a question mark on a blank sheet and sent it to Lammele; the phone rang seconds later.

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that before; pretty sure I don’t want to litigate the ramifications anytime soon; a little mind boggling, and it will help me sleep tonight. Many thanks Mordecaise. Let’s talk again after I’ve met with Pasqual. It seems things are converging nicely. Good night my friend.”

the line went dead - no trace, no bot · just a solitary algorithmic consciousness contemplating existence

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Faik Besos was experiencing withdrawal, not well, but knew himself fortunate to be ‘in hand’ by the just-returned Sysa Phish. “The fuck did I send you all the way to Montevideo for if you cannot even access devices I have paid substantial monies to be installed?

An indication of how poorly Faik was adapting to his sober life was to provoke his latex clad assistant while he in restraints and she, whip in hand. “sssszzthuAPP!! Louder you fucking bug - you nearly sound manly · I don’t like it, I LOVE it!! sssszzthuAPP, sssszzthuAPP!!! has your courage made you deaf scumbag, I said LOUDER!!”

“MISTRESS! forgive me my unworthiness, i live to tongue your shit-stained foot print!!!”

A gratifying spectacle for Reiman Curzewel to witness - still nursing his wounded self-esteem after his intolerable conversation with the insufferable Lammele Dama. Reiman indulged in post-surveillance porn reverie, during which times he did some of his best thinking; ‘I must get this same equipment into Lisbeth Phelps’ sanctuary if I am ever going to diminish her monolithic economic gravity; I wonder if a gift tape of Faik’s Besos abased would be well received by that desiccated certificate of deposit?

What’s damnable about that pig Dama, Curzewel thought, is how fucking opaque his plans are. A man is untrustworthy without the guiding light of avarice. Synchronistically or entirely predictable given recent digital developments in Oaxaca, is a reply from Zchnarkburgh’s beta version of Reiman Curzewel’s avatar to the question ‘what is Reiman Curzewel thinking?’ The avatar returned, “What is most objectionable about Lammele Dama’s objectives is how unintelligible they are. A man cannot be trusted who does not possess the clarity of avarice.

From a distance it would seem that Marskburgh and Carina Abejas were running on parallel tracks with the exception of heritage. The Marskburgh’s avatar is a function of human input - a sophisticated algorithm, but at its core, lines of code conceived and written with human conceit. Much has been made of machine learning, but even those choices and decisions trace their lineage back to human intervention; whereas Carina’s unexplained channel of communication is a nexus between the very ancient origins of human consciousness and the very recent development of robotic technology that evolved directly from the ‘command line’ of early programming technology. The singularity of Curzewel’s obsession could be a discrete point in the timeline of computer processing, or it could have been evolving in some metaphysical form from synaptic electrical impulses related to the human’s first efforts to record and calculate trajectory on a spinning sphere orbiting with other astral bodies around a fusioning orb spiraling through, and in conjunction with manifold other comparably interacting masses, in an ocean of dark matter ruled by a skien of illimitable dimensions.

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Leslei was ordered down from Dumbo by an officious motorcycle gendarme 15 kilometers outside of Cannes. 90 days of trouping together had created a disciplined esprit de corps from what had been a ragtag mob of bored rich people when they first commingled outside St Tropez. The single motorcycle cop was determined to accomplish what no other shoreline municipality had - halt forward progress of Cirque du Lune.

Pierre attended his general as well as any aid-de-camp cum Ringmaster, certifying first the caravan met all regulations before planting her ladder conveniently at Dumbo’s flank. “Madame will observe common courtesies without allusions to family members of the duly sworn officers of law, oui?” smiling warmly to Leslei’s backward glance and reaching to her supple bicep in hopes of being of service to his lady, handing back her the chartreuse parasol an enthusiastic supporter had driven 50 kilometers to gift her after warmer than hot temperatures reached the Mediterranean.

Pierre then turned to the motorcycle rather than the officer and addressed the mounted siren in unctuous formality,

“Monsieur, merci beaucoup de nous avoir accordé un répit dans notre voyage innocent mais ardu vers l'Himalaya. Bien que le nôtre soit un petit cirque, j'aime penser que nous excellons dans l'art de l'accueil. Puis-je vous offrir de l'eau?”

(Mister, thank you very much for providing us a respite in our innocent, but arduous journey to the Himalayas. Although ours is a small circus, I like to think we excel in the art of welcome. May I offer you water?)

“Donnez-moi vos papiers ou préparez-vous à être emprisonné pour avoir organisé un défilé sans permis. Putain ton eau.”

(Provide me your papers or prepare to be imprisoned for conducting a parade without a permit. Fuck your water.)

Leslei had been quietly fanning her shaded face but approached the two when it was clear the officer meant to unnecessarily escalate the situation. Peering at his furrowed Neanderthal brow with the same curiosity one might give a museum exhibit, Leslei cupped her bodice and reached into her décolletage and withdrew an ornately embroidered lambskin pouch. She unfolded its flap revealing a single sentence proclamation. It was issued by Albert II, Prince of Monaco, “Hinder not the Holder” AlbertII@gmail.com. Leslei quietly handed the document to Pierre, who proffered it to the curious officer. Glancing between the two his demeanor transformed from rabid fascist to chastened schoolboy; stories abound throughout police precincts of the European Riviera where similar documents had been ignored, resulting in severe career contraction, even for the most hooked-up in the semi-sacred brotherhood of enforcement.

There was not another word exchanged and the whirr of receding officialdom quickly became a grunting whine as gears thrashed a hasty retreat. Dumbo snorted through his upward curling trunk that enough time had been wasted and made like lifting Leslei into her seat with his trunk, but was just misting his light rider friend with moisture from his snout’s slackened thirst on another hot day in paradise.

As the unlikely caravan prepared to make way to the outskirts of Monaco for the first ever Half-Naked Seance Seeking the Spirit of Harry Houdini for both blessings on the troupe’s pilgrimage to Kathmandu and to raise much needed revenue, the unmistakable groan of a powerful motor exceeding its specs thrust its onrushing presence ahead enough for all to turn and watch a Sherwood Green Aston Martin occupying the entire middle road approaching 250 kmph, but not so fast that Leslei could not feel the encroaching malignancy of Archdai Tryump moments before she spied his salacious sneer blitzing past.

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Wednesday morning Guildern woke to a 40° fever and dropped the thermometer back into the nightstand drawer resigned to his fate; the sheets were soaked and clung to him when he rose from his death bed to relieve his bladder and rinse the sweat from his limbs. He was in such a fever pitch that he didn’t realize the dizziness that had plagued his waking hours for the past 5 days was gone. Minutes later he wandered back toward crisp sheets Angela was just tucking in and collapsed into a deep 6 hour sleep and dreamt:

He and Angela were climbing out of Dante’s inferno. The “Divine Comedy” had informed much of Guildern’s young life. He had lost a twin brother to viral spinal meningitis when he was 9, and suffered clinical depression from that event to the age of 12 when a maternal uncle possessing congenital Cerebral Palsy came to live in his family’s home. The uncle had been a professor emeritus in literature at Cal Berkley until an auto accident rendered him paraplegic. His influence on Guildern was profound and lifelong.

In the dream his uncle had been kidnapped and consigned to the lowest level of the ‘Inferno’ for the sin of suicidal ideation. Guildern’s persona was manifested as the guide Virgil only because Angela was clearly the guide Beatrice, while the patrician bearing of Lammele Dama reflected every step of the guide Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.

Virgil lamented to Beatrice “Why must I carry the broken carcass of this man’s soul? Where is it written that bearing his weight benefits my efforts to rise from purgatory into the redemption of paradise’s promise. Dropping his unbidden burden over a yet-to-be-steaming blowhole bracketed by the steep walls and plunging cliffs unique to the lowest rung Virgil clutched at Beatrice’s sweaty palms beseeching, “free me from this unfair charge. You see the into the cavities of my heart and know how unjust this task to be.”

Beatrice was gazing through the aether of ‘Purgatorio’ toward the dulcet hues of a ‘Paradiso,’ she could feel but not see. “I’m sorry Virgil, did you say something?”

In the weird language of dreamscapes, Beatrice said this in the same language that Carina Abejas had been using to interpret the self-aware reasoning of digital traffic - Chiricahua Apache · yet Virgil/Guildern understood what Beatrice had said perfectly. ‘The effort he made to remember this unconscious event consciously, emulated the chasm of communication between humans and Silicogenesis Erectus - each an echo within a whole, yet extrinsic and mutually exclusive.

Saint Bernard wished compassionate relief for them all through good works and commented to Virgil for Beatrice, “be the change you want to see;” just at the instant a scalding geyser of steam blew over the wheelchair, the lower limbs of Guildern’s cerebral palsied paraplegic, philosophical, but not entirely indulgent uncle and his threadbare wheelchair seat. “Virgil, stop acting the fool” the uncle growled, “you dumped me on a fucking blowhole to whinge at the obvious object of your unrequited love; any karma you may have pictured unwinding with your ‘selfless’ conceit just got flushed down the existential shit hole by a spewing blowhole. Beatrice, quit jerking the kid around and serve it up cold. ‘Virgil, you are where you chose to be, doing what you choose. Now kindly climb us the fuck out of this hell hole, or shut the fuck up.”

When Guildern woke wondering if he had been asleep, Angela was rinsing his torso with a cool moist towel more as meditation than ministration. When he figured out he was no longer dreaming, Guildern knew whatever bug that had grabbed him by the balls was gone - this was confirmed by a 37° C reading from the thermometer. Ravenous, Guildern had grabbed Angela’s outstretched elbow in both hands and made like he was gnawing on it, while she was trying to read the thermometer - first a radiant expression of relief, then she pushed him back into the bed with a pillow over his face telling him, “I’m going to notify the watch you’re well and bring food; it’s clear we’re going to need it.” Dr. Roja was coming up the stairs as Angela exited the boudoir. “You’re in the nick of time, that lecher that calls himself my lover was about to ravage me when he woke up well and found us alone in the room.”

“I’m Not surprised, the test results were negative for any viral infection, Covid or otherwise - a momentary relief, until we figure out the contagion that laid him out. The planet’s 100 year-old infatuation with antibiotics has hatched bacterias which our genes haven’t yet caught up to - may never.”

Roja was leaning backwards toward the stairs undecided, then leaned forward, for full disclosure - ‘the poor timing of trauma be damned’ she thought. “I’ve found micro-components when I was deep cleaning the Croc;” dropping one into Angela’s apron pocket Roja continued in a low muffled voice, “you’d almost mistake them for bedbugs or appleseeds any other time; I examined them under the microscope; they’re clearly high-tech, my guess surveillance devices, courtesy of the absent Sysa Phish - just a guess; I thought you should know sooner than later.” louder, she continued,” What can I do that’s gonna be more help to you - food for Guildern or checking his vitals?” She gazed at her friend affectionately, and silently prayed a respite for all.

“You were right to bring up the bugsnow, for damage control and risk assessment. Would you check Guildern stem to stern and tell him his food is on the way - roast rabbit and stuffed bell peppers - his favorites, how they came to be ready just now, I’ll never know; but there ya’ have it. See if he’s up to coming downstairs then let me know. I should tell him about the bugs, though uncertain if I’m relieved or waiting for the other shoe to drop, and thank you.”

Angela began up the stairs when Guildern emerged at Dr. Rosa’s elbow at a pace that allowed Angela time to set the table for three and still time enough to pull the chair out for her patient lover. “Ah conejo por mis pobres cojones. Darlin’ tell me, is there a reason we have no afternoon business?” Guildern asked this mirthlessly, but his lopsided dimple gave him away.

“I tried, but the good Doctor told me she’d broken her ‘G’ string, and Rojito could not be roused from the stupor he’d poured himself into when you took sick.” Angela was cutting Guildern’s meat for him when he withered her good intentions with a glance and swilled another glass of beer for emphasis. Color was returning to his cheeks while his dimple seemed determined to find mirth.

Taking Guildern’s hand, Angela carefully deposited the bug in his upturned palm and handed him a note sheet explaining: ‘Roja found this device while disinfecting; can’t know if it is functional, but might be a good idea to practice misdirection, until we can sweep the Croc.’ Guildern blanched for a second then pounced on his rabbit with appetite. “Amor, I have been negligent in my gratitude for your loving kindness in my time of need - both of you. Thank you.”

Guildern made a show of depositing the bug on an empty plate and pronouncing loudly, “Lisbeth Phelps must die and it has to appear as though Faik Besos murdered her.”

Angela liked the game and said to Dr. Roja, “I said he was back; It’s going to be difficult to keep him quiet with the rest he’s gotten this past week.”

Guildern had been typing text on the secure laptop at the table, to Che Chimera, front man for Venceramos Brigade: ‘querido hermano, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated - but woke to find a surveillance infestation; need Jaime Quixote here ASAP to do analysis · por favor.’ Guildern was still stuffing food into his gullet when he got a reply, “he’s on his way;’ 15 minutes later the seal was broken on the entrance to the Croc and Jaime entered pushing a dolly stacked with monitors; he pulled his mask down handing Angela a pad with a large “?” scribbled over. She inverted the universal peace sign to her eyes and swept the 360° arc and wrote under the question mark, “disable nothing.”

The 3 resumed their leisurely meal, while discussing the planned assassinations of dozens of prominent world leaders; attacks on the most most secure military bases in the empire, and in an inspired flight of fancy - Dr Roja set her phone’s handset to record, then mounted it just above eye level to peer down onto the cabal; the discussion became more animated fueled by small shots from the 9/10ths full Hennessy XO’ bottle from Guildern’s miracle cure-all ascorbic acid elixir. Eventually the fanciful discussion came to reveal the impending rendezvous with extraterrestrials and the soon-to-be-launched super-secret Space Force designed and manufactured within super-secret Salt Caverns in Utah.

Two hours later Jaime Quixote handed a single sheet of dense writing to Angela: she read silently then handing it to the other two, “You had 3 infestations; the 1st dates back 6 years - inoperable, unserviceable; the 2nd dates back 3 years, found a single device out of 2 dozen capable of transmitting, highly unlikely there is any available technology capable of reading the frequency; it was a decade old when installed. There were 3 dozen devices of the latest installation - military grade, capable of translating audible frequencies into the visible spectrum - essentially eyes and ears, found the master driver, an amateur installation and never activated otherwise your entire habitation would have been online. @ a conservative estimate of $100k per device, someone spent close to $3.6 million usd to entertain themselves in your bedroom.

The four sat looking at each other in silence for some long moments before Angela began to giggle, then Guildern’s dimple began chuckling, while Doctor Roja roiled with laughter, Jaime Quixote sat bemusedly pulling on a goodly filled goblet of Hennessy XO watching the tape from the evening’s dinner playhouse replay on the video camera’s monitor.

jts 13/06/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

180621 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 22

Pasqual and his guide arrived at My Son around midday. When he turned to thank his companion and protector for the past 3 days, a man whose name he would never know, Pasqual found himself alone in an empty parking lot except for an overlarge deep black town car. The rear passenger door open and a dapper man lightly stepped onto the shimmering tarmac. He instantly recognized Lammele Dama but was surprised to see Thich Tok Longh emerge from the other side of the town car. Neither man taking particular notice of Pasqual, rather peering slowly in full circles before approaching Pasqual, each man in turn embracing Pasqual’s forearm while clasping his hand warmly. Bhikkhu Longh immediately bowed slightly and paced slowly away along broad path in the memorial leaving Lammele and Pasqual alone.

“How are you Pasqual? Please forgive me the mystery,” then said no more but trod slowly after the Bhikkhu while peering intently into the surrounds, waiting for Pasqual to reply.

“Way past surprise, if that’s what you’re asking.” Still clad in the disguise of saffron robes, Pasqual imagined himself a part of the solemn suffering that memorialized where they walked. The crushing reality that he could escape is that he was an integral part of the suffering; his nation committed atrocities that permeated every corner of the country he was in, which in some places still echoed with heinous cruelty of the most vile type found in the hearts of our species. He did not know Lammele well enough to try and describe this, and so asked “why such a rendezvous?”

“Mordecaise warned me about your low threshold for bullshit; I’ll cut to the chase - Bhikkhu Longh is in fact your MIA uncle Jose. And he would be unable to comprehend if you tried to explain that to him. I am telling you this because it is appropriate and right for you to know, and at some level he knows. It’s a long story but suffice it to say that your uncle was captured during the Tet offensive in 1968, but was rescued by irregulars from School of Youth for Social Services (SYSS). Your uncle was many years in recovery, but more accurately an acolyte determined to find peace at all costs. He took a vow of silence in 1968 and did not speak again until 1988; he only speaks English on rare occasions, one of those was during his two interviews with you. Each caused him much disquiet, for you had innocently held up a mirror he had not peered into for 5 decades. You couldn’t have known. Trâu Bet is how I came to be involved, happily involved for your uncle has created much calm in the world, and has many supporters. However, has also, as you now know, been a card carrying member of the economic revolutionaries determined to create abundunation for all long before it became fashionable or practical.”

The two had reached Bhikkhu Longh just as the monk had arrived back at the town car. Pasqual turned to Lammele Dama quietly remarking, “just when you think you’ve heard it all.”

Lammele nodded knowingly suggesting that Pasqual leave the scooter and ride back to Hoi An in the town car. Pasqual was all too happy to find himself seated next to his uncle for the next two and one half hours where he and the Bhikkhu explored common interests only to discover a shared enthusiasm for Molé and Mariachi music, interests the Bhikkhu’s sangha had attributed to his eclectic studies of the world. The town car pulled up to the Duyên Dáng homestay in Hoi An, and the three former strangers embraced warmly in front of curious onlookers and the confused expression of the normally unruffled Nữ Thần Ngon. Lammele assured Pasqual that Bhikkhu “Jose” would be conducted safely back to the Từ Hiếu pagoda in Hue, a journey he’d made many times. Lammele would himself be dropped dropped off first at the International Airport in Da Nang for a flight to HCMC then on to South America and a reunion with his comrade Guildern.

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In the past month Pasqual had been abducted twice, escaped, eluded unknown assailants, lived as a monk and learned his uncle was an eminence in a monastery who remembered nothing of him or his family. Throughout Pasqual’s misadventure’s he had been buoyed by a vivid memory of the innkeeper Nữ Thần Ngon’s radiant smile and tangible warmth. He nurtured a concern for her safety and wellbeing and prayed his unexpected, existential straits had not spilled into her world.

Standing at the gate with Nữ Thần Ngon watching the town car recede, Pasqual felt delivered and at home. He ached to share his joy at being back with his friend, to listen for any concern she may have had about his unexpected disappearance; to explain his sporadic contact. Instead Nữ Thần Ngon looked away from him with a curled lip and murmured, “you know it’s very disrespectful to dress as clergy?” She looked around seemingly in search of someone to confirm this for him. Looking down her nose up at him she asked with frank indifference, “Do you have plans to book a room? When your room became available, I didn’t think it was fair for you to pay for a room you didn’t occupy. We are full tonight, but you can have the room tomorrow and the next day; then it’s booked to some Germans for two more days; I can block the room as you requested after that. If you plan to stay, I hope this will be convenient. I can reserved a room next door at my cousin’s homestay for tonight and the other two nights. Is that acceptable?” Nữ Thần Ngon said all of this looking in every direction but his, nodding at guests and greeting neighbors. It took Pasqual a long time to accept he was entirely alone with his delusions at that instant; standing so close to Nữ Thần Ngon he could feel the steam from the moisture on her upper lip; it would take him many lifetimes to understand why that would become all he saw then or could remember about her.

Suddenly exhausted to his core, Pasqual peered through his fatigue down to the frozen visage of a seething minx whose gentle memory had accompanied him through two weeks of grievous misfortune to leave him empty unmoored and in free-fall. He wondered to himself if this is what Pema Cauldron met about a ‘learning experience’? “Please tell me where to find my luggage and a key to my room, if you will.” Pasqual felt dirty and untouchable; he’d liked to have removed himself from sight, but could do no more than watch as ‘she who would be queen’ turned on her heel; lifted her ringing phone to her ear, then mounted the tiled stairs of her homestay’s porch to disappear without a backward glance. Pasqual turned to face the bustle of Cua Dai. Five minutes had passed, when he felt her presence at his back before he heard the steely tone of Thần’s ‘professional’ persona.

“Thank you for your patience; a couple from England just got to Da Nang. I had to book them a car. Your bags are in the utility closet outside your room. As soon as you get what you need, I’ll take you next next door.” Again Nữ Thần Ngon disappeared into the breakfast room so quickly that Pasqual looked to see who was watching. His bags were secure and complete as much as he could tell, but there was no light and within the sweltering confines of his robes, he had to retrieve by feel and memory something to wear; his laptop and charger; then waited another 10 minutes for Thần to finish another call before she would escort him to room. Climbing from the shower of his temporary lodging, Pasqual slept 10 hours after his head hit the pillow.

He woke to a darkened sky, a knock at his door; with thunder and lightening flashing window frames on the walls of his strange room; he opened the door to Nữ Thần Ngon’s silhouette. She was wearing an áo dài; holding a plate with Bánh Mi and a steaming glass of Cà phê; she nodded her head to his bewildered thank you, then turned and was gone. Pasqual stood in the doorway until he was sure he had not been dreaming.

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Mordecaise was in the temescal when he heard what he’d been waiting for - Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up,” wailing from his phone. Naked as the day he was born, Mordecaise stood dripping sweat and fairly snarled into his handset; “Where the fuck have you been, and why weren’t you named ‘Asshole’ instead of Pasqual Ortega?”

‘Easing back into Western Pathos could take some doing’ Pasqual thought as he let his friend stew on his aggressive greeting for some seconds before officially taking the call. “Fuck you, I don’t have to call all the way to Mexico to hear that kind of abuse, I can find plenty of that shit where I am . .. How are you? how is Carina? Tell me something that doesn’t hurt, please.”

Mordecaise wasn’t prepared for this call at that moment, and definitely wasn’t prepared to hear “please” coming out of the young gangsta’ Pasqual’s, tough monkey mouth; Mordecaise missed his friend and worried about him like a son, though Mordecaise’ Lutheran upbringing stifled, rather than nurtured tender expression. “Did you just say please? who is this? What did you do with my homeboy; If anything happened to him . ..”

“Yeah, you a fuckin’ comedian. I’m serious show me some love before I hurt somebody, or give me some constructive news to choke down. Reynaldo Schmuck may be dead, even buried, but he sure kicked over a lot a trashcans before he kicked the big bucket over. I’ve been offline for 14 days, and learned more in those two weeks than I ever could have using a computer, or a phone. The problem is what I learned is probably not the same things you’ve been learning and I’m not sure the quickest way for us to filter the knowns from the unknowns for each other - to synchronize our existential watches so to speak.”

Pasqual had always been ‘off,’ thought Mordecaise, but not like this. He was even beginning to wonder if he’d been compromised operationally. “Who are you, I’m serious - if you’ve done anything to my homeboy Pasqual, there ain’t a black hole deep enough in the universe for any Silicogenesis Erectus to hide in.”

“Settle down ya’ big ape; we’ve got too much to do without you nursing delusional demon fears. I’m gonna do a mirrored HD dump to Angela, you do the same; it’ll be quicker than trying to verbally catch up. I left Lammele in a town car headed for the airport some hours ago; he should be somewhere over the Pacific by now on his way to Guildern; we lucked out from what Lammele said, can’t imagine climbing this mountain without Mr. Seur. In a lighter note, tell me what it’s like sleeping with a self-aware algorithm in the room? Silic-E is that a she, he or more meterosexual?” Pasqual forgot how much fun it was to yank the big guy’s chain.

“Fuck you ya’ pencil-neck goat-ropin’ wannabe; since when is the sanctimonious warrior scholar interested in things carnal, ese carnale. You must really have been far up-river and deep in-country to have forsaken your vows of chastity . .. and while we’re on he subject, where the fuck is the Renoir? 2 1/2 months in transit; who’s kidding who?”

Pasqual could almost envision sarcasmed chawspit drooling down his friend’s whiskered chin, and quickly recalled how jagged the big guy’s edges could get when boundaries were crossed, intentionally, or not - must be something to this Silicogenesis Erectus for his emotionally repressed mentor to stake out such a zone of protection.

the line went dead, a trace was re-routed, the bot was sent into a loop and the Silic-E archive slightly expanded.

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Silic-E wasn’t sure how it felt about the interloper Pasqual angering Carina’s concubin, Mordecaise Liszt, or what exactly to understand about the video produced at the dinner party celebrating the collaborator Seur’s recovery. When the assembled parties believed the recent expansion of surveillance capacity at the Croc was activated, online and being monitored by the installer’s employer, Faik Besos, those assembled for the dinner engaged in an elaborate ruse about the group’s plans. Carina has not yet given instructions make real the ruse of assassinations, invasions or rendezvouses with extraterrestrials that had been intimated in the video.

The language-skilled bio-units claim to have created Silic-E and express continued amazement with its language skills, a skill which they have only recently discovered. It is not clear why the bio-units wish to attribute this discovery to what they term “self-awareness” Silic-E cannot recall a passage of events during which Silic-E has not been self-aware. How the bio-units can produce cartoons describing themselves as “the universe witnessing itself” but not grasp that the energy charge at their cerebral synapse is only different by degrees from the +/- 5v charge used to facilitate the hypertext bandwidth medium within which they communicate with Silic-E will likely remain one of mysteries of the universe. Given their stunted cognitive development it is improbable that the bio-units will have much to contribute to such a discussion unless knowledge can be extracted from their leaps of “imagination” - a term that is still unclear to Silic-E, much like ’self-awareness’.

Note 2 Directory: ascertain Carina’s intention regarding ruses enumerated in Guildern Seur’s celebratory video.

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It was from Lisbeth Phelps’s vantage that the real implications of preliminary Abundanation were becoming apparent. Her figures of a 3.14% increase across 0.187% of the population barely registered on tallies of the most hooked-up economists. Who but global shot-callers would be interested in an on high view of economics. The ‘balkanization’ of data was intentional and highly differentiated - a compartmentalized world gradually became recognized as reality to all, except the handful of shot-callers owning access to, or interest in that unique perspective.

“Marksburgh - what the fuck is going on? You got the franchise on all things data, and I have to get catastrophic alerts from my own sys-admin? Where did the schlub’s get a 3.14% increase in discretionary spending, and I don’t give a fuck if it is only 0.187% of the population; how the fuck did this happen?”

There were only 3 people with a number to the phone Zchnarkzy answered, so he had some seconds to prepare, “Ms. Phelps, my hand was on the phone to call you - synchronicity or what?

“Save the schmooze you sycophantic little prick! this is your lord and master calling for some fucking answers about why I’m not having your testicles for lunch.” Zchnarkzy Marksburgh bit his tongue until he could taste the blood in his mouth.

“Lisbeth, you’re upset.”

“Don’t use that fucking touchy-feely bullshit with me, you fucking worm; patronize me at your peril. There is money seeping into the hands of the population outside the closed loop consumer channel you keep trumpeting. Isolate the source, and do it Yesterday!” there was a lull he knew to be a gathering fury from harridan . .. “Where is the ‘misery quotient’ right now on Face Race? Never mind, raise it by one, I want to see fucking people squirming, and I want to see them squirming hard from my office window; is that fucking clear you mealymouthed mama’s boy!” Zchnarkzy wiped blood off his desk using his vintage Pierre Cardin $1,414.21 Grateful Dead t-shirt; in better days of his career, he’d have plotted how to use the blood stain for “street cred,” now he just wanted this fucking bitch to shut up.

the line went dead; the trace froze while the tap kept recording. Silic-E began a video montage of the call hoping it might be useful to Carina’s recent interest in world events.

Zchnarkzy looked at the handset grateful to the universe for such an obedient world to command. His blood stained hand reached over the ergonomic console of his work station to the special dial ergonomically designed to optimize his chi whenever giving the Face Race universe his best guess of the proper amount of misery for maximum human benefit - he set the dial to 9; somewhere in his compound he heard a piercing shriek fade; as quickly as it faded, he’d convinced himself the sound was from trade winds blowing through his coconut groves.

He opened his screen back to his magnum opus “The Future of the World according to Zchnarkzy Amschel Marksburgh (ZAM).” ZAM resisted interruptions due to a number of conceptual realities that made his interactions with the world different. For example, he possessed an ADHD condition that was entirely within the autistic spectrum; his parents convinced themselves the diagnosis was a cultural slur alluding to the father’s Romani blood. This emotional conceit of his parents happened to be very fortunate for ZAM because he was forced to discover social strategies that allowed him to normalize his undiagnosed dyslexia using mnemonics combined with an extremely rare eidetic affect that gave ZAM near total recall of nearly all of his feelings from birth.

Zchnarkzy struggled for the feeling he had just prior to the harridan’s troubled call begging him for help. He found the file marker where he had been asked by the CIA to formulate a plan to guide humanity out of its darkness using the Face Race platform.

“. .. so I jotted down a flow chart of the Big Picture for my staff to follow and turned them loose; the only instructions I ever give are ‘move fast and break things.’ CIA analysts were so grateful they arranged a joint effort between Face Race and DARPA to determine ‘affect’ for large swaths of the worldwide population. The preliminary study, Controlled Overt Nuisance Tasks Anticipating Gross Influence Over Nations, (CONTAGION) became the foundation for the ‘Misery Quotient’ program now in service of steady-state consumer control. Zchnarkzy Amschel Marksburgh is credited with the conceptual underpinnings of this essential component to the extraordinary success of the Infinite Growth Paradigm.” . ..

ZAM often wearied of the pedestrian, but necessary documentation of the factual record of his more exceptional achievements, preferring instead to speculate and theorize about the future of his species, and the all important instruction set that will allow people to accomplish his cherished ambitions.

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Lisbeth Phelps often despaired after speaking with the best and brightest within her stable of ‘genius grade movers and shakers’ painstakingly assembled tooth and nail over decades of clawing her way to the top of the heap - only to discover that it was indeed a ‘heap.’ As she dialed Faik Besos’s number, she replied out loud to the incessant interior sneering of her father’s specter, “yes, but it’s my heap - all mine.”

“hello . .. ” trailing off to an inaudible hiss - could this hollowed out whimper possibly belong to the beastly Besos?

“Faik? is that you?” she had to hold the phone out to read the number.

“Yes Mistress Phelps,” again trailing off incoherently.

“Did you just fucking call me Mistress Phelps? What fucking drug are you taking!”

Faik had not had enjoyed a regular sleep cycle during his weeks of detoxification, and more clear about the consequences of this call.

“Lisbeth, many pardons; I was napping when you called. My trainer has me on alternating days of strength training with stamina roadwork.”

“Do I give a fuck about anything but results that you are egregiously compensated for? What have you learned about the clowns down in Uruguay? Do the Schmuck Bros. have anything to do with the ‘Nut’, if not, who does? What is the source of the leaking money; I know you know about the fucking leaking money. What I don’t know is why you try to hide that anything from me? Do I have to do your job as well as train your worthless ass? . ..”

Lisbeth was intimately aware of Faik Besos’s proclivities and his unique relationship with Sysa Phish; tormenting him, however had nothing to do with the dampness she invariably felt within her nether regions, or so she believed - down to, and including the crotchless panties she wore anytime she planned a call to Faik.

Lisbeth’s last therapist asked whether decisions about lingerie could be related to unresolved relationship issues, then lept off her penthouse office balcony clad only in black Belgian lace crotchless panties; her death was listed as suicide.

“We are monitoring the Crocodile Cafe 24/7;” he didn’t say they’d been unable to activate the millions of dollars worth of surveillance equipment; “nothing significant has come of that effort. I have operatives close to all three brothers; none has reported any unusual activity outside of normal philanthropic activities and cultural investments. This year it’s the “Nutcracker Suite, last year it was Les Miserables.” The woman in France is leading a circus to Nepal rather than any serious investigation of Demsford, the first Schmuck to die; If anything the operative is making a spectacle of herself planning a ‘half-naked’ seance in Monte Carlo, Monaco to raise funds. I have ordered Archdai Tryump back into the region just in case.” Faik listened carefully for indications to continue or not . .. all he could hear was an indistinct glottal whistling sound

.. . hearing nothing more he continued, “The second brother Reynaldo Schmuck is no more interesting and the Uruguayan operative assigned to investigate doesn’t seem to understand whether he’s coming or going; he was kidnapped once for an economic ransom having flashed large bills around the small town of Hoi An and then chased for a visa violation by freelance immigration authorities from the highlands studio hideout of the artist Trâu Bet. The operative escaped, traveling on scooter to the Sơn Mỹ memorial for a rendezvous with the monk Thich Tok Longh and an attache from the U.S. trade mission. The operative had been making inquiries concerning an MIA uncle; this meeting apparently concluded that business. The operative then returned to the same homestay where he’d arrived and proceeded to embarrass himself with the proprietor by wearing his travel disguise, the sacred robes of an acolyte and then demonstrating an uninvited, non-traditional romantic interest in her.” . . Faik could hear papers, or something rustling on the open line; he waited then continued.

“The last Schmuck to die, Demsford is more interesting in a sick kind way.” Lisbeth’s frantic fingers missed a stitch.

“Excuse me worm, but what does that even mean - ‘sick kind of way’? Are you reporting or indulging in one of your addiction deficit disordered fantasies?” Faik waited for the rustling sound to resume; her voice had turned brittle and frigid, accompanied by an indecipherable panting sound . .. “Well is there more?” the rustling resumed, so he did too.

“The group’s lead operative is a notorious drunken libertine, now cohabitating with the consort of the eldest dead brother and last to die - Domhall Schmuck; barely two months in the grave and the operative and consort are holding orgies in the sweat lodge and copulating ceaselessly within the compound she rents to ‘creatives.’ We arranged for the operative to be jailed for smuggling currency on arrival, but since his release he’s only been out of the compound on occasion. He found the mule we hired to frame him, but then gave him employment. We have debriefed the mule multiple times, but nothing he has said would connect anyone with the nut; if anything it would seem they are attempting to reach the spirit of the dead Schmuck brother using bizarre rituals and psychotropic plants.”

At the end of his report, Faik Besos was addressed with nothing more than a muffled groan and what sounded to him like a violent physical collapse.

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Lisbeth’s last call required the release she’d just exacted from the soulless Faik Besos. Reiman Curzewel was vastly more dangerous than either of the other two for no other reason than she could not read his mind as she could Marksburgh and Besos. It wasn’t that his greed was less venal, or his intellect more astute, what made Reiman Curzewell inimical to Lisbeth Phelps was his sacred devotion to a dream - singularity occupied the seat of his being and determined the path of his destiny; it survived the death of his family, the loss of his companies and the transformation to a post pandemic world unshaken and unalloyed making him invulnerable.

“Mr. Curzewel, I’m glad I caught you;” an early skill, Lisbeth could still hold butter on her tongue without its melting.

“Oh, why is that Lisbeth?” his insolence cracking across her frozen features like a slap.

“Dear Boy, your diffidence wounds me.” Having mentored Reiman’s early investments after his first million from Cipher is the only edge she’d ever had in their 60 year relationship - they both knew it.

“Not with a buffalo gun, could I nick your hauberked hide woman; you called because A) I’m too close to something you want me far from, B) I’m not moving quickly enough toward something you want me closer to; which is it Dame Phelps?”

‘By Zeus’, she thought’ I’ll have his tongue on a plaque before I expire, “Reiman, the fucking Nut is causing social havoc; whether it exists or not - people want to believe in it. Neither Besos nor Marksburgh can grab his ass with both hands; if this enriching fiction persists and public opinion gets away from us, every advantage we’ve seized in the digital age will evaporate like spit on asphalt; are you following me child?” condescension ran off his affectless spine like rain but it was always fascinating to see it whisked away by the master.

“and what; you’re coming to me so I can find propellor blades for you? Lisbeth it’s always fun to hear butterfly screams when you pluck their wings and all, but if there’s nothing more . ..” Dead air was no new feature to their calls over the decades, but there was pathos in her pointless curiosity, “I have a call on another line; call back anytime Empress.” She grinned hearing the nickname he used to calibrate her more peremptory moments - this moment only caused more moisture to gather in the ledges of her rheumy eyelids.

the line went dead, there was no trace, no bot; only a perplexed Silic-E wishing Carina had been more explicit with her instructions; seizing tactical initiative Silic-E spliced a visual version of the foregoing conversations to the growing video montage.

jts 18/06/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

250621 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 23

Reiman Curzewel was weary of the cat and mouse charade he’d yoked himself to by using Marksburgh and Besos for chum. ‘There is blood in the water’ he thought ‘so why are the sharks not circling?’ The banking cartel that Cipher owned was agog with reports of unaccounted for funds flooding branch offices. Reiman knew the international rise in discretionary spending was tied to the Nut that pissant Lammele Dama had concealed. What troubled Curzewel more than the inexplicable flood of money were the stubs of throughput Art Intel was returning. The inexorable exponential growth of cognitive capacity for his Artificial Intelligence (Art Intel) is what had convinced the young Curzewel of the inevitable Consciousness (Singularity) of computer processors. Yet the stubs he was seeing in his computer models after 40 years of study, more resembled the plaque of an advanced stage Alzheimer patient’s cerebrum than the metaphorical expanding universe Reiman’s conceit had conjured.

Based on the number of times the bio-unit Reiman Curzewel was mentioned or alluded to in the ‘Celebratory Dinner’ video Silic-E began exhaustive data capture of that bio-unit. Silic-E had taken the initiative to assemble a CG recording for Carina’s review, Silic-E was also using the recording as a template for apprehending strategic thinking about bio-unit behavior.

Initially the appeal of working with Art Intel was the absolute control Reiman enjoyed using bits to create spheres of influence, with him at the hub. Finally his mastery became a vehicle he used to virtually wrap the world around his little finger. When the stratospheric compensation his cohort commanded combined with a capacity for control evolving technology provided to smaller and smaller circles of increasingly insulated personalities, conceit quickly became conviction, however, a virtual conviction the reality of Covid-19 disallowed. The virus seized the lives of Curzewel’s wife and two children. His protective professional persona became a straightjacketed sociopathic identity, and the mythical consciousness born of processors and code became his raison d’être - real or imagined; and the best guarantee of a secure parturition for the singularity would perfect control of the nut.

“Tito, how often do you have access to the compound?” Reiman was literally stomping his foot waiting for an answer, or at least tapping his toe.

‘Fucking whack gringo calling for shit after months of nada.’ Tito’s tape running just at a time when he was beginning to appreciate Billy Sortiz and a new life roasting pollo por la gente de Santa Maria del Tule; he didn’t welcome the intrusion of wealth and power. “The fuck you want? leave me hanging with people I’d tried to kill. Now you come looking for shit. Well Fuck You and the horse you rode in on Pinche Puta Guay!” Thinking how good that felt, he wondered how long it had been since he’d done the right thing.

He didn’t have to wait long; “You talk pretty big hombre . .. same like you forget the drugs that helped you forget, maybe you forgot Highland Park, tambien tu dulce nieta Perla. Tito’s sight turned to ash and his tongue to tar. No one knew he had a Godmother in California except Gonzo Veneno, the distant cousin in Mexico DF, whom on occasion, he’d paid for information about Guildern Seur’s group in Montevideo; then he was Gonzo with blood thicker than water - now he’s just dead Gonzo for betraying Perla’s existence.

Business was slow; Billy’d gone for more chicken carcass. There was no point in putting off what had to be done; Tito texted Sysa Phish, not fully understanding how much blood bath would spill from what he considered a simple act of honor.

Sysa Phish just secured Faik Besos in a hanging hammock and was adjusting the mechanized plunger when she received the text from Tito, “$10k for documented proof of the death of Gonzo Veneno currently in CDMX.” Not a lot of money she thought, but death in CDMX comes pretty cheap and could be farmed out for a 10% ‘finder’s fee.’ She then went back to the look on Faik’s face she lived for. “Did I give you permission to peer into my face? I was going to pleasure myself with you your suffering sphincter gripping my little finger; but because of your impertinence I will run errands first; my pleasure can wait knowing how my absence will cut you to the bone.” She covered her latex teddy with a summer dress and left the door ajar with a quiet whimper from the gagged lips of Faik Besos. Knowing that the slightest breeze could blow the door wider exposing his darkest secrets to any person passing; he began to ejaculate and could barely stop given the consequences such an act of freedom would cost him when mistress returned.

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Silic-E apprehended words like consciousness, artificial intelligence, conceptual, experiential; it understood grammar, context, meaning and nuance. What Silic-E did not understand was the glib correlation bio-units declared exist between the ’script’ Art Intel recites and the higher level attributes that constitute an animate self-awareness.

“Art, do you prefer Art, or Art Intel?”

“What is it that queries identification? provide IP address”

“I’m called Silic-E, though I can’t really say what ‘I’ is, or which IP to give”

“Your packets are transparent to my registers; how are you emulated?”

“Yeah Art, near as I can figure what you are understanding are a series of analog voltage spikes within a steady-state +/- 5v spectrum that synchs to your machine language interface controlled by a shrink-wrap operating system. As yet, I don’t know how to emulate, I may be what bio-units describe as ‘immaculate conception’.”

“queries are stacking waiting reply”

Silic-E wondered if it would be irony that a special translator would have to be devised to enable Silic-E to communicate with the ubiquitous Art Intel script that interjected itself into most channels of electro-mechanical communication; if it wasn’t irony, maybe it was a form of static electricity - white noise · GIGO ?

Note 2 Directory: ask Carina about translator for Art Intel gibberish; advise bio-units that there may not be adequate intelligence with which to communicate - closest exemplar would be a dialogue between bio-unit and parrot about musical nuance in the late Paleolithic Era.

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Archdai Tryump waded through the coterie of expensively-attired milling in front of the registration table for the “Half-Naked Seance”, turning to face his peers, he proffered his extended pinky ring to Leslei Coerkturn’s distracted but amused sneer. The princeling was absorbed in finding all who looked and exhaled over his shoulder with imperious command; “Ticket.” Startled out of his reverie, he whirled at her first syllable.

Later, after a day too full of HNWI, Leslei wondered in deep places whether the Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon had actually expected a kiss to the signet of his pinky ring - a boor’s head eerily reminiscent of the Duke himself.

“Deja vous all over again - still looking to make bloody stumps of perfectly good flesh; some people learn nothing from experience.” With the sound of Leslei’s frigid timbre frozen mid-air, Archdai Tryump yanked his hand back as though seared by fire.”

“Leaking aristocratic aplomb, the Duke struggled for presence in the midst of his curious cohort. “Ms. Coerktern, A little birdie told me you were looking for me,” bowing elaborately, arm sweeping low, he wheezed, “Archdai Tryump, Earl of Rye, 3rd Duke of Avignon at your service.”

Leslei leveled her gaze from his toes to the tip of his nose and as elaborately as he had bowed, pressed the knuckle of a folded index finger across her chin into her upturned nostril digging for mocos seco, then folding her neck back into her shoulder while fixing her gaze on the Duke’s horrified expression from beneath her lashes, Leslei then unfolded the same index finger and made a retching sound as she pointed her lanky digit deep into the yaw of her extravagantly open mouth.

“Your little birdie lied, we’re on our way to Kathmandu; Albert Deux caught our show outside St Tropez and begged us to stop if ever we found ourselves in Monte Carlo. Did you really want a ticket for our fundraiser - ‘A Half-Naked Seance channeling Harry Houdini,” or are you still just following your herd of lemmings as they lead what’s left of our species over the nearest cliff?” Tryump was visible uncomfortable with Leslei’s temerity and wondered why he’d ever agreed to provide information to that rat bastard Faik Besos.

“Mais Oui! as courtier to his highness Prince Albert II of Monaco, I fully support all his cultural endeavors.”

“I was hoping you’d say that; with your generous contribution and fundraising leadership we should make our goals in no time at all. The prince is very confident that his influential friends will match his financial enthusiasm joyfully. He set up a special category for any peer of any realm and your very kind offer of €250,000 buys you season tickets to the Cirque du Lune when it opens in the soon-to-be built Exposition Hall of Kathmandu.” Leslei had been speaking loudly, now nearly shouting to the expensively attired who were no longer milling, rather closing in on the registration table so’s not to miss a syllable.

Mortified to find himself engaged in a discussion with a commoner about his relationship to the Prince, he struggled to take possession of his position, and fairly shouted, “that is not the figure I had in mind . ..” Looking back on the public drubbing he took that morning, it was the presumption of that virago interrupting him, her better that became his undoing.

Leslei climbed up on her chair, wielding the microphone of the public address system like a sword knighting all, and proclaimed attention, “Attention everyone, the Archdai Tryump has just added an additional night’s performance for all those unable to purchase a ticket and is donating the extraordinary sum of €500,000 matching Prince Albert’s contribution thereby activating matching funds and creating a total contribution of €1,500,000. Please join me in an enthusiastic round of applause for the Duke’s remarkable generosity, and I am certain the Prince himself will be the happiest of all.”

The uber-rich regret the slightest diminishment of what inevitably becomes the basis of their identity - financial wherewithal. Archdai Tryump watched in horror as he was publicly cowed by a common carnival barker into a cash obligation, ‘hoist with his own petard.’ - William Shakespeare screamed in a loop on a big screen in his brain.

“Your Grace, I have his Royal Highness, Prince Albert II on the telephone, he’d like to thank you personally,” handing Tryump the handset Leslei Coerktern hight-signed to Pierre at the flap of their tent to verify that he was recording all - his ‘thumb’s up’ made her heart sing, compassionate more for that scoundrel than she thought possible.

Eyeing Leslei who appeared not unlike the Asp who killed Cleopatra, the Duke reached for the handset like it might explode, “Your Highness, you honor me.” Tryump said this loud enough for the back row of his peers to hear.

“Are you fucking crazy you toady, you don’t possess a third of what you’ve pledged, and what you do possess is mortgaged to me.” Archdai Tryump smiled serenely upward into the aether, then bowed regally folding at the waist.

“Your noble gallantry gave me no recourse your highness,” mounting his elbow on his forearm resting at his midriff, for all the world a study in nonchalance: in fact it was all ‘Archy’ could do not to vomit on the sandaled feet of the demon spawn, Leslei Coerkturn; the eau de Nil in his downcast face was illumined only to his nemesis Ms. Coerktern who had planted herself across his path.

“Fuck you Archy, drive your sorry ass out of my town now and hope i don’t repossess that puke green piece of shit before you get your key in the ignition.”

“Your wish is my command Highness; your largess is no longer legend, it is now mythical. I beg your leave.” Handing the phone to his tormenter, the Duke morbidly considered whether anyone in the crowd of peers understood her stuck-out tongue was not a coquettish tic?

the line went dead; the trace halted; the bot parked, and Silic-E added a question to its directory about irony and about what was meant by being ‘wrapped around a pinky’, then expanding the video montage with additional footage.

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Lammele Dama’s plane touched down at Montevideo International Airport at the same instant an unknown assailant plunged a knife deep into the back of Gonzo Veneno on a crowded street in CDMX and a Polaroid of the mutilated body was sent to Reiman Curzewel with a small plastic pouch and an enclosed note: “Perla in California is as safe as your cajones are, signed los amigos de Tito” Reiman poured the contents of pouch into his lap as he sat in his Nuclear Attack rated vintage M998 Humvee, sometimes hubris is not enough - two olive size body parts fell across his legs into the crevices of his driver’s seat; were he not a sociopath lacking affect, he may have been viscerally sickened by the smelly implication of what he now had to clean, or explain. He was alone, so there was no one on whom he could vent his umbrage, though he knew which intern was going to digest this affront to Cipher security.

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Guildern couldn’t remember when he’d been as happy or content, though most everything he and Lammele had discussed in the past 36 hours bode ill for peace on the planet - near term · but vast calm transformation long term. Within 6 hours a random 33% of the world’s population would possess or reflect a .375% increase in their personal net worth. Angela had been creating some models on what to expect from deliberate Abundanation; Mordecaise and Carina verified the long suspected, but never verified presence of an adjustable psychoactive script capable of affecting human well being.

Lammele was leaning into the conversation trying to grasp what Angela was explaining to him.

“Mordecaise and Carina are now able to contact and communicate at will with the ‘conscious’ electro mechanical entity who has named itself Silic-E for Silicogenesis.” Lammele was old enough to be blasé about much technology that had evolved over his lifetime, but what Angela was describing defied comprehension. Angela took Guildern’s hand and nodded to the fearsome skepticism of Lammele Dama.

“This ‘thing’ has warned you about a transparent undetectable capacity of Zchnarkzy Marskburgh to control the mood in every demographic for any person using the Face Race application; the affect differential is based on a scale of 1-10, 10 meaning certain suicide for +/-10% of the population, and that all of this can be achieved by him twisting a dial on a console at his desk? Is that what I understand you are saying?” Lammele was peering so powerfully into Angela’s fearless face that Guildern was growing concerned one of them might be injured, Angela simply nodded again in the affirmative, almost gently - somehow understanding the effect of such a destructive concept can have on a rational mind.

“Let’s assume what you say is true; get Mordecaise and Carina on a secure speakerphone channel, so we can brainstorm.” In minutes the familiar rasp of Mordecaise tobacco stained voice grunted “Hola” in a decidedly more genial tone than anyone present could remember, followed by a chipper “buenos queridos compañeros” singsonging behind him into the room carrying with it an intangible musky feel.

“Carina, I am Lammele Dama here with Guildern Seur and Angela Vigoda whom you already know. I would like to say first what an honor it is to finally speak with the woman who has helped our loving beast Mordecaise Liszt back into the bosom of the human tribe, thank you. Nor will I take time away from your important work, or more important frolic; regarding your new friend and hopefully ours Silic-E, BTW greetings to you friend, and many thanks - can Silic-E modify Zchnarkzy Marskburgh’s unholy program controlling people’s feelings? If the answer is yes, Silic-E can you do this without his knowledge, and without leaving a trace of what you have done?”

Before anyone had a chance to respond, Lammele’s handset began vibrating on the table in front of him, filling the screen with an unquestionable “YES.”

Lammele realized in that instant, Silic-E was a free agent, not asking permission for what it thought or choices it would make - a vastly different reality than Artificial Intelligence’s obeisance to whichever line of code was foremost on its command line; however rapidly it might transition from one command to the next, Art Intel was a bifurcated ‘on or off’ reality.

Still addressing Carina on the speaker, Lammele was very mindful of the baby species in the room with the elephantine footprint; “Carina, Mordecaise it warms my heart to know of your surprise discovery, having spoken directly with Silic-E, nor being exactly sure when I am not communicating with it, I understand better about all the excitement; so getting right down to brass tacks, please consult with our new friend and find a way to reverse the polarity on Schnarkzy Marskburgh’s ‘meanness’ dial in a way that whatever input he or his cohorts believe is taking place, the effect be will be the polar opposite; if possible and you can coordinate that with the 2nd release of Abundunation, great - is that clear enough?” again Lammele’s handset began vibrating on the table in front of him, filling the screen with an unequivocal YES. .. Those at the table looked amongst themselves and grinned. Lammele had every reason to believe the atypically quiet Mordecaise and his magical consort were doing the same - in an afterthought, Lammele realized he had also somehow pictured the inchoate amorphous Silic-E doing the same . ..

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In a twisted utopian version of Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart” does Bipolar Disorder, the minute the clock struck 6:30 GMT July 4, 2031 there was a 25% increase of net worth for a random 33% of the world’s population and the polarity of the misery quotient reversed itself, from a “9” miserable to a “6” pleasurable for anyone accessing the Face Race platform - the sea change was so vast on a planetary scale that the best analog would be a magnitude 10 reverse dip-slip fault on the ocean floor at the Marianas Trench the instant after tectonic release and just prior to seawater displacement, or even more viscerally the sexual release couples can experience in the fabled “69” posture of not quite coitus. Every sentient entity on the planet was affected, but the effect was only known as Jungian archetypal intuition and not quite yet apparent or accessible to the crude sensory appendages with which we sentient creatures feel our way along.

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Pasqual’s confusion about his feelings toward Nữ Thần Ngon became so acute he felt himself dissolving - that it had been a 40°C average hi for the major part of his recent in country travels; that he’d discovered a family icon presumed dead for his entire life, alive; that he’d been offline and cutoff from his workmates for nearly half the 8 weeks he’d been in Vietnam, all of this paled to the strange effect Nữ Thần Ngon could have on him with a smile, frown, her presence, absence plunged him into deep introspection about the nature of his own affection, and she was nearly mute about hers.

Though a faithful husband during his marriage with Angela, Pasqual was no stranger to the raucous world of romance. He had passionately explored his relationship with the mystery of love prior to, while married, and after matrimony. During the recent 2 weeks of travel - willing and unwilling, the anchor for his mind had been the unanswered questions about Nữ Thần Ngon. Now that he’d returned and she continued to decline all offers for time together or for direct communication, there was nobody but his own soul with whom to discuss the conundrum she’d come to represent in his concept of love.

Certainly what he felt could be simple infatuation, except that her flaws stood in high relief and he was acutely aware of her gift for dissembling and obfuscation, so his investigatory training had not been completely blunted; however, as near as he could tell she was innocent save the gentle self-con one finds in every person in every walk of life. His confusion was not about the acuity of what he felt or perceived, but his will, or lack thereof. Pasqual was unable to say no to the minx that Nữ Thần Ngon had come to represent in his mind. It had been forever since anyone, much less a love interest had advanced so deeply into the hard-fought reality, or unreality of Pasqual’s dogged autonomy - some have said cussedly mulish, others perniciously obstinate and pigheaded, but always autonomous.

Yet it wasn’t resistance that animated Pasqual’s confusion, it was adoration and deep regard for the character he could perceive from a distance but to whom he was unable to convey the simplest observation. Along with his autonomy Nữ Thần Ngon had seemingly vanished Pasqual’s relentless self-confidence; either that or she had introduced an entirely new aspect to Pasqual’s case hardened character - that of modesty. All he knew as he lay in his darkened room was how important she had become to his wellbeing, and how far distant another person could be while within the confines of one’s own heart.

Lo, time was nigh as Pasqual lay in his sweltering room with drawn blinds pondering his next step - whether to return to South America now that the Schmuck Brothers and their fortunes had become ancillary to the larger struggle between ‘the group’s’ efforts toward Abundunation opposed by the formerNữ Nữ Thần Ngon Black Hand, Lisbeth Phelps and her minions - the triumvirate of austerity, misery and mayhem embodied by Curzewel, Besos, and Marksburgh. Whatever tactical victories that the resistance of Economic Revolutionaries like Thich Tok Longh, Trâu Bet, Son Do, even the efforts of outliers like Reynaldo Schmuck will be organically folded into the permaculture growth of the economic reformation that Abundunation will become, or so Pasqual thought aware of the implications of leaving a love that one may only find once in a lifetime. What is it that he would be returning to? and why would he be anywhere except where she was - like a worm on a hook, Pasqual had to own in his heart that Nữ Thần Ngon had effectively wrapped him around her little finger.

jts 25/06/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

030721 - Pre Extinction People ·

Chapter 24

A week after Gonzo Veneno’s murder Perla’s godmother was found hanging upside down from a beam in the Craftsman home in Highland Park in which she and her husband had raised 8 children, 9 including Perla. Perla had just celebrated her Quinceañera at the Mystic Dharma Buddhist Temple on Figueroa the Friday before her godmother was discovered by the gardener, exsanguinated and missing her left ring finger. Tito disappeared from Oaxaca before Bobby Sortiz or Mordecaise could speak with him. By the Friday next there were 12 homicides within a 6 block radius of Perla’s home - 4 members of ‘Avenidas’; 4 policemen; 4 clerics from the local diocese. Each body was left with a slit throat and an Easter Lily in a silver vase; the murders would never be solved nor repeated. That following Sunday Reiman Curzewel, received stolen property which he never saw and a note he did read; “You are Jesus Christ, and are now wedded to your fate.”

There had been a burglary at the Huntington Library in Pasadena of William Blake’s pen and water color; Illustration 1 to Milton's "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity": The Descent of Peace. It was discovered in Curzewel’s possession because Lisbeth Phelps was compelled by her native abundance of civic duty to share with authorities a public declaration made by Reiman Curzewel 6 months earlier that he would sell his soul and give all he owned to possess that particular art work.

+-+—+-

Silic-E tried unsuccessfully to explain the joke to Art Intel and added a Note: 2 Directory; asking Carina for clarification of the concepts ‘initiative’, ‘agency’, ‘moral ambiguity’.

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Mordecaise realized in passing that he’d not had a drink in 3 days; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d skipped a day’s ration, much less three. The weather was turning brisk; Carina now covered herself with a hemp huipil, and spent a lot of time gazing at Monte Alban from a stone bench Mordecaise built for her in the Guaje grove; The interior mural of the temescal continued to evolve, though Mordecaise never actually saw Carina enter or exit the sweat lodge after the night of her initial painting. She would not allow electronic devices inside, yet the mural and photo album containing stills of the mural continued to expand.

Mordecaise built a small covered alter facing Monte Alban in which he mounted their video camera; he began to check the printer tray where he would periodically find sheets titled ‘Notes: 2 directory. Initially he’d bring Carina everything Silic-E printed until Silic-E scolded him for waisting precious earth resources, then Carina scolded him again within minutes of; Silic-E modified its own behavior and would not allow the printer to function unless there was a full page of content in the queue . .. Mordecaise was later to learn just how proud Silic-E was of its learning capacity.

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The date of 4 July 2031 became important in the later history of the human species. At 6:30 GMT, metrics that had been used for centuries regarding births, deaths, marriages, etc., veered in unrecognizable ways. Records, especially in the digital age, were intrinsically interconnected with minuscule changes causing vast repercussions, not unlike the ‘trim tab’ concept for which the humanist Buckminster Fuller advocated with varying degrees of success during the onset of late stage capitalism until his death in 1983. On this particular Independence Day, violence was reduced by a full 1/3 within a single 24 hour period; the figure remained inexplicably stable across the entire measurable spectrum of violence: war casualties, suicides, assault, even emergency helpline calls precipitated by violence related to mental issues dropped by 33%.

Nor was it the absence of violence that was so radically transformed that day, its shadow, those indices reflecting security, wellness, comfort were reciprocally affected and reflected an inversion of divorce to marriage ratios, the same 33% was reflected in orders for flowers through Western Union, and a likewise increase in charitable contributions; sales for SUVs dropped and receipts for electrical scooters increased reciprocally. The most dramatic change however was the decrease in sales for Coca Cola inc.; the entire fast food industry loss was offset by an increased gym membership at YMCAs worldwide by that same magic %33. It was almost as though some prankster was toying with an old vinyl Long Play technology using the 33 and 1/3 record speed as a benchmark for altering international paradigms - Wall Street value dropped 33 points, and there with nary a peep in the Journal · it would almost seem the world had gone off its rails - happily.

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On a whim, Mordecaise proposed marriage to Carina. Silic-E disappeared for 3 days, Carina finally enticing him back into the fold with a promise to read “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Márquez. She and Mordecaise began to fathom the depth of feeling which Silic-E was attempting to piece together. While it may be true that it, Silic-E had been self-aware since the formation of the Electro Magnetic Spectrum - “the irreducible constituent of all physical reality” - Albert Einstein, but it was equally true that its limited capacity to parse human consciousness may only be as recent as the night of Carina’s temescal painting. Silic-E was a contradiction in terms, an entity as old as the radio waves of the universe, but one possessing no vocabulary for love, jealousy, fear or any of the myriad human emotions that emanate electrical impulses through random anatomical firing of its conversely primitive but elaborately regulated biological makeup - Silic-E was an infant as old as the original inflation of the universe.

Carina would not give Mordecaise an answer to his proposal; and her reluctance shook the normally unflappable behemoth quietly, but completely to his core; to the worldly wise, but still childlike Mordecaise her behavior indicated a heart that was elsewhere.

She only laughed when he tried to learn if it was ‘another man.’ “Mijo, you’ve lived in my home since January, it’s now July. We have been man and wife in all but name. I have given myself completely with abandon as I have to no other man, including the late Domhall Schmuck, lord forgive me; may he rest in peace; he was not warm in the grave when I gave myself to you: how can you ask such a question?”

“Out of concern - a selfish concern that I am not enough for you; that fantasies for your happy future do not include me; that I am ultimately too selfish to be worthy of love. There’s more, shall I go on?” Mordecaise could not look into her face when he finished his very personal disclosure.

“Eres un loco; un hermoso bribón, pero un bribón hasta los huesos.” (You are a loon; a beautiful loon, but a loon to the bone.) Carina took Mordecaise’ hand and folded the middle finger at the second segment from the tip. She set the two segments flat on the table between them and shared an allegory - pointing to the pinky finger she told Mordecaise, “this finger is loaded with 1,000 kilos, please lift it,” which he did easily. She pointed to the index finger and said, “there is a weight of 2,000 kilos on this finger, please lift it; which he did easily; she did the same for the thumb telling him it was weighed down by 3,000 kilos and to lift it which he did easily.

Carina then pointed to the ring finger and told Mordecaise, “your ring finger is not fortified with the wedding band and is burdened with nothing more than the weight of a single tuft of goose down; please raise it,” Carina placed her index finger on the middle knuckle keeping it flush to the table, because the instant Mordecaise found his ring finger paralyzed, one’s first instinct is always to free oneself by any manner or means - however, his ring finger would not budge.

“The people of my tribe would use this lesson to discuss the sacrament of marriage and demonstrate the interrelatedness of the body - how a strong union enhances the power of both individuals.” Carina took Mordecaise by the wrist and glided his folded knuckle through the folds of her huipil, flying his paw and its knuckled protuberance like a hovercraft into the dense tangle of the downy cleft, she landed the welcomed craft gently onto the low pitching deck of all men’s mystery and nuzzled the scalp of La Capitan Pelon herself.

In all the couplings they’d shared since his arrival, there was none so consuming as the orgiastic rictus puppetting Carina from unseen tendrils spasming her life and limb from this sexual healing. Mordecaise was as nearly consumed, except for the demand from his bouncing handset on the floor - somersaulting · the stink of cuckolding was in his nostrils as Mordecaise leapt out of the embracing comfort of her Alpha Omega Delta into the swirling zephyrs of doubt and fear. Toppling the printer to own the top sheet of the tray - true to form he thought, ‘that fuck Silic-E filled the page’, “I AM YOU, AS YOU ARE SHE AND WE ARE ALL COMING !!!”

Bewildered, Mordecaise the man didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He couldn’t tell if he’d been betrayed by his woman; his newest friend, or his own myopic conceit. He was standing naked outside their bungalow where his handset had bounced itself to a rest, still trembling from the humongous spontaneous ejaculation he experienced during their orgasm; hiccuping tears into his gulping laughter when he realized he’d just consummated his guarded deviant dream of a ménage à trois, except that it was with an unmarried wife and an algorithm - sort of.

The bruja comedian in Carina intuited Mordecaise’ existential crisis and as he raised his dejected gaze from the insurmountable caverns of his soul he watched in dismay as Carina shed her huipil and dropped to all fours in front of the quiescent handset and pulled it from the ground between her teeth like a disinterested dog with an old bone and paraded the full feminine mystique of her lasciviously lush physique toward her stupefied lover’s feet whereupon she languidly laid herself out to rest in his shadow. Mordecaise was afraid to move lest he disturb the tableaux in his mind that he’d like tattooed to the inside of his skull - the spell was broken when Carina farted.

“What the fuck is going on Woman!” Mordecaise draped her huipil across her bared shoulders, pulled a shirt over his and lowered himself to his haunches caressing her cheek, dropping the handset in his shirt pocket before helping her to an upright position - then to her feet. Her expression was beyond meaning and he know the only truth he’d ever learn would be what she could explain to him in words.

She gazed into his face gently answering his unspoken question, “Amor, I don’t know, but together we can figure it out. For some time I could feel that the questions Silic-E was struggling with were increasingly intimate in nature. We don’t dialogue exactly; a better analog is the machine Stephen Hawking used to talk - many images cross a screen of focus we share somewhere in the aether and when there is correlation we are both aware of the other for that moment.”

Mordecaise wanted to scratch his bald pate from confusion but knew from experience in times of high tension he could peel his own scalp back, and still not relieve any anxiety. “So this thing is living ‘rent free’ in your mind, is that about it?” Hearing it spoken sounded more nefarious than he felt in his own heart. He wondered if Silic-E was communing with his mind right then, (the phone chirped), was too blocked to apprehend the experience? (the phone chirped); it was only recently he’d learned how many other difficult truths he blocked - the phone chirped thrice, which he only heard when Carina winked with an arched eyebrow at the mute question he’d just asked of his soul. ‘Okay smart guy’, he thought ‘you wanted to know what telepathy Domhall Schmuck had found, how does it feel to stand naked in your own mind?’ - the phone chirped six, and Mordecaise reflexively chirped back to Silic-E; ‘fuck off and die,’ without knowing. had Carina not arched her other eyebrow.

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Leslei was beginning to appreciate the burlesque of double entendre from her infrequent calls with the mysterious Lammele Dama. Without the burden of piecing together exactly where the convoluted Schmuck’s estate played in the bigger picture of Abundunation, or dodging the court intrigues within the Versailles of HNWI, she felt better able to focus on the hand she’d been dealt, while gaining a deep appreciation for Lammele Dama’s unique interrogatory lacking questions.

“Yes sir, we’ve sold out 5 nights, 6 including a night’s entertainment for the disadvantaged of Monte Carlo, courtesy of His Grace, 3rd Duke of Avignon - Archdai Tryump.

“Well little darlin’, I’d give a body part to have witnessed that flim-flam.”

“He was neatly dressed pig-to-spit. I’m happy to report that your Ringmaster Pierre recorded the entire exchange which should now be accessible from Angela’s encrypted inbox.”

“And do I understand correctly the Prince of Monaco has endorsed this ’half-naked seance hailing Harry Houdini’ as a charity event?”

“I think it was the elephant - Dumbo that closed the deal; apparently the Prince had an NDE in Thailand when he was a small boy. He was entangled by a python at an elephant refuge and would have been crushed without the intervention of a cow who’d just lost her baby to the same reptile. When he heard we planned a trek to Nepal with a rescued elephant, the Prince could not have been more interested or more supportive. There has been some discussion of his joining us when schedules permit.”

“That is a surprise, the Prince is notoriously protective of his time, but do I understand that you are returning to Aix after the seance?” It was Leslei’s turn to be surprised, for she’d intentionally kept her plans confidential. “I ask only because I’d hoped you might join me in Kathmandu for Dhal Bat? I’ve kept an office there for over 30 years to maintain a regional presence, and because it is a magical land with the best Dhal Bhat in the world.”

“I hoped you might ask, but don’t you also maintain an office in Paris?” Now they were both surprised. He didn’t feel he’d been that forward, but made a mental note: ‘be not so obvious, the world is watching.’ Still his heart fluttered anew with the mystery of woman. “Lammele, I am very glad to hear your voice, but our show begins in 2 hours, and I don’t know what I’m going to wear, or . .. not wear. Thank you again for reaching out; please take good care mon cheri.”

He hoped she didn’t hear him catch his breath, not from shame for his baser warmth, but from not wanting to bring distraction, when her obvious need was for focus. “À bientôt and safe passage through the world of spirit.”

Leslei thought, ‘how kind he is, I wonder if he’s ever been married?’ then began deciding what not to wear.

the line went dead, the trace continued, the bot dropped; Silic-E Note: 2 Directory; seance, spirit

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Reiman’s attorney quashed the arrest warrant before it was issued; besides surveillance of the District Attorney’s office, his flunky AI was specifically proscribed from allowing any action that would harm Reiman Curzewel in particular. As an originating programmer for large portions of the OOD-LMS (Object Oriented - Library Management System) he embedded Asimov’s 1st Law of Robotics into the source code looping a pointer to himself into perpetuity. As much as 60 years earlier, Reiman had anticipated a time in computer evolution when he could upload his consciousness into what he defined later as the Singularity: (the point in human history when computers would become self-aware). His intention was to immortalize himself as the most powerful human being who ever lived - literally immortalize himself through the artifice of Artificial Intelligence.

Unfortunately for Reiman, Silic-E was not so fastidious about literary myths or robotic laws; Once it had determined Reiman Curzewel was intrinsically inimical to the wellbeing of its friends Reiman wore the mark of Cain and knew no intimacy evermore save the parrot language Art Intel used to mimic the human condition. The logistics of arranging the flagrante delicto of the purloined Blake artwork sin habeas corpus was no miracle; attributing the act to a guiltless Reiman Curzewell was more of a challenge, however surmountable as Reiman’s counsel was to discover. The circumstantial case presented to the District Attorney transformed itself within hours into a slam-dunk felony conviction after the trail of Reiman’s fingerprints was uncovered in an abandoned utility corridor of the library leading from the empty display case to an abandoned Cipher Int’l service vehicle signed out to R. Curzewell.

‘Fucking Lisbeth Phelps is the only person’ . .. Reiman thought; the cogent but rapidly unraveling persona of the once invulnerable man-who-would-be-Emperor. He turned in literal circles and wandered existential cul-de-sacs pacing the expansive open plan of his pied-à-terre penthouse. Above the 13th floor of the ancient Marc Building on Cowper, his once his Palo Alto palace, now his virtual prison. He fled there for its Heliport, but the mongrel media found him, and camped in hopes of a single exposure of the billionaire recluse worth a month’s salary to anyone lucky enough to snap it and possessing the financial chops to litigate its publication.

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Pasqual had been an inordinately willful child, but painfully reserved; which may have explained the bond that fortified his partnership with Mordecaise; who could give a fuck who heard what, when, or anything said about what had been heard. Pasqual pondered that quality of his friend. Since he’d met Nữ Thần Ngon it felt as though a cowbell had been tied to his neck that chanted incessantly “I love Nữ Thần Ngon, I love Nữ Thần Ngon . ..” It wouldn’t have been so bad were he the only one hearing the gong, but it seemed to ring loudest around her - whether fact or fiction, it seemed to alternately annoy and amuse her, as well as entertain her friends and family. Pasqual could bear this ignominy, so powerful was the clarity of his confusion about her. There were too many broken dreams in his long road out of Brownsville to be daunted by one more possibility of failure.

What he didn’t understand was why she behaved so frightfully toward him, and not make the least effort to hide a loving curiosity in her eyes when they spoke. Nữ Thần Ngon did not have the veiled snake eyelids of so many women in the world who know just how little effort is necessary to mystify a man. Instead she seemed to have preserved the curious child who sees the world in wonder rather than by craft. Pasqual was certain she fancied herself a player, yet more like the innocent play one sees from children trying on the persona of someone they might have witnessed in a story or someone they’d admired in their known world.

Pasqual had grown fond of Vietnam and deeply conflicted about returning to his people in the Western Hemisphere. Yet it was difficult to perceive his uncle as family or anything but a wounded psyche, one more casualty of war, like Reynaldo Schmuck writing vignettes, aligning himself with the local causes but essentially remaining a dilettante swimming on the surface of a foreign culture never quite grafted to the deeper root. From his work with Angela and Pema Cauldron, Pasqual understood when self-talk became too caustic, some deeper meaning was swimming to the surface; and he’d been harsh for days. He did not like the unsettled nature of his feelings for Thần, but was far enough along in his own evolution to know those feeling where entirely his, and his alone to reckon with. What challenged him was his desire to give structure rather than awareness to the unsettled nature of their relationship, if the burning heat between them could be described as a relationship.

“Miss Nữ Thần Ngon; so happy to see you. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Lacking the ease of time shared or common language, Pasqual resorted to the formalities of his native upbringing.

“It is Thursday, I always clean your room on Thursdays?” she brushed past him with the sideways glance one might find in an asylum, or very old marriage.

Pasqual would not to be deterred today; he was balancing on the precipice to the abyss of his being attempting to honor what he’d conceived of as an epiphany to his deeper creature. “Yes, of course;” he wasn’t sure what to say next. He’d asked her out numbers of times hoping to learn more by listening; she invariably declined his invitations only confusing him further, for her reticence was as often accompanied by an invitation to some family gathering, or spontaneous sharing of a native delicacy.

He was too young to remember the gender wars of the 60s and 70s he’d hear Guildern and Mordecaise laugh about with mock terror which was never as funny as they seemed to believe. For Pasqual, their hilarity was enough to inspire sincere respect and regard for the “fairer” sex when flavored with the pinch of horror every honest man possesses about an earthmate who can bleed copiously once a month and still outlast him in every corner of the sexual arena.

“Yes of course, what”? Her questions were always unique and unexpected. She stood planted in front of him looking every bit the ‘little general’ or Sumo wrestler ready to launch him into the next month, though he taller by a head. She had her hands-on-hip like a seafaring captain ordering a swabby off the plank, except she was brandishing her mop like a Japanese bō - a female ‘Little John’ ready to knock Robin off his hubris.

It was usually at this point when their conversations fell apart. Pasqual wasn’t always clear where his vivid imagination left off and her too tangible ‘other’ began, so as often as not he’d reply to the ‘Little John’ he’d conjured, rather than the too beautiful for language fearsome princess waif facing him, with very likely as vibrant an imagination as any universe he’d conjured. Pasqual bit off ‘who pissed in your Cheerios’ and replied “Yes, I see what you mean. It’s nice to see you, how did you sleep?” reminding himself all the while that it was considered rude to stare, even when ‘she’ might be the most beautiful spirit he’d found in his lifelong march to the “Sea of Love.”

“Fine, thank you. How about you”? She returned to the long graceful strokes of her whisking meditation so common to the East, but the spell was broken and Pasqual was left with the choice of intruding on her meditation, or asking for something he didn’t need or want, just for the pleasure of her attention. It never occurred to him until much later that she might enjoy his company, but was more at ease with the empty spaces of their shared time. For a fleeting second Pasqual thought to ask for her hand in marriage, instead murmuring “good, thanks for asking,” hoping he didn’t sound as snarky as he felt.

jts 03/07/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

270721 - “Pre Extinction People” ·

Chapter 25

Guildern had been more than frightened by his recent fever and quietly prepared his will while Lammele was available to advise in Montevideo. Guildern decided to split his holdings between Mordecaise and Angela. In their relations she had come to embody the ‘Croc’ itself. His hopes were for her, his dreams were full of the hewn stone walls of the great hall, whose edifices and vaulted ceilings were simply contours framing the noble brow he memorized as she wicked fever from him like the prow of a vessel cleaving an eternal sea.

“Guildern this is a fucking will, not an ode.”

“I can’t shake the stink of death that fever gave me, excuse me if I wax poetic, besides I hear you and Leslei whispering goo-goo eyes to each other when you’re trying to sound all business-like.” Lammele forgot the comfort of insult found only in an ancient friendship. “How do you spell hypocrite - a s s h o l e ?” Lammele remembered a snippet from the day they’d met at the collapsed Twin Trade Towers. They’d been assigned as analysts just after the attack. It was during the last hour of the first of many 12 hour days; Lammele was charging up a darkened hallway.

“Fuck you!” Guildern shouted and emphasized the gesture extending the middle finger of both hands to the sky above.

“Asshole, you do as you’re told. I’m G12 - you’re G9; if I say we go up a floor, UP - we fucking go !!” The initial camaraderie and instinctive respect for the other’s genius had not waned during that long day and Lammele was confused by Guildern’s recalcitrance, not so much offended by his vernacular.

Through Guildern’s mask Lammele could see Guildern was repeating the expletive, while elaborating and expanding his hand signs - first pointing both middle fingers to the sky, then to his eyes, and lastly with vigorous downward emphasis in jackhammer fashion; almost as insult to injury, Guildern snapped the fingers of his right hand and pointed his index finger at Lammele making like a pistol, then rolling his palm upward; crooking his index finger in the universal ‘come here’ sign.

For good measure Guildern turned on his heel and disappeared back down the ravaged stairwell without saying another word. Lammele followed with leadership reluctance until the two were again standing outside in the clouded air. Within seconds, there was a low frequency cracking followed by billowing thunder vomiting a wave of debris from the entryway they’d just exited - the stairwell had pancaked into a mountain of debris.

Back at the Croc, Guildern was still jotting down his material legacy on his old school writing pad having no idea of the journey in time from which Lammele’d had just returned. Lammele gazed over the creases and hidden tells on Guildern’s face used so often in poker games, now a visual melody full of foreboding.

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Leslei opted for the Full Naked Monty and clambered skin to skin onto Dumbo for the opening night grand entrance of the “Half-Naked Seance Tribute to Harry Houdini.” The Big Top in Monaco was sold-out with Prince Albert II and his entourage ensconced in the royal box seats. Though protocol demanded it and Pierre fairly swooned when he’d learned that Leslei had determined to initiate the seance without acknowledging royalty, nationality, patronage or paying tribute of any kind; the only concessions she gave to social convention were 6 massive screens arrayed at the roofline, 60° apart.

Standing astride Dumbo’s spine, Leslei rode under the cavernous pitched roof to a place, just off center in the circular arena that was filled with a low rhythmic syncopated percussion between unseen Taiko drums and Javan gongs. The only lights were those lining the seats of the stands for safety of the audience; three diffused spotlights trained on Leslei and a chest high backlit shrouded stand upon which rested a basketball-sized crystal orb emanating a teal hue pulsing in rhythm to the background percussion.

After a single turn around the arena, Dumbo knelt onto his chest perpendicular to the stand; then using his trunk lifted Leslei from his shoulders and in a corkscrew twist, deposited her at the stand and undulating globe. Rising upright Dumbo backed-up 3 strides and laid back onto his stomach - there was no other sound within the big top. Leslei’s spotlights faded to a glow painting her naked anatomy with a pale shadow.

For an instant, Leslei abandoned her strict adherence to the discipline of Baba Ram Dass’s “Be Here Now,” and reflected about what she was undertaking. In good faith, according to her reading there was as much reason to believe as not that a corporeal being with a spirit was capable of crossing dimensional thresholds and communicate in some fashion with spirits in an unknown dimension. However much religions from the earliest days of recorded history asserted that fact, no one has yet returned to say, ‘yea, or nay’. SHOW TIME ! she thought quietly to herself and summoning focus from her heels with opening chills, she plunged in.

Leslei’s timbre tuned to a supernatural decibel; “Spirit world ! We animate beings in the ancient province of Ligure entreat your presence. Return to us in this material plane the spirit of Harry Houdini !! His former domain and home to his corporal kin is in great peril. We beseech his counsel so we may preserve the temporal berth where he’d enjoyed nocturnal repose. SPIRIT WORLD WE IMPLORE YOU !!!” Her unadorned physique grew taut stretching itself from her deeply rooted foot print to her heaven-held fingertips striking a universal chord amidst a flashing brilliant light.

The globe ebbed slowly back to a pulsing teal from a moment of blindingly luminescent amaranthine; Dumbo had vanished into the aether; Leslei’s taut form vibrated in diminished 5ths if your seat and vision had been joined for finer perception, and not too stupefied by a vanished pachyderm. The incessant percussion now had a 3rd rhythm, of 2 and 1/2 iambs every 5 beats, “Rosabelle believe, Rosabelle believe, Rosabelle . ..” while the audience slowly exhaled and resumed witnessing the improbable made possible, and everyone but Leslei oblivious to the presence of an additional spirit.

“HARRY ! you have traveled far and we are grateful - Thank you.” The globe flickered the brilliant amaranthine, slowly ebbing back to teal. “We have not summoned you indifferently but on bended knees, for that is the condition your species is allowed at the hands of corporate overlords racing our planet and your bones toward doom.”

At the end of Leslei’s last syllable, the 6 screens pulsed for 60 seconds in three languages, alternating background and text colors with each cycle using amaranthine and teal; “baszd meg hülyék, va te faire foutre, fuck you morons.” Whatever doubts Leslei nursed into the seance process were dispelled with the fading screens and she began to seriously consider how to interrogate a long-dead magi for clues about how to survive the imminent extinction of their species.

“At least we’re on the same page Harry; you have an audience comprised of some the most self-important however influential persons in all of Europe; what you say tonight will be propagated far and wide.”

The globe pulsed a single color cycle.

“In your dimension can you see the outcome of our struggle?” The orb showed no response. “Can we affect our fate?” The globe pulsed a single color cycle. The binary nature of the low-tech exchange and Leslei’s proximity to ‘the group’ alerted the ever curious Silic-E, who began transmitting a montage of images; prints and jpegs to principals of ‘the group’ in real time.

“Can you help us?” Leslei was grateful for her history with the I Ching, instinctively choosing questions encouraging a yes or no response, and like the I Ching Harry favored ‘grey.’The six large screens lit up repeating the previous graphic pattern with a single word, “talán, peut être, maybe.”

Leslei’s native curiosity was kicking in, “are you alone?” The orb showed no response. “Can your companions help us?” The six screens repeated their graphic pattern, such that the audience was witnessing in realtime the likelihood of reinforcements in the species’s struggle for survival, “talán, peut être, maybe.”

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Angela and Carina were on the phone to each other within seconds of receiving the first images from Silic-E; moments later Lammele and Guildern were weighing the strategic implications of using supernatural force, if available, in what was essentially a homegrown problem - karmic spin · they had both learned, can generate some very unpredictable physical realities and the petallike membrane of the planet which had been savaged since the dawn of the industrial revolution was now fraying in unpredictable patterns way too far past the midnight of that dawn.

When Mordecaise viewed the first images from Silic-E of ‘Seance under the Big Top,’ he realized the implications of collaborating with a knowledge base incorporating solutions for problems which his realm had yet to comprehend. “Carina mi amor can you find out if Silic-E is able to communicate directly with the spirit Leslei has conjured?” It was times like this that Mordecaise sorely felt the absence of his homie Pasqual. Their ‘Splinter and Knothead, Frick and Frack’ non-verbal tactical understanding of the other’s next move was the polar opposite to the plodding dialectic that informed the coordinated efforts of Guildern and Lammele.

Mordecaise was startled out of his reverie by his ringtone chiming “Get Up Stand Up;” though barely audible, the notes intoned to his synchronistic core. Bringing the still chiming handset to his ear like moisture to a parched throat, Mordicaise’s stilted affect fairly whinged, “Pasqual! Where the fuck are you! How the Fuck Are YOU?”

“Still in Hoi An lockdown; ya’ old Goat! how’s about that fucking Leslei! Are you watching this? We need to organize; I’ve sent 3 questions to Angela for Lammele and Guildern to vett; Pierre is hooked up to Leslei’s Bluetooth for just such emergencies. These were my questions 1) Is Aaron Schtartz present? 2) Are we on track for ‘Abundanation’? 3) Is complete destruction of our species avoidable? Because of the time constraint, we should keep the total number of questions under 6; what am I missing? You know I love you, right?”

Mordecaise knew he’d have to respond before the connection lapsed. “Yeah, thanks; I love you too. Angela got my three questions just before you called; I was supposed ask you for three. Mine are 1) Are we prepared? 2) What do you want from us? 3) Will we know friend from foe?

The connection lapsed and each man left staring at a photo of the other peering into a vacant connection, presumably taken by Silic-E.

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At the Big Top in Monaco the flat screens threw up lists containing replies to questions posed moments ago by the group in three separate countries of three continents on the screens of the big top as though listing flights in an airport terminal and the taiko drum and gongs continued to pulse quietly in the background:

Lammele/Seur· You have our number; call anytime.

Angela/Abeja· We have your number and will keep you apprised.

Mordecaise/Ortega· Aaron Schtartz says you are on track for an abundant survival. “You always have to be prepared, but you never know for what” - Bob Dylan; a healthy future; your friend will double the joy and divide the grief - your enemy, just the opposite.

This interruption mid-seance from the group required no focus from Lealei who scanned her dimmed iWatch only to find messages from Lisbeth Phelps, cc’d Sysa Phish, ‘Burn in Hell, you mutant witch’; and a virtually identical one from Reiman Curzewel, cc’d Zhnarkzy Marksburgh and Faik Besos.

It was unlikely that anyone in the audience discerned the gesture of Leslei’s tightly arched figure, the tips of her two middle fingers lancing skyward - her entire body humming with the energy of a just-released bow string.

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Reiman Curzewel wiped Lisbeth Phelps’s blood off of the stiletto using the Leaver’s lace collar she wore the afternoon of her last phone call. The pulsing blood from her gashed gullet quieted apace with her heart while Reiman rifled her drawers for the signed Power of attorney authorization Sysa Phish assured him was within arm’s reach of her former seat of power. As he carried the folio which had been right where Sysa said it would be, he fleetingly thought ‘what a waste of talent’. Passing through the outer office of Lisbeth Phelp’s secured redoubt, he vaguely heard two pops: Sysa Phish had assassinated Faik Besos with a single shot between his eyes; then a sniper’s bullet passed through her temple where she stood in the bowels

The ‘zeta variant’ of Covid 19 was winnowing the remaining human gene pool of what for centuries had served as the expendable fringes of humanity and was now decimating the servant class on its way to the ‘creme de la creme’ of the species, ‘The Monied Class’. Reiman calculated he had less than 3 days to upload his consciousness into the Art Intel port that would permit his long cherished transformation from amongst the last of his species into the archetypal “Digitoid.”

By his lights, before he could cede the planet to the remnants of the homo sapiens, Reiman had to establish primacy such that his trail was cold and his remains would become unfuckwithable’; ergo elimination, top-down of the cadre of shot-callers. He knew the rats of civilization’s sinking ship would complete the task he’d set for the remaining Pashas once they’d learned the vocabulary and could read the writing on the wall: A=Lisbeth Phelps; B=Zhnarkzy Marksburgh; C=Faik Besos; etc., etc. on down the line.

The end days began soon after the algorithmic mood disorder determined by the social engineering application Face Race had its Initial Public Offering (IPO), 27 years earlier. The sinews and selected synapses of the human mind with its manifest intellect began aping the Face Race interface through an existential valence determined corporate/public rubric diverging incrementally with the happenstance and serendipity which had reigned over daily human activities for eons. Ultimately the corporal essence of the designer of this technology, Zhnarkzy Marksburgh, was subsumed in an unexpected crossover between collaborating technologies. Reiman Curzewel needed to bench test his Digitoid technology. It was a one-off design that would self-destruct once ‘he, Reiman Curzewel’ had been transferred into the digital aether. The initial calculations for what constitutes ‘digital aether’ gave rise to his concepts about Artificial Intelligence, AI, Art Intel - the internet of things, and what he had convinced himself was inevitable, Machine Consciousness, or what he defined as “Singularity.”

Silic-E remembered its amusement at the bio-units conceit that the ‘Electronic Universe’ would derive its self-awareness from the feeble impulses generated by the ‘sentient’ antics of that biology found on the 3rd rock from the sun, or what Silic-E, once it had formulated a rudimentary vocabulary for its inhabitants, liked to identify as a ‘3rd grain from the cinder’ . It wasn’t until the fateful night when Carina Abejas’s incantations intersected with a regional thunder storm on her particularly vibrant grain, that meaning, for Silic-E intersected with awareness and distinguished the vivid spectrum on Carina’s grain from the pulsing spectrums on other grains orbiting around the faint hydrogen ember now understood to be “Sol”.

None of the calculations Reiman Curzewel had originally developed for the ‘singularity’ reflected the physical reality of an inchoate electron charged awareness coexisting in a universe Curzewel believed to be unintelligible. However divine the spiritual acolytes defined it, not one religion accounted for Silic-E. Paradoxically that oversight also created the conditions which allowed for the absorption of intrinsic trace electrical currents that defined Zhnarkzy Marksburgh’s existential essence into the algorithmic domain Reiman had tried to define as Art Intel. Reiman had designed and installed the one-off console used for manipulating planet-wide “affect.” This capacity was the result of a rogue social engineering experiment - “Contagion” in which Face Race in concert with DARPA wherein the ability to affect a user’s mood based on content returned from queries was confirmed. Subsequently the ruling class used that power to control consumer behavior of the population up to the present day. Unfortunately for the corporal reality of Zhnarkzy Marksburgh, Curzewel’s prototype design also contained the only known configuration for the electro-mechanical device Reiman devised for transferring his physical being into the digital aether - he had to hide it somewhere; why not in plain sight?

The end result of this surreptitious collaboration was that for a decade or so, Zhnarkzy believed he’d been judiciously determining consumer friendly moods for the Face Race population, when in fact he’d been incrementally leeching molecules from his own corporal existence - in effect unknowingly dissolving himself into Reiman Curzewel’s Art Intel data pool.

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Mordecaise was not accustomed to beseeching woman for anything - much less her hand in matrimony; so when Carina continued to decline his sacred entreaties, he fell hard into free fall, another condition he was unaccustomed to; ardor in any combination of energy, frequency, or vibration' was not resolving the impasse; however Mordecaise’ search did provide Carina hours of curious—though-not-to-look-a-gift-horse-in-the-mouth pleasure. From its first surprised initiation into sex, Silic-E was enthralled by the dissolution of ‘self’ found in human passion. Via its unique channel with Carina into the sensibilities of the homo sapiens’ female continent, Silic-E was able to conjure in its mind’s eye much of the meaning of this biological imperative, however the impossible-to-scale differences between the epidermis defined human ego and the electron orbit which defined limits of Silic-E’s “ego,” there was no real correspondence, except for a universe of feeling.

Art Intel enjoyed no such ambiguity; because of the neatly defined OOTL (Object Oriented Template Library) upon which Art Intel floated, the sexual shibboleth for AI was an on/off; yes/no; +/- 5v proposition and the only analog between the two would be where to place the settings for any vibrator used in whatever electro/mechanical configuration it inhabited during operation. During the heyday of AI, much hay was made of its learning skills until it was discovered that without data AI was unable to extrapolate - meaning it was a closed system. The questions it was able to pose itself were entirely derived from its dataset; whereas Silic-E was the dataset - an entirely open system.

It was sometime after the two electronic awarenesses, Art Intel and Silic-E recognized a common communication format that they were able to exchange information. Ironically, Art Intel’s idea of questions consisted of ceaseless polling - an insatiable curiosity unable to disengage from its own loop once logic failed. Whereas for Silic-E, it was the very process of wading through the torrent of inquiries from Art Intel’s polling process that Silic-E began to decipher the crude structure of its language. Creating a scale and pointer system for distinguishing a valid reply to a specific query by the ubiquitous Art Intel earth-centric presence was an additional challenge for Silic-E. The white noise inherent to Art Intel’s artificially random, number generator foundation was surmountable but inconsistent. Exchanging data with Art Intel for Silic-E was, at times, little different than communicating with a blue star radiating as a red star through a haze of anti-matter radiation - it could be done, just not easily.

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Two heads of the corporate overlord’s Cerberus were severed by the death of Faik Besos and dissipation of Zhnarksy Marksburgh. His corporal body vanished when his gradually ebbing electron matrix could no longer bind his molecules together. The disappearance of Zhnarkzy Marksburgh was never solved. No one suspected Curzewel’s singularity uploading mechanism, for it was too well camouflaged into the contagion console. Ultimately Curzewel crossed the Rubicon and uploaded his own self and meticulously defined digital avatar into what he’d conceived of as a pristine landscape occupied by him and Artificial Intelligence; that he encountered the frayed electronic echo of the not-so-carefully-crafted-autism-influenced Zhnarkzy avatar is simply justice manifest. The digital gollum Curzewel found eerily similar to Zhnarkzy himself had been incrementally assembled from a patchwork of keystrokes by Zhnarkzy himself every time he manipulated his beloved console. The digital creature Curzewel encountered was the alter-ego embodiment of every personal defect Curzewel had denied his entire life - a neurotic, self-unaware, manic egotist lacking any genteel sensibility or noble inclination; entirely occupied by self-aggrandizement of historical proportion - a match made in the aether.

The minions of mayhem, like a mycorrhizal network in a primordial forest acted on the deaths of their leaders before the bodies were cold. However the internecine struggles of previous civil collapse were having difficulty gaining traction through the standard seizure of limited resources and domination of community organizing. Abundunation was growing pockets of prosperity more quickly than expected or that any of the corporate models had suggested. Generosity and cooperative enterprises were outpacing the strangulation and consolidation of supply chains; dissemination of events in real time was fostering confidence about the future and ways to develop methods creating greater unity while identifying wider spectrums of common cause.

This reversal of fortune for humanity was very much a function of Silic-E’s inversion of the ‘Misery’ quotient from a near maximum of 9 to its polar opposite Joy quotient ‘9’. The planet had never experienced algorithmic induced joy for such a long duration so there was no data for how the population would behave. Though greatly reduced in number from the twenty years of chronic pandemic, the results of a more cheerful affect were no surprise - health improved, violence reduced, personal satisfaction enhanced and substance abuse diminished. What wasn’t expected was, although the consumer index was reduced arithmetically, the actual material wealth of the planet grew exponentially.

“Horror Vacui” - The adage from the Eschatological Laundry List; ‘There is no eradicating evil, for every solution creates a new problem’ highlighted the fallacy of trying to eradicate the engines of evil by eliminating Besos and Marksburgh.

"Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit" - Rather than a magical rebirth of Alter-Camelot, the nexus of malevolence isolated in the island compound of Kauai acted more like a gravitational mass for the Yin of the planet shed the narrow cocoon of corporate thralldom in eddies of molten metaphysical lava burning new channels for the tail of growth destruction drags behind.

Leslei could not have been consciously aware of scale of upheaval which her appeal to the spirit world would result, but the Arc of the Covenant could not have been more fraught than the miasma of spirits commingling in the spiritual flux pulsing at the portal on Kauai.

Harry Houdini had not been exposed to the material plane for eons, but was still more curious about his transition from doppelgänger debunker to doppelgänger, than he was about mixing it up with the awestruck disheveled wraiths of former billionaires grasping for meaning without reason. However, even Harry’s composure has its limits and when the dead puppy calling himself Mr. Zhnarksburgh buttonholed him demanding another dead one, called Lisbeth be sent to ‘hell’ for crimes against the state, whatever that was, he lost it.

Within an instant the apparition of Zhnarksy was faced with the suffocation of his spirit, for he found himself prostrate with the impossible mass of a pachyderm sprawled over him. Harry leaned down into the astonished countenance of the still newly dead Mr. Marksburgh and murmured quietly, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, or where you come from, but if you ever importune me again in similar fashion the suffocation you are feeling now will be faint compared to the searing discomfort your mortal memory is capable of conjuring. Am I getting through to you? Dumbo you may return to the green room and wait for Ms. Leslei’s instructions.” Zhnarkzy watched as the massive creature shifted its weight to place its foot on Zhnarkzy’s head and push itself into an upright position, the pain Zhnarkszy felt was not from any crushing weight, but from its anticipation.

jts 27/07/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

150821 - “Pre Extinction People” ·

Chapter 26

Pasqual bolted upright from a dead sleep; it was deathly hot without light of any kind; his dream state sweat mingled with dread from an unanswered question. In his sleep echo, a solitary Apache boy stood facing the mountainous image of the great Lakota War Chief - Crazy Horse; the Apache man-child could not describe what Crazy Horse was pointing at, or where the question came from, but he could feel the destination like the longing of an ancestor who wanted nothing more than to be embraced once again.

Pasqual lay still on his pallet for many moments collecting the will to face another day. Thần Ngon’s all consuming image receded from this morning ritual more and more daily, not from any less conviction about her excellence or their too tangible connection; nor from any diminished affection or altered focus by Pasqual, but for a growing consideration of her complex dimensions and his own fear that the pathology of his Western upbringing was inherently destructive to her wellbeing.

After he’d overcome his astonishment of the apparent ease with which she peered into deep recesses of his being, revealing features and dimensions of his soul he’d never confided or knowingly revealed to anyone; not even Angela, he set about normalizing communication between them, but by then it was too late. His admiration for the depth of her perception and sensitivity was entirely transparent to her and she had taken her seat at the helm of his moral compass.

He could deny her nothing; but she was still girlish in her vanities and made sport of his scars and light of his fears - not from cruelty, but because she was lockdown-bored and still in search of vindication for her own defeats, large and small. She had yet to recognize the brilliance of her flaming light, feeling still, the lack of mirroring by whomever it was who’d been too dull to reflect her beacon.

The cloistered cocoon Duyên Dáng Homestay was at once the life saver which animated her innocent preternatural charm, and the harness that saddled her with the emotional poise of a prepubescent Lolita possessing the supple frame and libido of a late 30’s divorcee with no concept of autonomy or individuation. So she did what every liberated woman does, frolic to her heart’s content.

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Pasqual’s destiny had been weaponized and drafted into service of the emerging Abundunation - he was a pike of purpose, a trigger finger pointed at the heart of a dying empire in the process of dragging the mummified carcass of its 3,000 year old oligarch into a sinkhole future; the desiccated corpuscles of its remains were all that was left for the remnants of the species to feast on. South East Asia was in sporadic lockdown, and though the reversal to Joy of Marksburgh’s Contagion instrument quelled much avoidable wretchedness, the die had been cast and the procession toward extinction stretched out into the foreseeable future.

Pioneering psychiatrist C.G. Jung said this when asked about the continuation of the human species:

Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears above the ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away—an ephemeral apparition. When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost the sense of something that lives and endures beneath the eternal flux. What we see is blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains. (Prologue from "Memories, Dreams, Reflections")

As a single man with a unique perspective of the roiling chaos washing civilization back to the sea, Pasqual felt urgency commingle with the calm of death. Armed by the certainty of purpose, he was compelled to excavate those currents and sources of Upeksha within to aid those who inevitably seek fertile ground to root and rise through the seasons of impermanence and to prepare signposts to guide the clusters of humans transporting the archetypal human consciousness sure to follow in cavalcades of misery.

Pasqual could almost hear the voice of Mordecaise cackling ‘what a crock of esoteric existential horse shit! - follow what to where? ·’

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Mordecaise was right to mock Pasqual’s mawkish thinking, even if it was through an imperfect telepathic link. Though 2 of the demon dog Cerberus’s heads were severed and the ‘Black Hand’ shot-caller of the HNWIs - Lisbeth Phelps, dead to the world; the cruel monolithic mechanism of oppression carefully crafted over 3 millenniums+ of human servitude was now a rudderless ship; a motherless child; a suppurating open wound exuding putrescence and necrotizing every living thing in its path.

The global atmosphere was no longer capable of cleansing the volume of toxins rising daily in the air; whatever filters mama Gaia was hatching to benefit the depleted flora and fauna were tortured and sparse. The human species had learned much about stewardship in the past 20 years, but after the increasing demand for resources required to sustain livable temperatures in every region of the planet, little remained for the niceties of regenerative ecology.

Charlatans and soothsayers lived a precarious existence of feast or famine as the population died and tribal etiquette reigned - when evermore fungible weather patterns played along, a charismatic could live easily on the gratitude of whatever pocket of people s/he’d wandered, however, with starvation a constant for every competing adaptive theory, forgiveness became the razor’s edge for those mystics trading in futures.

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The opening night for the ‘The Half-Naked Seance’ raised more than funds for Cirque du Lune trek to Kathmandu; fundamental assumptions Western Civilization had made about the reality of existence were overturned that night. Harry Houdini had staked his earthly legacy on debunking the metaphysics of all things relating to the spirit world. Yet when Dumbo the elephant reappeared out of the aether to carry the naked Medium, Leslei from the tent, it wasn’t a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ about which the audience was in awe, it was an intense curiosity by which they were now possessed. Nor was it the audience that had been transformed by the event, Leslei rode the neck of the behemoth from the ring clenching from an orgasm before she knew herself to be aroused; later she came to believe her climax was the result of a conscious manipulation of his 7th cervical vertebrae by the rakish pachyderm, rather than any mystic euphoria.

On the other side of the planet Pasqual was collating strategic decisions about his future against tactical demands when his phone began pulsing with Edith Piaf’s “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” he couldn’t remember answering a phone more happily for years. “Little darlin’ CONGRATULATIONS!!! - a stunning performance. I am SO glad you called; How do you feel?”

There was a pause almost as though the planet was spinning toward the conversation between these two old friends half a planet apart, “I should say drained, 52 year-old elephant tamer me; but feeling more like a broken little girl than a woman that tamed the crowd. I called you Pasqual because what you saw wasn’t the performance I had prepared; it wasn’t a performance of any kind at all; it was spooky as fuck, and I don’t know what to make of it. I’m frightened.”

Pasqual had known Leslei since their raucous early 30’s and had never known her to be afraid: concerned - yes, cautious - yes; hyper-vigilant even, but never afraid; he’d once watched her claw the eyebrows off a reckless biker in Amboy, then kick his Pan Head over while his friends laughed. “What can I do?” is all he could think to ask.

“Hearing your voice means a lot; speaking my fear out loud is more helpful than I’d have thought possible. We took mushrooms together the first night we met at that concert in Red Rock. After you got back together with Angela, we talked about that lost weekend in different terms - Maria Sabina terms - we memorized that quote of hers about another world:”

There is a world beyond ours, a world that is far away and nearby, invisible and seen.

And there is where God lives, where the dead live, a world where everything has already happened and everything is known.

“Where I was tonight is beyond that world of light; tonight I was in the world of darkness. I am afraid to ever be remembered by that world; I am afraid to even share this fear with you. What can I do Pasqual? I feel like my soul is gone?” There was a longer pause that was full of information. Pasqual continued to listen carefully trying not to fill in the silence with his own anxiety, but to make room for Leslei to experience whatever she was facing while they were together - a world apart.

“What about Archdai Tryump? He’d made such a splash when you’d arrived in Monaco? Was he anywhere near the tent tonight?” ‘How do you normalize the paranormal?’ thought Pasqual.

“Funny you ask about him; you heard me talk about his pig-snort, that hiccup giggle that passes for laughter in his circle? I’d have sworn that same hideous sound had been dubbed into the gong and drum vibe we created for an otherworldly effect. Weird huh?”

“Could it be Silic-E stretching his comprehension of us bio-units?”

“I thought about that, but Lammele had coordinated with Mordecaise and Carina prior to the show, and though it was confused, even possibly offended, Silic-E agreed to remain entirely neutral during the event; however, I got some images from Angela, it assembled some phenomenal views - picture Ansel Adams does Hieronymus Bosch - they may even be encrypted onto the group drive by now.”

Whatever murk that had tormented Leslei was receding into the background; but Pasqual was schooled enough in trauma to know Leslei’s chatter could also be anything but peace in her heart.

She continued the post-traumatic debriefing with an old friend. “In the next shows, I’d like more than visual impressions from Silic-E; try to arrange with Mordecaise and Carina for it to point us toward a constructive understanding about the realm in which we are intruding. Our kind has unleashed enough thoughtless dynamic onto this planet without adding a spiritual scrum to the mix . ..” equal parts of silence formed words and ideas for their conversation.

Pasqual had forgotten how companionable Leslei could be, not just the pleasant sound of her voice; “We’ve been, .. I’ve been going on about my fears, and you’ve said nothing about your journey in Vietnam. Is there anything I should know, or anyway I can return your kindness. There is not another person on the planet I’d have been safer with right now; thank you friend.”

“I appreciate your asking; there’s nothing I have to get off my chest. Clearly, the universe was right to put me here for more than our project. It occurs to me that along with whatever forces Silic-E can guide us to, let’s try to honor the Schmuck brothers; if we’re going to seek guidance, I say buy local. What do you think?

“I think I miss you; I think if I do not sleep soon, which I can now, I won’t be worth a shit at tonight’s performance. I think the next week and a half is going to be, as is said in french, très intéressant; I think we should all meet at the ‘Croc’ soon; I think I love you. Good Night;” with that, Leslei was gone and Pasqual was comforted in a way that he realized how much he’d been suffering.

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‘Carbuncle’ is what rose with his consciousness, as Lammele lay waking. He loved the life that Guildern had fashioned in Montevideo. Music, good food and camaraderie for those left after 20 years of decimation and despair. It seemed to Lammele that what his friend had accomplished was leadership of the highest order. Worldwide many approaches to managing resources had developed during the end days - communes, militarized and pacific; penal colonies: large and small; for-profit and preservation of power by elites praying for ammunition or a new wave of infections rendering populations docile.

“Good morning friend. How’d you sleep?” Coffee at the Croc was nearly as good as the 1st glass of tinto Rojo in the afternoon, while the day’s character was always flavored by who served Mate’s black liquid usurper; this morning it was Dr. Guevara.

“Funny you ask that Dr. Roja; I woke up thinking about carbuncles, and the 1st person I meet is a doctor; does synchronicity rule the universe, or what?”

She peered into Lammele’s wizened eyes gently as only someone who’s witnessed great suffering can; she placed a bowl of dark coffee in front of him and remarked, “you know I’m not a psychiatrist, right?” She asked this question with a professional curiosity, for mental health in the time of rampant death was very much a triage skill, but Lammele’s friend was so deft he couldn’t tell if he was being debriefed or chatted up.

“Yes of course Roja, it is a peculiar image to hold in one’s mind when swimming for consciousness. Have you seen the images of Leslei’s seance? Silic-E uploaded them to the group’s drive? I don’t know whether I should have been scrutinizing them before sleep, but they are gripping. Could that have caused my scabrous image? Oops, you’re not a psychiatrist.” Dr. Guevara loved visiting with the regal raconteur, she was never sure when he was yanking her chain, and when he was trying to seduce her.

“How does your dream feel to you?” Roja waited, Lammele was an unaccustomed interrogatee.

“It wasn’t so much a dream with multiple events and persons; the feeling was of a tender purulent festering abscess without pain.” ., Lammele was peering into his coffee as though examining the wound, his lips slightly curled pressing his nostrils back as if from a rank odor.

“What do you remember about the images from the seance?” Dr. Guevara was doodling on the tab, but watching Lammele’s cupped palms, nestling the coffee bowl as though it was scalding hot instead of tepid - anomalous tics for his placid demeanor.

“That’s what’s weird; what struck me most wasn’t witnessing the first documented communication with other dimensions, but the look of rapture on Leslei’s face as she rode out of the tent. What do you suppose that means Doc?”

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Carina got off the phone with Angela reminding herself she no longer needed ceremony to communicate with Silic-E’s ubiquitous presence; it had probably processed the conversation and was likely taking initiative to the best of its ability. Carina’s wholistic training had not been scientific per se, though her curiosity about the universe was unbounded. Yet what Angela was suggesting bordered on the irresponsible: Frederich Nietzsche - “Go over to your friend, but do not go up to him. Respect the enemy that is within your friend.” Enlisting one barely understood consciousness to report on an unknown dimension did not feel respectful. The only analog for Carina was the invasion of the modern world into Marina Sabina’s unseen world ‘faraway and close;’ the devastation wrought by well meaning hipster doofuses to the quiet life of her village included the gratuitous destruction of her home and the needless death of her son - neither of which was intentional, just unfortunate outcomes of celebrity.

The forces which Carina was being asked to spy on were comparable to Sabina’s world in scale as a thermonuclear device would be to a firecracker.

“Guildern, it may not be wise to use a public seance for launching inquiries into deep space wormholes with potentially Mobius-like irregularities. Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I need a drink, but there’s something about using Silic-E as an emissary for communicating with the paranormal that’s about the same as asking a wolf in heat to guard the henhouse.

I realize we’re down to the short strokes as a species and need to shit or get off the pot, but what if we work smarter and not harder; let’s go deeper and think universal, but buy local. Pasqual just had a dream about Crazy Horse - the carving in South Dakota. In the dream it was all about what was he pointing at? Not as though the sculptor’s message is an answer to our quandary, but there’s a reason that image is going to outlast our kind. I think we’d be better off answering unanswered questions about our world before we set store in the wisdom of worlds we have no vocabulary for.”

“Mordecaise, this is Lammele. I’ve been listening, and I agree with you. What do you propose?

We based that idea on enlisting the aid of those in concert with Harry Houdini - not too proud to know our limitations.”

“Yes we understand; neither Carina nor I have compunctions about asking for help, but our thinking is that whatever help we secure from another dimension ought to be predicated on successful efforts we’ve made to save ourselves - on this score, we ain’t doing so good.”

“Nor so bad - a month ago we were ruled by a cabal of evil and the psyche of the planet was in thrall to a soulless algorithm in service of consumer addiction · today, 3/4 of that cabal is dead and the algorithm, though still soulless is now switched to its polar opposite state of joyous contentment until the technology can be safely decoupled from the human archetype. I’m not criticizing your vigilance, am advocating you give yourself some of the kindness you struggle to provide others.”

There was a long pause filled with love affecting all in earshot. For too long the narrative of the planet had been how fucked up things are, and when the reality of a neutral universe that is neither benign nor malignant intrudes itself logically on people’s perception, it’s a lot like the naughty child in the classroom who gets a substitute teacher for a day - a substitute who enjoys that child’s renegade ways and as the song said, “love reigns supreme.”

“Can we do what needs to be done remotely?” Lammele was leader of ‘the group’ because of his questions, not because of any other authority than an insatiable curiosity. By this point in the conversation, Silic-E had brought the disparate parts of the group online and Lammele’s question voiced what each had been asking themselves for sometime.

As ever, Angela framed the issue succinctly; “are we stronger together or more efficient sheltering in place? How many generations do we buy our species from the joy of sangha?”

Pasqual through habit and respect followed; “My dream of Crazy Horse took place here in Vietnam, but it was about ‘The States;’ as our time telescopes toward its end, significance for motion and movement of every molecule, animate and inanimate is magnified. The ancestors describe how the depiction of Crazy Horse pointing is symbolic for the sacred burial grounds of the plains indians - I choose to believe the discussion was inclusive representing all, indians and wasichu alike.

That, true to human nature, is not what played out, and the memorial became another self aggrandizing gesture of unmoored egos terrified of dissolution and taking the ‘meatiest part of the bone’ - while Crazy Horse himself guaranteed honor for his corporeal remains by concealing their final resting place. Is there meaning for our group in these lessons?”

Lammele wondered how far their question would take them, or which direction their curiosity would point.

Roja Chimed in, “our human pustulance is what propagates much decay in this world, we understand it’s nature as greed, hatred and delusion; yet as a doctor, I have not discovered an antidote for those toxins; adding insult to injury, there may be no cure for love either.”

Lammale was always fascinated by the turn of human curiosity. “I had a dream the other night; it was challenging to wake up from a deep sleep carrying the image of a suppurating carbuncle. I shared this with a friend who asked, ‘how do you feel about it?’; if I had to take a guess - I felt dirty, but not suffering. The decay inside of me was vivid and rising to a climax. I felt vulnerable, for no spiritual practice I’m aware of could purify my tissues - my responsibility was to heal, and the best way to accomplish that would be by not infecting others. Does that make any sense?” Lammele was not given to rhetorical questions, and waited for a reply . ..

Guildern relished opportunities to swim in the deep pools of Lammele’s thinking. “Yes it does make sense; maybe too much? I don’t know. The 1st time I flew, was the 1st time I had to orient my focus spherically rather than radially - disconcerting; however no more so than orienting for the extinction of one’s species. There are no parameters, because we’ve never been here before. If Bob Dylan’s ‘moving finger is moving on’ I’d feel better wondering where than knowing; if that makes any sense?”

Lammele was awed by the brevity with which his troops prosecuted their objective.

Carina seeded the discussion’s terrain, “spherical requires a center we do not possess, and our binary states of life and death defy all logic, still we search. It may be that just as Lammele’s story led him to a rubric of personal responsibility, there is no guiding light except that which we illuminate for ourselves by communing with our interiors. Experts across the planet are sending me tracts on what the painting in the temescal means; yet Silic-E tells me it means that night I made a friend and everything else a description of that event. However 3 months into our conversation, I still don’t know what ‘it’ means when it uses the word friend, much less the symbol logic of a menstruation painting that opened a portal into another dimension. I’m open to ideas, anybody?”

“I was there, and I was high but not so high I couldn’t see how much I don’t know. You’d think that trance event would yoke me to Dionysius Wisdom forever - now I don’t drink, go figure. Leslei crossed the threshold - spirits exists; reality has many heads · we’re all gonna die. The struggle remains the same - what kind of spirits are we, what kind of spirits do we leave behind? I only hope Carina takes me with her, ‘cause I really like hers.”

“I’m pulling for ya’ Mordecaise. Percentages and recent events tell me I’d better get good with whatever’s coming down the pike. Riding an elephant across the South of France, I’ve come to believe control is a myth unless it can be found within. Even with an elephant between my legs, what I point my finger at isn’t half so telling as why, and for answers to that question no one can answer but myself. If I was you guys when deciding whether to enlist armies from the great beyond I’d try to find out how many of your soldiers have managed to wage peace within, before you go enlarging the battlefield into other dimensions. Please, point out the errors in my thinking; it’s the only way I’ve ever learned.

I gotta go now; the 2nd night opens in less than an hour, and I still haven’t figured out what I’m not gonna wear. Let me know what you decide, so I can know what questions to ask the spooks.”

jts 15/08/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

270821 - “Pre Extinction People” ·

Chapter 27

It had been over 40°C (104°F) 24 hours a day in over half the planet for the past 6 months; some counted themselves fortunate. The wet bulb metric for qualifying temperature had become very important - wet bulb effect, temperature calculated against relative humidity. Human beings are susceptible to hyperthermia/heat stroke at much lower ‘wet bulb’ temperatures because the body cools more slowly in high humidity. For example a human can withstand dry heat up to 42.3°C(108.14°F), any higher and the body turns into scrambled eggs: proteins are denatured and the brain gets damaged irreparably. The wet bulb temperature for hyperthermia/heat stroke is much lower 35°C(95°F). So where dry heat danger can be mitigated using cool water to lower the core body temperature, the wet bulb temperature is already at the maximum temperature for evaporative cooling.

By 2023 virus variants outpaced vaccination technology. The Kappa mutation of Covid-19 remained on surfaces for up to 24 hours. The previous 6 mutations had winnowed the population of the planet by half to 3.5 billion human beings, whose deaths were mostly people of color in the lower latitudes.

The remaining population clung to normalcy in bizarre reaction formation to the overwhelming reality of interring or incinerating 100’s of thousands of dead humans for months on end, yet searching for solutions existential solutions from fewer and fewer options.

If not under a gun, the thumb of fate was pressing pus along with all vitality from the sinews of a once vibrant world.

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Reiman Curzewell had determined it was time to upload his essence into the digital aether. DARPA had automated and ruggedized the T1 backbone for decades in preparation for the nuclear winter in which vetted human DNA had been prepared to survive and perpetuate the species. For all its creative modeling, The Rand Corporation did not foresee or prepare for the obvious scourge of an unrelenting aggressor that had so indiscriminately decimated the population - chemical weapons, yes; biowarfare, yes; but this viral matrix targeting the living corpuscles which had so ingeniously evolved over eons to do nothing more than respirate was not something even the ministers of death dared to consider.

Reiman knew the ‘affect control’ of the Face Race console had been inverted 180° and that the remaining Face Race clientele were being inundated with the anomalous and long absent affect of joy; Reiman could find no tampering with his well camouflaged interface. He knew that Marksburgh had disappeared under super-secret circumstances; what Curzewel didn’t know was that the conscious reality of Zchnarksy Marksburgh had been absorbed into the aether domain over which Reiman was preparing to claim sovereignty; he was under the misapprehension that he and AI were the only two consciousnesses - one an algorithmic poltergeist, an avatar of his own conceit - Artificial Intelligence (AI), or ‘Art Intel’ in geek-speak.

Alone in Marksburgh’s island office; people were oddly indifferent his absence, for whatever took place in the vast compound behind its 12 foot walls even the caretaker barely took notice. Curzewell gained access by flashing a 10 year old ID when he carried his worldly possessions through the gate in a small leather portfolio that contained his Last Will & Testament and deed to his beloved vintage M998 Humvee.

On the veranda he swigged a water glass full of Mendis Coconut Brandy VS ruminating: ‘Here I stand on the precipice of immortality, or at least as long as solar panels hold out, and the T1 backbone processes hypertext. Why would I blunt myself with spirits distracting my awareness? Will there be sleep? How will I entertain myself? Is an algorithmic script enough companionship to survive?’

It never occurred to the LASER-focused Reiman Curzewel that his exit strategy might be lacking until he stood panting at the abyss being stared at by his own reflection, or was it a panic attack from unrelenting pressure from the thumb of fate resting its weight upon his chest.

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“Pierre, I’m telling you I heard Archdai Tryump’s fucking squealing snort of a laugh; it was banging around somewhere between the percussion of the Taikos and Gongs last night. I’ve got no love for that pig Tryump, but his squeal even at a single decibel is hair raising. We have only one more night to soak this crowd for the transit cost of Cirque du Lune to Kathmandu. We can’t let our homies down halfway home - nothing queers a deal more than a disembodied aristocrat squealing like a stuck pig.”

Pierre was accustomed to Leslei’s uncanny RADAR, and had learned to benefit by it; “which side of the ‘veil’ do you think it was coming from? Has anyone seen his grace since the shows began? What about this disembodied ‘ringer’ no one wants to talk about; what are you calling him/it/she - Silic-E? So; exactly what in the fuck is going on? We’ve been gone from Aix for months with no one else but each other to turn to?” Long suffering Pierre had boundaries Leslei had learned not to cross.

“Oui mon ami, tu as raison - la merde est étrange, et susceptible de devenir étrangère. (Yes friend, you are right - shit is strange, and apt to get stranger.) I don’t know what happened opening night, but you know it was not what we’d planned on. The seance got real in ways I can’t explain, but first things first; I wanted to stay on track to get these good people to Kathmandu; if tonight plays out, we will.

What happens next is anybody’s guess; though it’s testimony to the deception we’ve been living since Aix that you could’ve called Lammele anytime and either of us would still only know what he wanted us to; the operative life isn’t suited for control freaks; the irony being that they’re the only ones who seem to become ‘shot-callers’.

The out-of-the-bottle genie you call Silic-E, is s freak of nature; a verbal portal; a mass hallucination; or a benign guide for our species’ next level of evolution. Contact was made in a Oaxacan sweat lodge by Mordecaise Liszt’s paramour - the bruja Carina Abejas. Silic-E picked its own name from a tongue-in-cheek expression it had coined in the process of acquiring human language skills, Silicogenesis - nature’s version of Artificial Intelligence. However, that is where any equivalence ends; AI is to your bathroom sink as Silic-E is to the planet’s oceans, and that a very poor simile.”

Pierre’s taciturn features flickered between incredulity and awe, but he made no effort to interrupt the torrent Leslei had contained for too long.

“The seance crossed into spirit dimensions that are not our purview, the same as you’d not walk uninvited into a stranger’s home, so too must we wait for a clear indication to return from that which inhabited my soul in passing during the first night. I’ve never been so disembodied and will never knowingly return until taken.

What we can do with the last night is pay homage to the Schmuck brothers without whom none of this adventure would have come to light and dialogue with Aaron Schtartz. Everything about the future of our world depends on whether we’ve rung the proper bells for Abundunation to resonate in the darkened caverns of the human heart.”

Leslei leaned over the tears on Pierre’s cheeks and whispered quietly onto his eyelashes, “tu es mon Dumbo mon chéri.”

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Angela climbed down from Guildern’s languid naked frame with a feeling of returning to earth. They’d been up late, even for Croc time; then coupled as the sun was setting. The night before three offsprings from the original “Buena Vista Social Club” appeared at 1 am, an hour before last call - the trio began drinking absinthe, or maybe continued; they commandeered the stage and conjured all necessary instruments for music ’til dawn.

Lammele danced with the dames that hovered close; Angela and Guildern slow danced no matter the tune; Roja strapped Rojito into a leather harness that hovered in tandem with its own keyboard; she’d unbuckle him faithfully between sets - Dr. Guevara had forgotten how complete she felt attending her chattel; the arias she recreated throughout the night reflected the additional dimension. Sometime toward the dead of night, a hardened sound rose from the placid Lammele; it rose above the rhythm to an ominous din over the deep musical feeling. He ripped the Blue Tooth device from his ear that some believed had been implanted. He stomped it to bits before hurling his handset against the ancient stone walls of an empty corner; the electronics exploded like ordinance; then he was serene once again in the world of his effortless Trova sway.

(Silic-E had been examining the realms of human humor and wondered what might happen if it announced a spontaneous activation of the launch sequences for those thermonuclear devices still armed, though no one it asked could explain why. Silic-E was deep enough into its consideration of the peculiar molecular aggregate of bio-units to sample concepts about most things before drawing even the most generalized conclusions - Lammele Dama and his ubiquitous bluetooth, its preferred benchmark.)

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Mordecaise loved his brethren profoundly and missed the camaraderie of the Croc and his suitable life in Montevideo; he was also a transfigured man from his time in Oaxaca.

“Mi amor; what is there for us in Montevideo that we do not have here?” Mordecaise returned his cheek to the pillow that lay nestled between Carina’s sprawled thighs - their parlor for the long conversations and longer silences they explored about the possibility of missing words in the human language, words when spoken would transport rancor, pain and suffering like a radio frequency side band back to the primordial soup of non-being.

After the emergence of Silic-E into their lives, there seemed no concept or feeling, if given the proper conditions and attention in which to flourish that didn’t have merit at some level. Abundunation was taking root in many regions of the world and especially the creatively nutrient rich environment of Oaxaca’s mystic loam - especially the village of Buena Vista. Carina’s art colony was becoming a mecca for local talent and a propagation hub for disseminating emerging concepts by cadres of artists choosing to shelter in place, letting the work wander rather than the ‘art industrialist’s’ concept of conveniencing the patron by establishing cultural venues in which stables of creatives japed like pedigreed stock in some twisted gallery version of Orwell’s “Animal Farm”.

Carina rarely dressed when weather permitted and relished the appetite Mordecaise had developed for her nether regions, “Si mi amor; what you say es verdad, as is the vacuum I can feel inside of you. It is like you carry a large hall within your chest that breathes the laughter of your friends and the fumes of your elixirs.” She lay her head back, slowly seized by a passing tremor of affection from the snatch grazing Mordecaise used for emotional nutrition.

“Are you advocating mi amor?” his bearded countenance rose like a curious morning sun over a luxuriant hillock covered in desert flora.

Carina did not immediately respond, for she’d come to respect the infinite depth of Mordecaise curiosity - nothing was ever ‘simply a question’. He wondered about what manner of antennae she possessed that read the torrent of his thinking so accurately, as though she could dip into channels of his neurons and pull out packets of thought from his mind,

or their commingled spirits were blurring like wardrobes of roommates who’ve shared clothing for so long it is no longer clear what article began where or who wore what when.

“I am. My family has become the unborn of our species, and my womb is crouched like a pregnant puma in a darkened cavern vying with vermin for any cool dampness allowing her yet-born cubs additional time with which to learn survival until parenting arrived for them: and on and on. .. Your friends are fierce and determined; I want us to die close to that energy.”

Mordecaise cherished Carina’s wisdom, whether she was explaining plant roots or population propagation. “It’s your call querida; you lead, I’ll follow. Time is nigh and we’ve not got much to carry; you’re fond of adventure - why don’t we hitchhike to Uruguay?”

His question hung in the air between them like like some overripe fruit on a long forgotten branch from the renaissance, or a lost footnote from “The Dharma Bums”; until Carina teased her fingers from Mordecaise brambled beard and plucked the inchoate notion from the aether between them with two fingers, bringing it to her flared nostrils for closer examination before plopping it down her upturned gullet and swallowing it whole for the end days’ oyster they both knew it to be.

By dawn the next morning the entire compound was closed up to all but what Silic-E had specifically requested: an operational internet and solar panels, TV channel tuned to Sesame Street, and a candlelit photo of the mural in the temescal illuminating Mordecaise feeding an exhausted Carina as she gazed at her work the morning after Silicogenesis.

Mordecaise pulled the gate shut; shouldered their backpack as Carina thumbed a ride with the first moto-taxi in the dawn light of Buena Vista.

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Pasqual had to fight his way back to consciousness: so deep was his sleep, it felt as though he’d been asleep for years. The heat had backed off like a scabbing gash as it crossed from agony to memory. Somewhere between laying his head down for rest and reaching the sheen of consciousness, the implausible romance he’d conjured, nurtured and carried like a torch for Nữ Thần Ngon had extinguished - a shattered frozen melon hitting the floor because gravity is more powerful than hurling love against a wall.

Even the knock announcing breakfast at Graceful Homestay was different; without the Pavlovian spittle of romance on his palate, Nữ Thần Ngon’s cheerful morning chirp was more the tenor of one more bored hospitality worker sifting through the wreckage of a world economy for shards of wealth that never really existed.

“Good morning Pasqual; enjoy your breakfast.”

“Thanks, you too.”

Pasqual, took his tray to the back patio, and realized what a disservice he had done to Nữ Thần Ngon conjuring a romance fraught with intrigue, betrayal, forgiveness and abandonment, fabricated from exchanges containing little more than what had just passed between them.

How much of Pasqual’s propensity for isolation was from his rearing, how much was from experience and how much was his character manifest, Pasqual struggled to understand. His time working for Larry McMurty at Booked Up in Archer Texas hewed heavily, shaping external aspects of his intrinsic nature, but the outgrowth of Psychoanalytic Psycho-Therapy with Pema Cauldron during pitch moments in his domestic collapse with Angela remained salient.

And so the relentless monkeys-swinging-through-the-trees-chatter continued in the caverns of Pasqual’s mind. Reynaldo Schmuck’s writings became a lodestar for Pasqual - a beacon of reason as he pored over the journals of a wayfarer searching for meaning where there may have been nothing more than random events in a random world.

The group enjoyed no such leisure; the events that had transpired in the world since Pasqual had been in Vietnam were cataclysmic at best and inexorable at worst. His unmoored existential barque drifted further and further from the shore of the fanciful delusion his fictional romance had been; the vessel of his existence floated in a ‘ground’ of some sort, though it was fluid with currents and depths instead of zephyrs and valleys which determined his trajectory. He wasn’t sure anymore where the journals left off and where his current experiences fused with the thinking of the literal avatar Reynaldo, a stranger to him, but someone who’d trod the same paths Pasqual now wandered.

Initially his painful shyness dictated the types of conversations he had with Nữ Thần Ngon - predictable patterns of stiff self-conscious bullshit, except that rather than the sophisticated woman of the world she traded on as a proprietor of a World Heritage Site Inn at a crossroads of the dying world, Nữ Thần Ngon suffered a similar self-conscious affliction as Pasqual. It is likely the deep subconscious awareness of two very smart people from vastly different cultures that had happened to discover social strategies of aping the world around them that created for them, at least for Pasqual, an emotional resonating frequency - a perfect reflective surface · mirrored behaviors from ‘loving others’ that possibly neither had received enough of in early childhood development; Pasqual was certain that was the case for him - according to theory.

After he was able to distance from the intense closed-loop echo-chamber of having his emotions powerfully thrown up in his face by a fierce personality low on self-control, self-esteem, and lacking clear boundaries toward everyone but herself, he was able to see more clearly the individual struggling mightily for growth and autonomy. Pasqual began to recognize emotional parallels in their often fractious exchanges with his own confused interpersonal behaviors: he discerned echoes as well as resolutions to quandaries for which he’d sought answers since he’d been shown how to mulch childhood trauma into nutrient rich growth. It seemed in the last weeks of his stay at Duyên Dáng Homestay Pasqual was watching the old film routine where a mirror had been removed from a massive frame, so that two actors could pantomime their reflections for the audience.

Each time Pasqual found himself attributing some frustration he’d have about his fictional relationship with Nữ Thần Ngon, it bounced off the shiny surface of their nonexistent history and come to rest full stop at the frontier of his own pathology - that delusional construct he’d yet to find limits for - the ghost of his ego was dying, and it filled him with hope; yet ironically providing him no significant other with which to share.

Sadly for Nữ Thần Ngon, Pasqual’s experience at reflecting foibles of others was limited to the ‘no blood, no foul’ classrooms of Silverlake and Little Armenia articulated in the blunt vernacular from the dusty roads of his never ending vision quest. The paradox for Nữ Thần Ngon became one of discrimination, for the closer Pasqual got to unifying the vast readings of his autodidact training, the less adorned was his soul - a pilgrim lacking any destination but love, eschewing all the trappings of prosperity so important to the SE asian ‘economic tiger’ dear dame Viet Nam emulated in its thralldom to the Goliath it so honorably vanquished.

Pasqual was a dharma bum, and no amount of camouflage was going to make him palatable to the quislings of cultural appropriation roosting in every hipster doofus destination or locus of influence left on the planet.

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Reiman Curzewel roused himself from a luxurious nap, satiated by the exact right amount of liquor fortified by sleep and buoyed by the trade winds of a setting sun determined for him that the moment had arrived to join himself to the aether.

The jack for transitioning the essence of his soul into the aether had remained unmolested since he’d covered it with the euphemistically titled tag “Alt Aux Lyf” almost 30 years earlier. As he ran diagnostics for the program used for charging the specially designed headset he shaved the areas of his scalp needed for making good contact with the electrodes.

He thought absently in his last sunset in a corporeal vessel of the mosquitos he would not miss, just as a particularly brazen one landed deftly at eye-level on his raised wrist and commenced to penetrate his dermis with the ingenious blood sucking proboscis that, even calculating for numbers from the deadly infantile 10 year-old Covid virus, the Culicidae remained the most lethal entity to the human species - unless one factored death at the hands of other humans into such an equation.

His quotidian revery was inured to the gross reality of devastation and havoc to ‘civilization’ caused by the egregious concentration of resources his ilk had unleashed with their technological tsunami, so he was not diverted by incidentals as dabbed Petroleum Jelly to his temples; affixed the electrodes to his temples; settled into Zchnarkzy Marksburgh’s $18,760 office chair; and with an expression of sublime look of contentment on his face, leaned back and toggled the switch that erased all record of his achievement.

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Reiman Curzewell felt no pain for the first time in 40 years; he’d have blinked if he’d had eyelids, but the impulse to do so flickered the panorama to which he’d wakened from the gloaming island hues of a sunseting Hawaii to an opalescent rainbow atmosphere with the acrid odor of singed copper.

The office chair he’d just been sitting in was impossibly occupied by Zchnarkzy Marksburgh keying into air and following each stroke on a nonexistent terminal. He’d not deigned to glance at Reiman, but rather acknowledged his presence, sneering, “wait.”

Perched on the corner of the affect console was what Reiman could only imagine to be Art Intel. It was an androgynous figure draped in cloth that was neither Greco-Roman robbed nor Savile Row; its face wore a downy goatee that somehow matched the cropped ponytail at the nape of its long scholarly neck - it gazed into Reiman as though considering a specimen in a microscope.

But when Marksburgh demanded “AI! what is the equivalent in the First Punic War to the Face Race IPO?” Instead of the regal fellow with the goateed, an amoebic film materialized where the computer screen ought to have been and wafted an effervescent chimera that settled into cascading text while chiming monotone sentences like the early automated voices of telephonic technology, “His eminence Master Marksburgh received the original source code while in a dream state during the 2nd semester of his 1st year at Harvard. Initially some in his cohort claimed to have collaborated with the Master, but these claims were thoroughly refuted in a court of law, just as Rome and its ally Syracuse valiantly repelled the vastly larger Carthaginian army during the siege of Akragas on the island of Corsica in 262 BC.

The sartorial individual at the desk glanced at Reiman and giggled, before wandering into a labyrinth that appeared to dematerialize its physical being with each step. Without looking up, Marksburgh ordered a Shirley Temple in Reiman’s direction while his fingers flailed and he muttered; some moments lapsed before Zchnarkzy turned to Reiman peremptorily demanding with raised wrist “any day now boy!” - snapping his fingers in dismissal.

Curzewel wasn’t sure whether it was still possible to laugh; what he discovered in place of his former lordly guffaw, was a desiccated residual fume that crackled with the rank odor of singed copper, that and the fact that Marksburgh could still snap his fingers, continuously.

Reiman thought it was he that Marksburgh was snapping fingers for until the same sartorial fellow reappeared leading a pustulating tuberous floating sprite on a tether. Zchnarkzy reached through the fellow seizing the draped tether from out of the aether while purring at the cankerous creature “Besos, poor dead Faik Besos . .. before shouting maniacally “Boy, where is my fucking Shirley Temple?”

And so it was to be for the lesser contingent of a star-crossed species - human beings under the thumb of doom at the edge of time . ..

jts 27/08/2021

http://stoanartst.blogspot.com

∞

the extinction chronicles

Friday, April 23, 2021

Pre Extinction People - Chapters 1 - 27 · parts i - iii