part iii Chapter 19
Leslei was high on the back of Dumbo the elephant in the South of France on her way to Kathmandu Nepal, feeling over her head, more than knowing it. Lammele was right, allies could easily be found and enemies could not hide quickly enough. Pierre as ‘Master of Ceremonies’ needed more seasoning for what was being asked of him, though a quick study. Leslei had no game plan for the residual Alfa-Romeo-half-naked-parade still trailing the two of them with no signs of splintering; Leslei enjoyed the verdant juice the boisterous adventurers channeled into the equation - still lush after a 300 kilometer, 72 hour warmup; the unkempt barely clothed revelers continued spewing love like glitter as the eclectic assemblage headed East out of St. Tropez led by an elephant pushing a top-hatted ringmaster while toting a sequined impresario.
John Lennon’s “Imagine” was blaring loud enough somewhere to generate reverb-feedback; echoing loving synchronicity for the half-naked parade for all within earshot. Ever the I
innovative impresario, especially when 'on-the-fly', Leslei extrapolated a plan from inchoate, disparate images: pendants-placards-poincarè conjectures, audible luminescence, elusive glimpses of meaning coalescing through the proskenion lens of Leslei's 3rd eye - 'a clothing-optional' prayer-seance to summon the memory of Harry Houdini for the city of Monaco - channeling Dame Maria Sabina's world 'both near and far'.
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; the rigors of such an event were perfect for trimming effete 'poser' adipose from the troupe prior to the journey and relocation of the Cirque du Lune to Kathmandu and a great opportunity for raising funds. What was left was flushing out a public relations expert capable of promulgating and monetizing the peculiar character of this seminal event within the long annals human history; 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 hoping to tie up loose ends that get tangled when kidnapped.
When Nữ Thần Ngon answered; Pasqual pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth from just hearing 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 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 'Purple Haze' in Hue. I hope you'll be okay; see you soon.” With a click, Nữ Thần Ngon was gone. 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 unmoored without regular contact with his homies, but felt closely hitched to the mission; he wondered how the group's diverse objectives would ever coalesce into a critical mass of uniform determination enough to sustain the deoxyribonucleic acid of our 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 massive interest and commentary for this production compared to the other 2 in Asia: one in Kathmandu, one 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 local time or circumstance - just wanting contact.
Pasqual could easily visualize the bearded grin aping loudly, “S’up; are we having fun or what? ”Pasqual realized how much he missed his lanky friend’s puerile exuberance.
“Yeah, a real hoot; what about you? - ‘talking to computers’; who's kidding who, or are you just bored? I told you to keep the vitamins out of your Tinto Rojo.”
“What Tinto Rojo, all they drink up here is Mezcal, y es la bomba. You're one to talk - 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'm 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, near as I know's doing ‘speedballs’ in Frisco’s Tenderloin; Oh! how the ‘mighty’ have fallen.”
Pasqual was feeling the man's mirth; “keep me posted about what you squeeze from Tito, Leslei’s got a sense he’s more than a ‘butt buddy' to Besos’s, and she takes nothing personal.” Pasqual waited for his friend’s tobacco stained voice.
“Seen any boost in local spending? I doubt people'll be bragging; ‘Yeah! my account’s up 3.14%; still there’s gotta be some smiling faces out there - I’ve seen 'em, even here in rustic 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 please keep in mind, 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, they's 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 - we all know you are - I gotta say ‘cause Carina wants you to know, the ‘singularity thing’ you been waiting on is 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 your 'Art-Intel' 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 'aped' 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'se still listening Reiman Curzewel you bent fuck - get a life.)”
The magic of Mordecaise 'the operative' lit up the call at that moment; “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: an online newspaper - ’The Abundunation Gazette,’ publish through Craigslist.org, with the main emphasis on classified ads - especially the theatrical variety; very retro which always sells - ’The more things change, the more they remain the same.’ - old french proverb.
What about you, 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 do want us to do with Tito; you think he can be turned? He’d be a great asset with what he knows about the cheeses’, modus operandi; who can be turned; who’s a hater to the bone¿"
Pasqual's response was colored; “You’re closer to him; he give you any confidence? is he just another sad fuck who wandered down a wrong alley - an emotional cipher preying on low hanging fruit? I hate to say it, but we need partisans; hiring unemployed mercenaries from the DEA wars like Tito, or the middle eastern culture wars, saddle us with an armed and trained 5th column leaving us more vulnerable than we 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 placing a vice-like grip on Pasqual's elbow dragging him through a labyrinth of rooms and hallways he hadn’t 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 waiting scooter; mounted behind the driver, Pasqual glanced back to see Trâu Bet dematerialize into the vines he’d just emerged from.
The semi-anonymous pair 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 his conspicuous face; they then rode for hours, well past dark pulling into small pagoda adjacent to the scent and sound of a wide body of water with the echoes of fowl and tide; 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 punkish first thing; he tried to swallow water from the glass on the night stand, and gagged spraying spit over the bedsheets unable to even pass spit down his sandpapered throat. He pulled the thermometer from the drawer waving Angela away miming for her to close it behind her. They both had been down the 'sick rabbit' hole, and knew the drill. He could feel sweat forming on his brow while damp clammy death sat on his chest, pinning his shoulder blades to the sheets.
It was dumb luck, Angela who'd been in Patagonia scouting venues for the past two weeks; just arrived back that morning as Guildern spewed water onto their bed sheets. Flinging all the windows open upstairs and down, she blocked the front door open with a table baring entrance; slathering her hands, forearms and face in the antiseptic lotion; in a fog she 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 still washed over South America and the world for the past 2 decades. The virus would be beaten back for a time until a mutation levitated from the ever shallow puddle of medical knowledge within a daily more 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 to inform 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; he replied the only logical way possible, “darlng liv, plz wipe 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 upstairs refrig and yanked his bug-bag full of ‘dead man’ papers into a pile - ‘will’ and ‘power of attorney’ at the top of the stack; shoving the lot into his lambskin portfolio, he pounded 1,200 mg of crushed ascorbic acid mixed in a snifter of Hennessy XO down his sandpapered gullet - ‘if you gotta go, may as well be comfortable’, he thought, settling into the sweat-stained sheets of the potential tomb, of his contaminated bistro . .. ··· peering into the tiny screen of his handset that just became the lifeline on a possibly very hairy, very short ride to his suddenly telescoping existence. ‘Where’s my charger?’ he thought trying to focus on Angela’s text:
“Darling, let go of the negative I'm seeing through your mind’s eye; NO, you ain’t gonna die · I forbid it. Your shot's issue date is only 18 months old, and very likely destroying whatever bug you’re fighting, yes?
I understand you're scared, I’m scared with you and we are one my love · breathe; then breathe some more. Good thing you quit smoking when I said so, 4 years back? - a joke, lover - laugh · I'm telling you; you and your immune system can thank me later.”
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 into the growing fog and his 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 identity opening for Venceramos Brigade - for Dr. Roja Guevara was, however improbable, the great granddaughter of el 'Che Guevara.'
Roja had graduated Medical School the same year as the 1st outbreak; but after half a decade battling daily death, she fled as far from medicine as borders would permit. Out of a one night tryst with Rojito in a punk nightclub in Cuenca Ecuador, Roja convinced herself she could disappear into the whole cloth world alternative music as easily as any other: that she was able to confide this delicate reality with Angela reflected the Drs journey toward greater wellness . .. that the two shared a focus for planetary recovery, only deepened the improbable mystery.
solidarność
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
31 May 2026
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