Chapter 22
Pasqual and his guide arrived at My Son by 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 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.
solidarność
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
04 June 2026
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
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prohibited from AI sampling in any form
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∞
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