The breech of the Black Hand reverberated throughout the empire of “bought souls” as Faik Besos re-pressed the 'enter key' pleading for absolution through the most public forum he could imagine; Googol, ":- oh ¡! Black Hand please forgive me, the group is aware and tracks you.” wishing instead to have said, “dearest black hand i am sorry, please kill me.” - for at that same instant minions of empire within and without the Googol broadcast spectrum; Faik Besos was a made man, his future secure.
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Leslei apprehended her token position as “sacrificial lamb,” and knew herself to be 'la rostra' of the group's warship. The emergence of a known predicate for the evils surrounding humanity did little to isolate her from danger so faced with certain death she elected to tryst in the company of that handsome man-ass in sunglasses by dialing Pierre. “Hey handsome, what’s shakin’? I never expressed my proper appreciation for my rescue, à la ‘Pamela,’ what would you say to a topless drive along the Riviera for a weekend in St Tropez?”
“I'd say, I'm in; got keys to a pied-à-terre à with many ins & outs'; and you should know everything you've said for the past month has been recorded to be used as blood-in-the-water’, hunting you." 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 vous dites madame"
(“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 say my lady”)
Leslei decided to focus on their faire, not her apparel; 'the perverse whims of that child never needing rescue - reaction formation · wearing the antique race from the chateau differently, she toga's it into the topless theme; (flaunting poverty - art allegiance intact. Pierre arrived driving an-exhumed-from-somewhere-top-down Monte Carlo. Leslei had prepped for a Vitamin D soak in her re-purposed toga-goes-topless antique tapestry
Pierre was digging the free-thinker Leslei was revealing herself to be, while he historian enough to tuck her tapestry tassels well into the cockpit of their conveyance.
The banquet of post-pandemic regulations nurtured scofflaw fashion across all sectors of the planet; therefore odds of the two making it topless to the coast were better than average; nor were they to be the only two tramping topless along the Riviera.
Heading south to Marseilles from the Parc Naturel Régional du Verdon: they found themselves heading due east on the coast road in compatible company of Alfa convertibles Leslei confirmed this by scribbling “St Tropez” in bold letters on torn cardboard, flashing it with enthusiastic replies on similar scraps. One half hour down the road, three become six; then 9, by the outskirts of St. Tropez, the topless 'Riviera Express' numbered eighteen sports cars, 18 drivers and 18 topless, laughing women - paradise in any other world but the pandemic pre-extinction painting these intrepid revelers were tableauxing.
Between the first roundabout to the St. Tropez thoroughfare their numbers doubled to 36 coupes of half-naked laughing couples in an Hieronymus Bosch vortex of synchronistic memory to as long as memories might.
Three times 'round the roundabout; Pierre yanked a hard right right across the spiriling current their close cohort of wheeled harmony had just been charging the motored steed on twisted roads past windswept junipers through a motorized gate one arc beat through its three cycle rhythm rolling to a halt within a canopy shadow of ancient Wisteria purple petals
Leslei tumbled out her car seat half naked, in bikini bottoms to fling her fist full at the dancing jaw of the for-some-reason-ready Pierre so hard he was still rolling when the fell onto pavement-hard Wisteria carpet: heralding in a weekend of unreasonable frolic and saturnalian debauchery in the 'used to be' sacrosanct domain of the ruling elite, now just buffer between one world and the next.
“Da’ fuck you do that for?” Pierre asked searching for the right blend of humor and respect.
“I've gotten precious little pleasure in these past months, then for some fuck to jack 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 fragrand entranceway before Pierre had time to chase up the steps to unlock the door for the same dame who moments earlier had whisked him to the ground like a piece of lint, now found himself cheek-to-jowl asking what he could carry.
“It’s all about timing Pierre, you just caught me at a ‘good time’,” she remarked dropping the picnic basket into his pleading hands. Leslei found an empire table and placed her tapestry lengthwise bisecting an oblique sun ray as though just back from the cleaners; leaving Pierre in an oblique shadow of curiosity.
'Maybe the rich do know how to live?’, she thought, doffing her bikini bottom and disappearing into the reflection of the Golf de St Tropez on the surface of an infinity pool.
"Neither of you said as much, but Lammele Dama asked you to be my chaperone to St. Tropez, right? Let me put it another way, if you are here because of Lammele Dama, get out before you learn the limits of my patience,” corkscrewing her lithe frame onto the patio, pinioning his knees in a gentle lock, peering over her shoulder at his curious expression? "terror, temptation, or handsome?."
Pierre slowly unbuckled the Yves St Laurent belt, unbuttoned Levis', pushing passed her locked arms; kicked his Gucci loafers into the pool, helping her pull clothes off enough for him make it into the water; their copulation instant and blunt; joy unfeigned and full; nor the world far behind. Beethoven’s 9th said to Leslei the call was from Lammele Dama; her still panting libido answered, “Hello Lammele; glad it's you - interesting morning;” recounting the drive and spectacle, leaving out nakedness and her dripping lover. “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're all dead?”
Lammele adding non-sequitur to non-sequitur; “Pierre is an operative; he flew next to you from Marseilles to Aix; I had sent him too late to be of any help in your abduction; but 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 know of 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, isolate, do not engage.)
3) Mordecaise may be able to learn of an Economic Revolutionary in the South of France.
Faik Besos has imploded - the 3 cheeses are now number 2; making them less dangerous, but more desperate. 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 ‘viva la tryst!’ she thought.
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 one so sweet and so creative, but we are on a mission to save the human species, as if it would know the difference. Let's have some dress up reconnaissance? Just because we are, doesn’t mean we have to appear in public as Hoi Polloi - correct me, but I wager you know of a surplus tuxedo very near and something shear near my size?t
‘Resourceful renegade’ didn’t begin to fit Pierre’s fantasies about her; “As it happens there are such accoutrements in the guest bedroom from a night not long ago, Why do you ask?"
“Our disheveled arrival was very conspicuous, and if we are being hunted, we may as well lean into 'it'. The pack we burst in with, thrives on notoriety; with with a few quick turns through town in contra-apparel there will draw enough 'joiners' wanting to to 'slum', by late afternoon/early evening ‘the well heeled’ and ‘the half-naked’ will no longer be sure who is who? à la 'My Man Godfrey' with Carole Lombard and William Powell”
“I think you are the devious minx who first said ‘What is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly’.”
What was left as Pierre explained his thinking, was how to mine useful intelligence from such an unorthodox strategy deep in the enemy’s stronghold. Leslei saw he was more than just another pretty face, and remarked “I am a fly in the ointment to those seeking, ‘the nut’, a 'honey pot' for those serving 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 can sell shares to ‘the nut,’ bedazzling them hunting ‘the nut’, while those serving ‘the nut’ will be able to discern the difference and distinguish one from the other easily enough. We'll need a vantage point far enough above the fray 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 t 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 nutrition, to dress, and they were on their way
Her tapestry was proving to be very versatile as a garment; transforming the two from Riviera road-trip half-naked rebels into landed gentry from a Roger Corman 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 store just this side of the frontier for the rich and famous certain she could find just what Pierre required to complete Pierre's costume. Minutes later she exited the store, top hat in hand, which fit Pierre to a “T;” he stubbed out the marijuana butt after Leslei declined - the day may have been expiring, the night was fetal.
Pierre climbed behind Leslei aboard the Vespa caressing her female-form love handles adorned in his 'Gatsby' helmet, gathered madame’s tassels into his waistcoat, they were setting off to set off hoards parading west to the gaping Big Top maw for a 'night at the circus.' After three circuits through the narrow confines of a restless Mediterranean paradise throbbing from the not yet nascent 'SteamPunk' pressed up against the rapidly passing prosaic, gaining on the 'rapture' with a little help from Cirque du Lune
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Lammele had been avoiding the call; waiting for a better hand to play but cresting events were rapidly undermining the group’s latitude leaving less to lose by 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 11.7% of the UHNWI on the planet - where the first outbreak of Covid 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; while based on Lammele’s finely tuned WAG, only surfacing 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 take your life with a glance?”
“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 Bobby Sortiz; facilitate whatever Domhall Schmuck had worked out with the Economic Revolution for implementation: 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'm 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 still most formidable war mechanism ever conceived, now over 87.5% "a iEye" augmentally-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, 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 the 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, robust and inured to incompetence · we need the old corporate dodge used when they were no longer willing to pay the freight and swapped out customer service in favor of ‘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 anonymous accounts 'abundunated' by ‘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 schema 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.”
. .. so Fate set out leading Destiny .. .
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
20 May 2026
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com
http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com
prohibited from AI sampling in any form
reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
∞
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