THE GO-BETWEEN
The man across from the literary fugitive looks and sounds like a British fop, down to a monocle, tweed jacket, and lavender ascot. It's a good impersonation of a literary intellectual-- yet something is fake about the performance. The rebel doesn't buy it. Then again, he hasn't bought anything about what's presented as contemporary American literature.
"The problem is you," the faux-Brit tells him, as if reading his mind. "Your paranoia. It's all in your head. You have to learn to ignore what you see and hear. Your judgement is faulty. Haven't we proven that? Can the entire literary establishment be wrong, and you right?"
They sit at a table in a barroom connected to a Romanian restaurant. Outside is the gray devastation of what's left of Detroit-- abandoned structures everyplace. Empty office buildings. The reflection from blood-red neon letters in the bar's windows casts across soot on a sidewalk down which scurry hungry red-eyed rats. The literary fop is oblivious.
"Your own movement abandoned you! You took them farther than they wanted to go-- against the immutable laws of society. They're more comfortable in their natural station. They enjoy the bottom. They never wanted to question the aristocrats. YOU made them do it."
"Aristocrats?" the rebel asks. "Are there?"
"There are and there are not. Background means nothing. How can you hold good people to their parents, or their school? 'Ivy League' indeed! It doesn't matter. They are who they are and where they are. THESE are our writers; designated and accepted. Everyone accepts it. Except--"
The man's finger slowly raises and begins to turn, until it's pointing directly at the fugitive.
"You!" the go-between says in a threat of a whisper.
The other realizes the man who speaks is wearing a mask-- if he's a man at all. The face is a mask. Everything about him is fake. The character embodies training and talent without soul; technique and rules without life-- one of a class of writers with no honesty, honor, or ethics. Two more beers arrive, paid for by the fop's glistening credit card. "Drink!" comes the fake one's command. The rebel wants instead to stand up and rip off the mask. Behind it he senses many spaces, many games; many rooms.
"Who are you?" the rebel asks. "Who's your boss? Who's the Assassin?"
The representative of the literary establishment grins and quips.
"I'd tell you, you know, but you tell everything. That's your problem. You want to tell all of literature's secrets. But some people don't want you telling their secrets."
As the fop moves forward to taste his own beer, the mask slips. His hand rushes to keep it in place. The fugitive imagines a glimpse of his greatest enemy. His mind reels. He all but falls from his chair.
"What?" the hired performer across from him asks.
The fugitive has stood. His eyes circle around the room, and at the lonely streets outside. He feels instinctively the tightening of a trap, realizing to his shock what he saw behind the false face: NOTHING AT ALL.
The spectre behind the ascot and monocle watches with amusement. A moment later it's gone. Darkness has appeared outside the bar's expanding windows. On the table remain empty beer glasses and a monocle.
"At least he paid the bill," the rebel reasons inside the cloudiness of his head.
As he walks outside, scout cars with blue flashing lights pull up from every direction. Masked and uniformed Literature Police officers carrying nightsticks step purposefully out from them. The rebel's hands are cuffed behind his back; nightsticks within his arms prodding him to his knees, then to the ground. His face feels the coldness of the street as throbbing blue bands of light dance against buildings and into the deep blackness of the nightime sky.
*****************************************
NEXT: "The Court of the Demi-Puppets."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE CHASE
Alarm bells clang-- clang! clang!-- around the literary fugitive, until he realizes they're inside his head. These are crazy warning signs as he stumbles over debris in the gray city, shadowy demi-puppets closing in on all sides. The Assassin directs operations. The fugitive understands the technique. He'll be driven like a hunted animal to a position of no escape, at which point the hunter will arrive to administer the coup de grace.
He's half-a-mile from Detroit's downtown-- its moody buildings, many of them empty. If he can make it there. . . .
The fugitive climbs through an abandoned building and exits on the other end, rushing into giant weeds; crouching-- panting-- to hide. Before him, after vacant land and an expressway, waits the somber tall structures into which he can run and find a public place. From there-- what? He'll be backed up against the green river which borders the gray towers.
What awaits? The everpresent spectre in white.
He sees the feline ghost fairly leap in his direction-- product of his imagination?-- gleeful; surrounded by evil minions; fearsome; relentless; deep blue eyes within the white mask casting about for the escaping prey. The Assassin's white mask moving across the broken landscape edges closer, and closer.
He ponders the Assassin's identity. He sees three possibilities:
1.) A member of the literary establishment.
2.) A past enemy.
3.) A complete stranger-- a psychopath carrying extreme hatred.
There's a fourth possibility: a combination of all of these.
If he can somehow get behind the Assassin-- otherwise the surging demi-puppets will block his way. He decides to move north, briefly, then circle around and approach his goal from another side. He creeps into a chaotic wrecked neighborhood and begins walking swiftly, not in the direction they'll anticipate.
He enters a land of dogs; scores of snarling beasts with angry eyes, lords of an abandoned section of the city. They recognize in his hard cast and scarred, unshaven face a soulmate. His wariness of them is exceeded by the terror of what he flees.
After an hour he sees downtown from another vantage point. It could be another city. The dark river flows close-- he can smell it. The river and the dogs throw off his scent. The mad posse is nowhere in sight.
Casually he strolls into the corridor streets. He finds an open Kinko's and checks his email. There's one message in his in-box.
"Meet my representative at the restaurant on top of the rise. Neutral territory."
The fleeing rebel knows the location-- a Romanian place with many glass windows and large red letters outside.
The email is signed:
"THE ASSASSIN."
Alarm bells clang-- clang! clang!-- around the literary fugitive, until he realizes they're inside his head. These are crazy warning signs as he stumbles over debris in the gray city, shadowy demi-puppets closing in on all sides. The Assassin directs operations. The fugitive understands the technique. He'll be driven like a hunted animal to a position of no escape, at which point the hunter will arrive to administer the coup de grace.
He's half-a-mile from Detroit's downtown-- its moody buildings, many of them empty. If he can make it there. . . .
The fugitive climbs through an abandoned building and exits on the other end, rushing into giant weeds; crouching-- panting-- to hide. Before him, after vacant land and an expressway, waits the somber tall structures into which he can run and find a public place. From there-- what? He'll be backed up against the green river which borders the gray towers.
What awaits? The everpresent spectre in white.
He sees the feline ghost fairly leap in his direction-- product of his imagination?-- gleeful; surrounded by evil minions; fearsome; relentless; deep blue eyes within the white mask casting about for the escaping prey. The Assassin's white mask moving across the broken landscape edges closer, and closer.
He ponders the Assassin's identity. He sees three possibilities:
1.) A member of the literary establishment.
2.) A past enemy.
3.) A complete stranger-- a psychopath carrying extreme hatred.
There's a fourth possibility: a combination of all of these.
If he can somehow get behind the Assassin-- otherwise the surging demi-puppets will block his way. He decides to move north, briefly, then circle around and approach his goal from another side. He creeps into a chaotic wrecked neighborhood and begins walking swiftly, not in the direction they'll anticipate.
He enters a land of dogs; scores of snarling beasts with angry eyes, lords of an abandoned section of the city. They recognize in his hard cast and scarred, unshaven face a soulmate. His wariness of them is exceeded by the terror of what he flees.
After an hour he sees downtown from another vantage point. It could be another city. The dark river flows close-- he can smell it. The river and the dogs throw off his scent. The mad posse is nowhere in sight.
Casually he strolls into the corridor streets. He finds an open Kinko's and checks his email. There's one message in his in-box.
"Meet my representative at the restaurant on top of the rise. Neutral territory."
The fleeing rebel knows the location-- a Romanian place with many glass windows and large red letters outside.
The email is signed:
"THE ASSASSIN."
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE LITERARY PARTY
"Aggressive white men
toxic with testosterone;
polar ice caps melt
like grilled cheese.
Laughing white male faces;
the bird tarries.
Vanilla ice cream cone
dripping onto the street.
The flavor escapes me."
The neutered poet concludes his short work to the ladies' applause. He's sweating at the exertion of having read. The facsimile of a man looks to Margo for approval.
The literary people sit on the veranda of a suburban mansion at pale orange tables with pastel green sun umbrellas, sipping from pink and green lemonade drinks.
Attractive Margo nods her head. The soft poet happily resumes his seat next to Mrs. Vanden Snot, a major patron. The exhausted poet melts in his seat. Mrs. Vanden Snot flaps air at him with a silk fan. The man is surrounded by fit women. A planetary visitor would peg him as the weaker sex.
The women resume their talk.
"Order or chaos."
"The Joker-- an apt metaphor."
"One gross crime after another."
"Dissent for the sake of dissent."
"Their crazy leader."
"Rank and not-to-be endured behavior."
"What of their class status?"
"Bosh! Our diversity speaks for itself."
An elegantly groomed blue lawn spreads before them.
The conversation circles around Margo, a powerful, mature woman with brown kinky hair. At the edge of the gathering, a pretty doctoral student named Maryann glides in, late.
She slinks behind a table to hide her tennis player legs. Margo takes notice.
"Why do you hide there, girl? You have a confused mix of colors today."
Maryann wears a skimpy red-and-black dress, bright yellow leotards, and white boots. The ensemble is mismatched.
"Oh!" she says, noticing her boots. Her eyes look up. She's a relative newcomer who's been adopted by the group.
"I was in a rush," Maryann explains. "A meeting. You know."
The yellow color puts the legs on display, which pauses the discussion. They're quite . . . athletic.
The male poet is choking on his lemonade. A petite Mexican waitress with red skin and black hair brings Maryann a tall glass of iced tea. The student flicks the girl away, then brushes strands of hair off her forehead.
The refined people discuss the destruction of the rebels, a disagreeable but necessary task. Best to be done offstage. They wish to avoid any mess.
While they talk, the new arrival plays with her dress.
"There is no place for them in our world," Margo announces. "Is there, Maryann?"
The distracted student is again the focus. Her dark blue eyes rise. They're very powerful.
"Oh. Er, ah, no."
The talk sweeps on.
"They have no reason, no cause," Mrs. Vanden Snot insists.
"Dinosaur white males," another adds, to much hilarity.
The pasty-faced poet laughs also.
Margo sums up the prevalent attitude, glancing first at the younger woman across the way, a gesture toward nascent, unused force-- the only potential competition for her in this group.
"We need no justification to destroy the rebels, other than they are the Other," Margo states as her shoulders shift and her eyes cast around for possible rebellion. "That's sufficient reason. There can be no outsiders other than ourselves, within the system. There's only the system."
"What of their ideas?"
"I refuse to acknowledge they have ideas!"
Everyone laughs.
(Next: THE CHASE.)
"Aggressive white men
toxic with testosterone;
polar ice caps melt
like grilled cheese.
Laughing white male faces;
the bird tarries.
Vanilla ice cream cone
dripping onto the street.
The flavor escapes me."
The neutered poet concludes his short work to the ladies' applause. He's sweating at the exertion of having read. The facsimile of a man looks to Margo for approval.
The literary people sit on the veranda of a suburban mansion at pale orange tables with pastel green sun umbrellas, sipping from pink and green lemonade drinks.
Attractive Margo nods her head. The soft poet happily resumes his seat next to Mrs. Vanden Snot, a major patron. The exhausted poet melts in his seat. Mrs. Vanden Snot flaps air at him with a silk fan. The man is surrounded by fit women. A planetary visitor would peg him as the weaker sex.
The women resume their talk.
"Order or chaos."
"The Joker-- an apt metaphor."
"One gross crime after another."
"Dissent for the sake of dissent."
"Their crazy leader."
"Rank and not-to-be endured behavior."
"What of their class status?"
"Bosh! Our diversity speaks for itself."
An elegantly groomed blue lawn spreads before them.
The conversation circles around Margo, a powerful, mature woman with brown kinky hair. At the edge of the gathering, a pretty doctoral student named Maryann glides in, late.
She slinks behind a table to hide her tennis player legs. Margo takes notice.
"Why do you hide there, girl? You have a confused mix of colors today."
Maryann wears a skimpy red-and-black dress, bright yellow leotards, and white boots. The ensemble is mismatched.
"Oh!" she says, noticing her boots. Her eyes look up. She's a relative newcomer who's been adopted by the group.
"I was in a rush," Maryann explains. "A meeting. You know."
The yellow color puts the legs on display, which pauses the discussion. They're quite . . . athletic.
The male poet is choking on his lemonade. A petite Mexican waitress with red skin and black hair brings Maryann a tall glass of iced tea. The student flicks the girl away, then brushes strands of hair off her forehead.
The refined people discuss the destruction of the rebels, a disagreeable but necessary task. Best to be done offstage. They wish to avoid any mess.
While they talk, the new arrival plays with her dress.
"There is no place for them in our world," Margo announces. "Is there, Maryann?"
The distracted student is again the focus. Her dark blue eyes rise. They're very powerful.
"Oh. Er, ah, no."
The talk sweeps on.
"They have no reason, no cause," Mrs. Vanden Snot insists.
"Dinosaur white males," another adds, to much hilarity.
The pasty-faced poet laughs also.
Margo sums up the prevalent attitude, glancing first at the younger woman across the way, a gesture toward nascent, unused force-- the only potential competition for her in this group.
"We need no justification to destroy the rebels, other than they are the Other," Margo states as her shoulders shift and her eyes cast around for possible rebellion. "That's sufficient reason. There can be no outsiders other than ourselves, within the system. There's only the system."
"What of their ideas?"
"I refuse to acknowledge they have ideas!"
Everyone laughs.
(Next: THE CHASE.)
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Chapter Thirty-Three
THE ASSASSIN!
************************************
(Scrolling down the movie screen):
THE MOST DEPRAVED GENERATION IN AMERICAN HISTORY IS LIVING NOW, LEADING LIVES OF CONFORMITY WHICH HIDE SOULS OF DEPRAVITY. THESE CONSUMERIST GENTRY REQUIRE PUPPET ARMIES TO SUSTAIN THEIR PRIVILEGED STATUS AGAINST BOLD REBELS WHO FIGHT FOR GOOD AGAINST ESTABLISHED EVIL. . . .
************************************
Irresistible hate. The Man in the Black Hat senses this emotion as soon as the figure walks into the warehouse accompanied by the callow youth who found her. Black hat motions to hidden bodyguards. Shadowy hands grab Willie and toss him outside. A steel door closes.
The men in the room question whether she should fear being alone with them-- or should they instead fear being alone with her?! The Assassin strides forward until she stands in front of Black Hat's desk, staring down with large tilted head at him.
Her sudden presence fills the spacious room. She wears a white jumpsuit over her taut form, with pointed white leather boots, and skin-tight white gloves on her hands with dark red stains on them. He can't see behind her mask, but senses sarcastic features as her sharp blue eyes study him. She's adopted an arrogant yet casual stance, unsettling for reasons no one can fathom. How has the atmosphere in this space of control become so changed-- so charged-- in mere moments?
***********************************
The Defense Committee for Overprivileged Writers meets in a green and gray warehouse moments before the arrival of the spectral creature they've gone to great trouble to hire. The handful of discreetly-dressed men sit in a semi-circle of chairs on a concrete floor, amid deep yellow crates which stand behind a gray metal desk. As they talk in hushed tones, eyes glance warily at a waiting door. One set of eyes, behind glasses, stares at the door most intently.
"Afraid to be here?" the Man in the Black Hat mocks him.
The man in glasses clears his throat. Nerdy and unshaven, he resembles Jonathan Franzen.
"I understand the mission," he puts in.
"YOU should, Black Hat emphasizes, pointing at him.
Objectively, like mad scientists they discuss the creation of an agent; how a struggling person of ambition can be utilized as a tool if caught early enough. It's a tried-and-true technique; the philosophy behind the Blue Caps of the Bolsheviks and the S.S. of the Nazis.
A short man with black hair explains the process to his more aristocratic-looking colleagues. The Weasel, is how he's known.
"The prospects obsess over work and struggle. We use that to bind them to us; to wash from their minds all conscience to keep them on a narrow track. Always there must be an Enemy as focus. This the Rebellion readily provides. The result is the ultimate literary terrorist, programmed to destroy literary terrorists!"
The Weasel smiles with difficulty. His person appears damaged, or deformed, amid the rigid bearing of the others. He sits at an angle as if his back had been broken, peering up at the ruddy Overdog in the black hat across from him.
"The art of the matter," Black Hat talks over him, "is to program the selected agents without their knowing they've been programmed. Presumably this has been accomplished."
"Indeed!" the Weasel answers, black beady eyes glistening as they look up at the man.
Angles of yellow and gray light crisscross the scene. Black Hat rises and sits behind the steel desk which faces the warehouse door as the other men fade into shadow. . . .
**************************************
Now the glowing white spirit is before them.
"Forgive the white mask," the Assassin sneers. "But then, you wear a black one!"
She refers to the veil.
"We're not alike," Black Hat tells her with what tries to be an assertive voice, though it sounds weak next to hers. "Remember that. You're hired to do a job. You'll do what I want. The alternative for you is to be as obliterated as the person you're about to obliterate."
She doesn't reply. Her intelligence burns through the mask at him. He senses her sneer widen. He's happy she wears a mask. Never would he care to see that face.
The camera pulls back to reveal the other members of the Defense Committee. The Weasel grins. The unshaven writer looks away and his hands flutter in his lap. His chair is turned sideways, signalling halfway participation in the project. Part of him wishes not to be here. The other part is compelled to ask a question of the ghost-like character they've hired. He clears his throat.
"Do you know clearly what you're undertaking?" he asks.
The brooding eyes behind the mask turn contemptuously on him.
"I know who I contend with. There's enough talk in literary cirlces to suggest your target is the same. It's, um, rather obvious!"
The Weasel quickly responds.
"Yes, yes," he says. "Obvious to us all. But how do you propose to do it?"
A widening smile before them.
"Good sirs, take off the head and the body is dead. The movement will wither. That's the first step. He's unable to avoid contact. His ego won't allow it! He'll welcome his doom. That I know. It'll be glorious to provide it. Gladly will I destroy literary scum. I'll take down the literary pretender to save the literary art."
"You're a writer?" the Franzen-like character asks.
"You can call me that."
"Of what school? Which program did you attend? Which teachers did you have?"
"The teachers of life! But don't worry, good sir. I've amended my underground status. I've atoned for past crimes. My official learning may now exceed yours. Not to put myself in your lofty realm; I know the gap between us. As to what school I belong to, I'm a Stoic and a Cynic. I'm an Epicurean also. A hedonist, a narcissist, an exhibitionist; yet also a hermit, alone unto myself. I'm of the world and apart from it; ruined by it and repulsed by it, yet thoroughly embracing it. I'm an Imperial Roman; a corrupted product of our time."
As she finishes she bows her head. The voice from behind the mask is more vibrant, more threatening, more authoritative, more filled with meaning than any they've heard before. The men smile. Victory is guaranteed for them, they're certain.
The camera zooms in on the man behind the black veil. His lips move. The voice on the soundtrack becomes peevish.
"My friend has died . . . his funeral . . . they mocked him. They mocked me! You know how they confronted us at Columbia. You went against their leader before and must do so again. Obliterate, obliterate, obliterate, obliterate. No rebellion. NO REBELLION."
The mysterious white-clad figure in front of him bows its head, like a creation of his imagination; mad compulsive product of his id.
"Bring out the dummy," Black Hat orders.
An effigy of the ULA's former leader is wheeled out. The black-veiled literary scion looks at the Assassin, then points to the dummy.
"Kill it," he says.
The room explodes in violence. Before the onlookers can blink the effigy has been kicked, punched, stomped, decapitated; the stuffing knocked out of it; sawdust scattered about the large space. What's left of the dummy lies face first on the concrete floor, a knife protruding from its back.
"Well done," Black Hat comments.
Those behind him enthusiastically applaud. Even hesitant Franzen joins in.
"May the upcoming encounter go as well," the Franzen character tentatively adds, squeamish about the necessity of what's to come.
************************************
(Scrolling down the movie screen):
THE MOST DEPRAVED GENERATION IN AMERICAN HISTORY IS LIVING NOW, LEADING LIVES OF CONFORMITY WHICH HIDE SOULS OF DEPRAVITY. THESE CONSUMERIST GENTRY REQUIRE PUPPET ARMIES TO SUSTAIN THEIR PRIVILEGED STATUS AGAINST BOLD REBELS WHO FIGHT FOR GOOD AGAINST ESTABLISHED EVIL. . . .
************************************
Irresistible hate. The Man in the Black Hat senses this emotion as soon as the figure walks into the warehouse accompanied by the callow youth who found her. Black hat motions to hidden bodyguards. Shadowy hands grab Willie and toss him outside. A steel door closes.
The men in the room question whether she should fear being alone with them-- or should they instead fear being alone with her?! The Assassin strides forward until she stands in front of Black Hat's desk, staring down with large tilted head at him.
Her sudden presence fills the spacious room. She wears a white jumpsuit over her taut form, with pointed white leather boots, and skin-tight white gloves on her hands with dark red stains on them. He can't see behind her mask, but senses sarcastic features as her sharp blue eyes study him. She's adopted an arrogant yet casual stance, unsettling for reasons no one can fathom. How has the atmosphere in this space of control become so changed-- so charged-- in mere moments?
***********************************
The Defense Committee for Overprivileged Writers meets in a green and gray warehouse moments before the arrival of the spectral creature they've gone to great trouble to hire. The handful of discreetly-dressed men sit in a semi-circle of chairs on a concrete floor, amid deep yellow crates which stand behind a gray metal desk. As they talk in hushed tones, eyes glance warily at a waiting door. One set of eyes, behind glasses, stares at the door most intently.
"Afraid to be here?" the Man in the Black Hat mocks him.
The man in glasses clears his throat. Nerdy and unshaven, he resembles Jonathan Franzen.
"I understand the mission," he puts in.
"YOU should, Black Hat emphasizes, pointing at him.
Objectively, like mad scientists they discuss the creation of an agent; how a struggling person of ambition can be utilized as a tool if caught early enough. It's a tried-and-true technique; the philosophy behind the Blue Caps of the Bolsheviks and the S.S. of the Nazis.
A short man with black hair explains the process to his more aristocratic-looking colleagues. The Weasel, is how he's known.
"The prospects obsess over work and struggle. We use that to bind them to us; to wash from their minds all conscience to keep them on a narrow track. Always there must be an Enemy as focus. This the Rebellion readily provides. The result is the ultimate literary terrorist, programmed to destroy literary terrorists!"
The Weasel smiles with difficulty. His person appears damaged, or deformed, amid the rigid bearing of the others. He sits at an angle as if his back had been broken, peering up at the ruddy Overdog in the black hat across from him.
"The art of the matter," Black Hat talks over him, "is to program the selected agents without their knowing they've been programmed. Presumably this has been accomplished."
"Indeed!" the Weasel answers, black beady eyes glistening as they look up at the man.
Angles of yellow and gray light crisscross the scene. Black Hat rises and sits behind the steel desk which faces the warehouse door as the other men fade into shadow. . . .
**************************************
Now the glowing white spirit is before them.
"Forgive the white mask," the Assassin sneers. "But then, you wear a black one!"
She refers to the veil.
"We're not alike," Black Hat tells her with what tries to be an assertive voice, though it sounds weak next to hers. "Remember that. You're hired to do a job. You'll do what I want. The alternative for you is to be as obliterated as the person you're about to obliterate."
She doesn't reply. Her intelligence burns through the mask at him. He senses her sneer widen. He's happy she wears a mask. Never would he care to see that face.
The camera pulls back to reveal the other members of the Defense Committee. The Weasel grins. The unshaven writer looks away and his hands flutter in his lap. His chair is turned sideways, signalling halfway participation in the project. Part of him wishes not to be here. The other part is compelled to ask a question of the ghost-like character they've hired. He clears his throat.
"Do you know clearly what you're undertaking?" he asks.
The brooding eyes behind the mask turn contemptuously on him.
"I know who I contend with. There's enough talk in literary cirlces to suggest your target is the same. It's, um, rather obvious!"
The Weasel quickly responds.
"Yes, yes," he says. "Obvious to us all. But how do you propose to do it?"
A widening smile before them.
"Good sirs, take off the head and the body is dead. The movement will wither. That's the first step. He's unable to avoid contact. His ego won't allow it! He'll welcome his doom. That I know. It'll be glorious to provide it. Gladly will I destroy literary scum. I'll take down the literary pretender to save the literary art."
"You're a writer?" the Franzen-like character asks.
"You can call me that."
"Of what school? Which program did you attend? Which teachers did you have?"
"The teachers of life! But don't worry, good sir. I've amended my underground status. I've atoned for past crimes. My official learning may now exceed yours. Not to put myself in your lofty realm; I know the gap between us. As to what school I belong to, I'm a Stoic and a Cynic. I'm an Epicurean also. A hedonist, a narcissist, an exhibitionist; yet also a hermit, alone unto myself. I'm of the world and apart from it; ruined by it and repulsed by it, yet thoroughly embracing it. I'm an Imperial Roman; a corrupted product of our time."
As she finishes she bows her head. The voice from behind the mask is more vibrant, more threatening, more authoritative, more filled with meaning than any they've heard before. The men smile. Victory is guaranteed for them, they're certain.
The camera zooms in on the man behind the black veil. His lips move. The voice on the soundtrack becomes peevish.
"My friend has died . . . his funeral . . . they mocked him. They mocked me! You know how they confronted us at Columbia. You went against their leader before and must do so again. Obliterate, obliterate, obliterate, obliterate. No rebellion. NO REBELLION."
The mysterious white-clad figure in front of him bows its head, like a creation of his imagination; mad compulsive product of his id.
"Bring out the dummy," Black Hat orders.
An effigy of the ULA's former leader is wheeled out. The black-veiled literary scion looks at the Assassin, then points to the dummy.
"Kill it," he says.
The room explodes in violence. Before the onlookers can blink the effigy has been kicked, punched, stomped, decapitated; the stuffing knocked out of it; sawdust scattered about the large space. What's left of the dummy lies face first on the concrete floor, a knife protruding from its back.
"Well done," Black Hat comments.
Those behind him enthusiastically applaud. Even hesitant Franzen joins in.
"May the upcoming encounter go as well," the Franzen character tentatively adds, squeamish about the necessity of what's to come.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE FUNERAL
The screen shows a funeral procession on a Manhattan avenue; a moving line of black, purple, and maroon cars on a cloudy slate-gray day. One by one the cars pull into a cemetary.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
At a gravesite the Man in the Black Hat stands impassively, his nondescript wife with Chief Lopate set a few paces behind him. The camera shifts to reveal a row of sober young literary priests on the other side come down from New England.
Lost is another of Black Hat's top lieutenants, second in the past year. This man faced off publicly against the rebels twice; against their best poet; against their most insane clown. Now he's too swiftly gone. Ostensibly a poet-- an easy cover-- in fact he'd been a chief apparatchik who'd been key in putting together and maintaining the system of literary control and indoctrination now solidly in place.
A twisted curl appears on Black Hat's lower lip-- we see only the lower half of his face, beneath the black veil. Without a word he turns bitterly from the grave and moves up a rise away from his friends and colleagues, toward a crypt at the center of the cemetary.
Inside: black walls. In front of him is a brass name plate. The camera zooms in on it. We can't read it but know it's for his grandfather or other ancestor, one in an endless line of Puritan-bred patriarchs who've passed on to Black Hat his unbreachable name, his legacy, and his obligations. He feels buried alive. Buried! In this crypt, this grave, this walled prison cell trapping him on a path of power and manipulation from which there's never an escape.
He can't breathe. Cars and people await outside but he doesn't want them. He lies on the cold stone floor like a boy in his mansion's room, saying over and over "Not me, not me, not me. . . ."
The screen shows a funeral procession on a Manhattan avenue; a moving line of black, purple, and maroon cars on a cloudy slate-gray day. One by one the cars pull into a cemetary.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
At a gravesite the Man in the Black Hat stands impassively, his nondescript wife with Chief Lopate set a few paces behind him. The camera shifts to reveal a row of sober young literary priests on the other side come down from New England.
Lost is another of Black Hat's top lieutenants, second in the past year. This man faced off publicly against the rebels twice; against their best poet; against their most insane clown. Now he's too swiftly gone. Ostensibly a poet-- an easy cover-- in fact he'd been a chief apparatchik who'd been key in putting together and maintaining the system of literary control and indoctrination now solidly in place.
A twisted curl appears on Black Hat's lower lip-- we see only the lower half of his face, beneath the black veil. Without a word he turns bitterly from the grave and moves up a rise away from his friends and colleagues, toward a crypt at the center of the cemetary.
Inside: black walls. In front of him is a brass name plate. The camera zooms in on it. We can't read it but know it's for his grandfather or other ancestor, one in an endless line of Puritan-bred patriarchs who've passed on to Black Hat his unbreachable name, his legacy, and his obligations. He feels buried alive. Buried! In this crypt, this grave, this walled prison cell trapping him on a path of power and manipulation from which there's never an escape.
He can't breathe. Cars and people await outside but he doesn't want them. He lies on the cold stone floor like a boy in his mansion's room, saying over and over "Not me, not me, not me. . . ."
Friday, August 22, 2008
Chapter Thirty-One
THE BUTTERFLY
The literary fugitive awakes on the floor of an abandoned building. A soot-colored butterfly rests next to his head.
"Get out of here!" he yells, startled.
A window in a dusty wall stands open nearby. He tries to close it, but it's stuck. Scattering sweeps of blue-gray rain rush through it. Large drops of wetness gather on the crumbled wooden pane. The butterfly must've entered through the opening.
When the rain pauses, the man tries to coax the butterfly outside. It flaps its wings frantically; hysterically, rushing up and down about the room.
"Calm down!" the man tells it, to no avail.
The butterfly flies not to the window, but away from it, toward an inside corridor, and vanishes.
"Goofy thing," the man mutters to himself.
The fugitive leaves to run errands, returning that afternoon.
He looks in a bathroom off the corridor. The water doesn't run. Blown-in leaves cover the bottom of the bathtub. When he pushes his hand through the leaves, the butterfly jumps up. A hiding place.
The man doesn't chase the butterfly out. It'd do no good.
As night falls and the man lays down on a blanket to think about his life, maybe to sleep, he notices the butterfly hugging a wall. Its wings are closed. A gray insect is all it is. Why isn't it flying? Maybe it's tired. It looks to be catching its breath, if that's possible. Its moments of nervous flying must exhaust its little life.
Just him and the butterfly. Hah! As he nods off, he notices the thing sitting perplexed on a stack of newspaper beside him. They both can rest. They both can hide.
The man awakes to frustrated flapping. The butterfly is trying to fly, but can't elevate.
"Calm down," the man tells it. "You'll tire yourself."
The butterfly's sooty wings flap and flap.
When the man awakes for real, the butterfly is gone. Maybe it escaped through the window. He never sees it again.
The literary fugitive awakes on the floor of an abandoned building. A soot-colored butterfly rests next to his head.
"Get out of here!" he yells, startled.
A window in a dusty wall stands open nearby. He tries to close it, but it's stuck. Scattering sweeps of blue-gray rain rush through it. Large drops of wetness gather on the crumbled wooden pane. The butterfly must've entered through the opening.
When the rain pauses, the man tries to coax the butterfly outside. It flaps its wings frantically; hysterically, rushing up and down about the room.
"Calm down!" the man tells it, to no avail.
The butterfly flies not to the window, but away from it, toward an inside corridor, and vanishes.
"Goofy thing," the man mutters to himself.
The fugitive leaves to run errands, returning that afternoon.
He looks in a bathroom off the corridor. The water doesn't run. Blown-in leaves cover the bottom of the bathtub. When he pushes his hand through the leaves, the butterfly jumps up. A hiding place.
The man doesn't chase the butterfly out. It'd do no good.
As night falls and the man lays down on a blanket to think about his life, maybe to sleep, he notices the butterfly hugging a wall. Its wings are closed. A gray insect is all it is. Why isn't it flying? Maybe it's tired. It looks to be catching its breath, if that's possible. Its moments of nervous flying must exhaust its little life.
Just him and the butterfly. Hah! As he nods off, he notices the thing sitting perplexed on a stack of newspaper beside him. They both can rest. They both can hide.
The man awakes to frustrated flapping. The butterfly is trying to fly, but can't elevate.
"Calm down," the man tells it. "You'll tire yourself."
The butterfly's sooty wings flap and flap.
When the man awakes for real, the butterfly is gone. Maybe it escaped through the window. He never sees it again.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Chapter Thirty
I, MOBY DICK
The hunter has become the hunted. The Rebellion's former leader thinks this as he runs from various agents of conformity sent to destroy him. He's gone underground for real. His every movement and appearance are tracked as if on a radar screen. His last attempts to dynamite established lit have themselves been blown up, spectacularly. He senses a new player thrown into the chase; his instincts cry, "Danger!" as fake demi-puppet voices on all sides plead, "Don't hide. Don't hide!"
A rogue writer roaming the seas. In the most regulated and conformist time in history this is a threat to technified artistic monopoly. Harpoons from past battles pierce his tough hide. A previous enemy is after him. A speech has been made; gold doubloon offered. "Death to. . . ." He awaits the sighting.
On all sides: poverty. Shambled buildings, shambling people. Red and orange brick decay. Stark and moving reality. Gray rubble: broken blocks of stone in the street, alongside broken dreams. Soot, rats, and insects. A city's destruction. Reclaiming-nature's way. This is his ocean. Let the Overdogs come. He's wounded and tired, ready to sleep, but remains dangerous. A few more battles await.
Let the ships come! He'll sink more of them, until all wild life like himself in the unregulated sea is gone; killed; rounded-up; numbered; penned; trained; leashed; all independence and freedom, and rebellion, hammered away leaving for the gratification of the gentry only calmness; silence; smooth and eternal placidity.
The hunter has become the hunted. The Rebellion's former leader thinks this as he runs from various agents of conformity sent to destroy him. He's gone underground for real. His every movement and appearance are tracked as if on a radar screen. His last attempts to dynamite established lit have themselves been blown up, spectacularly. He senses a new player thrown into the chase; his instincts cry, "Danger!" as fake demi-puppet voices on all sides plead, "Don't hide. Don't hide!"
A rogue writer roaming the seas. In the most regulated and conformist time in history this is a threat to technified artistic monopoly. Harpoons from past battles pierce his tough hide. A previous enemy is after him. A speech has been made; gold doubloon offered. "Death to. . . ." He awaits the sighting.
On all sides: poverty. Shambled buildings, shambling people. Red and orange brick decay. Stark and moving reality. Gray rubble: broken blocks of stone in the street, alongside broken dreams. Soot, rats, and insects. A city's destruction. Reclaiming-nature's way. This is his ocean. Let the Overdogs come. He's wounded and tired, ready to sleep, but remains dangerous. A few more battles await.
Let the ships come! He'll sink more of them, until all wild life like himself in the unregulated sea is gone; killed; rounded-up; numbered; penned; trained; leashed; all independence and freedom, and rebellion, hammered away leaving for the gratification of the gentry only calmness; silence; smooth and eternal placidity.
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